Naamloos

Sure, I get all the boring paperwork, all the terrible shifts, and somehow every job nobody else wants. But this time it landed me a pretty unusual opportunity.

For the past few months, there’ve been reports of suspicious activity surrounding a fraternity on campus. A few disappearances. Rumors about a new designer drug making its way through the student population. Nothing concrete, but enough to get my lieutenant interested.

So naturally, someone in the department watched way too many undercover cop movies and decided the best solution was to send me in.

Apparently I still look young enough to pass for a college student.

Lucky me.

I’ve been undercover for almost three weeks now, and honestly? I’m starting to think my lieutenant got it completely wrong.

These guys don’t seem like criminals.

They’re loud. They’re immature. They’re obsessed with parties, the gym, and finding excuses to put their hands on literally anyone willing to tolerate them for more than five seconds.

Meanwhile I’m over here trying to remember I’m a police officer and not lose sight of why I came.

But being reckless, horny, and terminally allergic to responsibility doesn’t automatically make someone a criminal.

So far I’ve found nothing.

No drugs.

No trafficking.

No evidence connecting them to any disappearances.

Nothing.

I’m about ready to file my report and tell my lieutenant this whole thing was a waste of department resources.

Still…

Tomorrow night the fraternity is throwing one of their biggest parties of the semester.

Before I close the book on this investigation, I’m going to take one last look around the house while everyone is distracted.

Just to be thorough.

Just to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

After all, it would be pretty embarrassing to tell my lieutenant he was wrong…

…and then discover he was right.

I remember the day I joined the force. Dad was a cop. My older brothers were cops. But earning that badge mattered more. Academy, field training, endless exams... it took years. So when I finally pinned that shield to my chest, I thought people would finally see me as an officer. Instead I got:

"Damn, kid, just get outta middle school?"

"You ever think about growin' a beard? If you can..."

"You're twenty-seven? No way."

It never stopped. But it did come in handy for my assignment. Lieutenant James had slid a stack of files across his desk.

"Missing persons. Every one of 'em has ties to the same fraternity." Dr. Richard Peters. Christopher Saint. Paul Monroe. Different backgrounds, same house, then they vanished. "We think there's a new designer drug involved," the lieutenant said. "Brothers keep talking about being addicted, needing more, not being able to leave."

"So you want me undercover."

"You still pass for a student. Don't disappoint me."

So Officer Andrew Miller disappeared. Tyler took his place. Tyler was twenty-one, undeclared, and incapable of owning sleeves. I'd spent department time learning beer pong and fantasy football. The lieutenant's advice was simple: act young, act dumb, make friends.

Luke made the last two surprisingly easy. That first night he walked over, threw an arm around my shoulders, handed me a beer, and twenty minutes later had me doing a keg stand while everyone screamed my fake name. And you know what? I had fun. Luke wasn't secretive. Gym, food runs, parties... if I skipped an event to organize notes, he'd text asking where I'd gone. He never asked me to prove myself. He just included me.

"You'll get it," Richie told me while lifting. "Luke figures out what you need."

"What'd he figure out for you?"

"Needed to stop givin' so many fucks."

Everyone said the same. Luke gave them confidence, stopped their worrying, made them happy. Nobody knew how. And somewhere along the way, I stopped pretending every conversation was just work. One late night outside, he stared into the backyard. "Everybody wants something from me."

"That's depressing."

"I'm serious. They come here wantin' a better body, more friends, less stress."

"And you fix it?"

"Sometimes." He grew quite, "What about you? What do you want?"

"Nothin'," I lied. "Just wanted to see what you guys are about."

Luke studied me, smiling. "That's it?"

"That's it."

I didn't know it then, but that answer meant everything to him. For two weeks Luke trusted me more than anyone. By the end of the third week, he had me pledge. But by that time, I'd decided the investigation had gone nowhere. Friday night's party would be my last look before filing my report.

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

Pushing open the front door, I realized I'd actually miss the place. Mostly Luke. But instead of the warm greeting from the guys like I was expecting, I got cold indifference.

"Luke wants you upstairs," Chris said, avoiding my eye.

"Everything okay?"

"Go ask him."

I climbed the stairs and pushed open Luke's door, where I found him sprawled shirtless across the leather couch, backward cap over his dark hair, staring at me with hurt eyes.

"Everything good?"

Luke sat up. "Close the door, bro."

"Luke..."

"Close it all the way." He stopped, "Officer Miller."

My hand was on the doorknob, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Luke laughed bitterly, standing up. "A fucking cop? Bro, I did a keg stand with you! You held my ankles! Two weeks ago I puked behind a Wendy's and you rubbed my back!"

"Luke, listen..."

"I bought you a Baconator!" He buried his head in his hands. "Fuck, bro! What the fuck?!"

"People are missing..."

"No one's fucking missing."

"Where..."

"You can't fuckin' mess with people like this."

I stepped toward him. "I want you to stop screwing around and take me seriously."

"Why the fuck would I?"

The question hit the exact wrong nerve. "Because nobody fucking does!" Years of swallowed frustration spilled out. "I'm sick of having to prove myself! I'm a police officer. Quit talking to me like I'm fifteen and take me seriously!"

Luke went completely still, then flashed a shit-eating grin. "Oh, bro."

"What?"

"You shouldn't have said that."

"Why?"

"You wanted something from me." He shook his head, "All my pledges get what they want."

The itch started beneath my jaw. I scratched, but my fingertips dragged across something coarse.

"Aw, fuck, bro. Here we go."

"Wait... what is...?"

Twenty-seven years old and I'd never grown real stubble. Now my fingertips scraped over coarse hair rapidly peppering my jawline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Luke came toward me. "Dude, you did this."

My jaw cramped. Pressure spread through the bone until my teeth ached, my chin becoming heavier as the lower half of my face broadened.

"Stop it."

"You wanted people to quit looking at you like you're twelve, right?" He scraped his knuckles through the new growth along my jaw. "Heard you loud and clear, bro."

Then my chest began to hurt. The ache was deep inside both pecs, building like post-lift soreness. I pressed my palms against myself and felt the muscles swell outward, packing with new mass while my shirt tightened. My shoulders burned as they broadened, pulling the fabric taut, and both sleeves cinched around my biceps as the muscles expanded.

Luke whistled. "Damn, Ty."

"That's not my... don't call me that."

"Oh, I'm definitely calling you that." He slammed both hands against my chest, pushing into muscles that hadn't been there a minute ago. "Bro, these are getting fucking huge."

He hooked both hands into the front of my shirt and yanked. The fabric tore with a sharp rip along the shoulders. He peeled the ruined shirt away, staring at the body underneath.

"Those look like they belong to a dude people take seriously."

"Fuck... fuck you..." I groaned and winced as my biceps cramped.

I grabbed my right arm, feeling it swell, steadily thickening until my fingers couldn't reach around it. Luke wrapped his hand around the other, squeezed, and laughed.

"Jesus Christ, bro."

"Stop fucking enjoying this!"

"Why? I'm finally getting something I want too." He looked directly into my eyes. "Everybody comes to me wanting shit, Andrew. Maybe finally it's my turn, bro." He took a step closer, pressing up against me, "I want you. I want Tyler."

An intense itch erupted across my bare chest. Coarse hair pushed through my skin beneath my fingertips, thickening between my pecs before spreading outward and trailing down my stomach.

"Chest hair?"

Luke stared openly. "Damn." His hand dragged slowly across my chest, flattening the new hair before finding the swollen muscle beneath, squeezing one pec appreciatively. "Never had that before either, huh?"

"Nnn... no."

"Looks good on you, bro."

I hated the little rush that went through me. "Shut up."

"Twenty-six."

"What?"

"Twenty-six."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Twenty-five now."

"Bullshit." I reached for my phone, but I wasn't used to my thicker fingers. The phone dropped and I got a glimpse of the dark hair now spreading over my thickened forearms, "I... Fuck I need... back-up..." the Lieuteniants's extension was... I knew it. Of course I knew it.

"Tyler."

"No... I'm... Andrew."

"Sure you are, dude."

Another wave of pressure rolled through my chest, and I groaned as my pecs swelled heavier beneath Luke's hands.

"You're doing good, Ty," he said, rubbing his thumbs through the hair covering them. "Looking real good too."

"You really think so?" The question escaped before I could stop it. Luke smiled, sending a warm flush through me. "You're messing with my head."

"Gift's doing that."

"Then make it fucking stop, bro." I froze. I heard the word echoing in my own head. "Why'd I call you bro?"

"'Cause that's how Tyler talks."

"I'm not Tyler."

"Twenty-four."

"Fuck you."

"Twenty-three."

I tried to concentrate on the investigation, but Luke kept rubbing my chest, talking to me while my thoughts blurred.

"Same shit happened to Richie," Luke said with a smug grin. "Professor dude wanted to quit stressin'. CJ wanted friends. PJ wanted med school apps to stop kickin' his ass. My gift fixes shit, bro. Gives people what they want. All they gotta do is ask." He shrugged, "Don't ask me why everybody ends up like… this." He chuckled at my confusion, "Like one of my new frat bros, bro. Really works out pretty fuckin' great for me, though."

Richie. Dr. Richard Peters. The realization hit. I'd spent three weeks lifting beside one of the missing men.

"You did this to all of them?"

"They asked for something. So did you."

"I asked you to take me seriously!"

"And I'm gonna."

His hand settled against the center of my chest, and the panic faded. Luke had been my suspect, but underneath those facts were three weeks of workouts, parties, jokes, and nights talking shoulder-to-shoulder. I knew the smell of him. I knew how his hand felt gripping my shoulder.

"Relax, Ty."

"Can't."

"Sure you can." He grinned, "Let me help ya, bro."

His mouth was suddenly against mine. My hands grabbed his dense shoulders to push him away, but instead settled on them as I kissed him back. His hands moved over my swollen arms, squeezing my biceps before sliding across my chest. Every approving touch felt... so fuckin' good. I begrudgingly tore myself away, breathing hard.

"What the fuck did I just do?"

"You kissed me."

"I know what I fucking did!"

"Didn't seem like you hated it."

"I don't..."

Luke kissed me again, and my resistance lasted seconds. My thickened arms wrapped around him while his hands explored my chest, fingers kneading through the hair before sliding up to feel my stubble.

"Twenty-two," he murmured when we separated briefly.

Our mouths locked together in a sloppy, desperate kiss, moaning into each other. Luke's palms slid down over my waist, cupping my hips, dropping beneath the waistband of my pants to grip my growing ass. He squeezed hard, kneading into the thick, muscle-packed curves.

"Bro... fuck..." I was breathing hard. Why was twenty-two bad? Something about twenty-seven. Some guy who... no. Me. Right?

"You're fuckin' gorgeous, Ty."

"You mean it, bro?" I mumbled, voice thick and desperate.

"Course I do."

So I kissed him again. His skin smelled like cedarwood and sweat, and instead of wanting space, I pulled him closer. Everything about him was addictive... the warmth of his body, the scratch of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the way his hands roamed across my hairy chest.

"Twenty-one."

Something clicked into place and Luke laughed when I pulled him against me, burying my face in his neck. I wanted him close, so fuckin' close. To feel him, smell him, worship him.

"Love you, bro," I mumbled against his skin, kissing his jaw.

"Love you too, Ty," Luke whispered, his hands sliding down to grip my heavy ass cheeks again.

The friction of our heavy bulges pressing hard against each other through layers of fabric made a low, strangled whine tear out of my throat. My hips bucked forward instinctively, grinding our groins together, and I felt his thick, rigid cock, swollen and desperate against my own throbbing, leaking length.

"Fuck… Ty, you're driving me insane," Luke gasped, a ragged, breathless moan tearing from his chest.

"Let me take care of it, bro," I murmured, a half-dazed grin spreading across my face.

Luke’s breath hitched sharply in sudden surprise as I shoved his jeans and boxers down in one fierce motion. His heavy, already-leaking cock sprang free, hot and throbbing in the dim light. Without a second thought, I dropped heavily to my knees between his thighs, my gaze locking up onto his flushed, half-delirious face.

"Ty…" he breathed out, voice cracking as my mouth closed over him.

That was when the door opened.

Richie stopped in the doorway. "Damn, Ty..."

Fuckin' Richie... Always getting in the fuckin' way, "Bruh, get the fuck out."

"Dude..." Richie grinned, "That's a rough fuckin' 21."

"Fuck you!" I laughed, scrambling to my feet, "What's the supposed to mean?"

I ran calloused hand through the thick, dark mat of chest hair sweeping across my broad pecs. People always acted so surprised by how much hair I had. Not my fault I hit puberty at like 8. Bunch of dumbasses. Besides, as long as Luke liked it, didn't really matter.

"Can't you see we're fuckin' busy, bro?" My swollen cock ached inside my jeans. I pointed a thick finger at the door, "Get the fuck out, man!"

"Hey, take it easy, big guy. Just came to see if you were ready to head back downstairs. The keg's overflowing, and half the house is asking where their favorite pledge went."

"Get lost, Richie," Luke muttered, his breathless rasp sending a fresh jolt of horniness straight to my groin.

"Alright, alright, I'm going," Richie chuckled, closing the door.

Once it shut, my gaze locked onto Luke as he fell back onto the mattress, his heavy, leaking cock completely exposed and begging for attention.

"Where were we, bro?" I murmured, laying atop him, pressing a hot, greedy kiss to his lips before trailing my mouth eagerly down his throat, sliding lower over his chest and stomach until my lips wrapped firmly around his thick, leaking cock.

It all started with the sweat on the bench, I can’t believe I hadn’t looked before I sat down. I whipped the damp off my gym shorts and grimaced.

Fucking gross. I wanted to get jacked as much as the next guy but I always took the time to wipe my swass down. There were standards. You didn’t just leave yourself behind for the next guy to marinate in.

I grabbed the dumbbells off the rack and started Arnold press, noting how the gym felt warmer today than the day before. Not just warm—thick. The air pressed back when I breathed, like the place was holding heat on purpose. Sweat broke across my forehead almost immediately, trickling down my nose, down my chest.

the hell…?

I strained my arm in the mirror, inspecting the fringes of my sweat-soaked tank top. A dense mat of curly dark hair seemed to have sprouted entirely during my push workout. Strange, because I had only trimmed a week ago. I ran a finger through a dark curl. It was rougher than I remembered hair being.

I dropped my arm. The hair stayed puffed out instead of settling.

Whatever. Gym lighting was shit today. Didn’t know I messed up that bad shaving…

I sat back on the incline bench. The vinyl was still wet. This time I didn’t bother wiping it. My shorts soaked through instantly, warmth spreading across my ass and lower back. The smell hit harder now. deep, stale sweat layered over fresh, like it had been building for days.

My chest flyes felt incredible. The stretch across my pecs was almost painful. Each rep made my chest look fucking jacked in the mirror. Fuller, and rounder. My nipples pressed visibly through the tank.

Hair crept farther out of my pits as I lifted, dark curls brushing the inside of my arms. When I lowered the dumbbells, the hair mashed flat against my biceps, then sprang back.

I sniffed my shoulder without thinking and snorted. Jesus. That was powerful, But I wasn’t as disgusted as I normally would be for some reason. It almost smelled…

****

At home, I stripped in the hallway. My clothes peeled off, damp and heavy. I felt so warm as I passed by the mirror.

Hair dotted my chest now in thick clusters, spreading outward from the center of my pecs. My stomach wasn’t smooth at all. dark curls traced down from my navel, disappearing into my waistband. Even my thighs looked different, hair darker and denser, clinging to sweat-slick skin that bulged when I shifted my weight.

My neck looked thicker. My traps rose higher.

Fuck yeah

I grabbed the trimmer, annoyed but not panicked, and hacked at my pits. Hair poured off in wet clumps, clogging the sink, sticking to my forearms. My forearms were hairy now too. When had that happened?

***

The shower steamed up fast. Hot water hammered down, washing sweat into the drain in dark, salty streams. I scrubbed my chest and felt the difference immediately—skin tougher, hair resisting my fingers. My belly was firm. Thick. My thighs brushed together when I stood still, muscles packed tight under coarse hair.

The smell didn’t leave.

I could smell it through the soap, thick and sweaty. Musky. Testosterone.

Thoughts slid away as I stood there. Counting reps felt easier than remembering… When I shut the water off and wiped the mirror, I smiled

The hair was everywhere.

My pits were jungles again, thick curls spreading down my arms and across my ribs. My chest was carpeted now, hair matted against massive pecs that filled the mirror. My stomach was solid and wide, a dense slab crossed with dark curls. My shoulders were capped and round, arms hanging heavy and swollen at my sides, biceps stretching the skin.

My face looked different too. Jaw thicker. Neck thick as a post. A shadow of stubble darkened my cheeks and chin, rough and permanent-looking.

I flexed.

My chest jumped. Arms ballooned. The mirror showed a big, hairy, sweating animal of a man staring back with a slow grin.

Nice.

I didn’t remember trimming. Or caring. Hair was normal. Sweat was normal. Thinking too much felt unnecessary. I pulled on a shirt and it clung immediately, stretched tight across my chest, damp within seconds.

Gym tomorrow. Heavy. Maybe double scoop pre.

The thought satisfied me completely. The smell followed me to bed, thick and musky, and by morning there was no memory of ever being anything but big, sweaty, hairy, and simple.

***

Hey anon! Feel free to reach back out and remind me how the rest of the idea went haha.

I was halfway through my second espresso when the first email came in.

From: Unknown Subject: "Can’t wait to taste you again tonight, Kai 😤🍆"

I stared at the screen, brow furrowed. I didn’t recognize the name. Kai? Who the hell... And there was no sender ID, No profile pic. No thread. Just a rando.

Spam. Had to be. I hit delete.

I went back to perusing the excel calculations for clarity ~ which they lacked. I brushed it off and adjusted my tie. My fingers lingered on the collar. The fabric felt tighter.

At 10:13 AM, another.

Subject: "Wish you didn’t have to wear those boring suits all day… miss your pits already." Attachment: IMG_0234.jpeg

Curiosity won.

The photo was a low-light. Cropped tight. A thick, sweaty armpit, hair dense and damp. A broad, tan chest glistened with sweat. A thumb teasing down into the waistband of boxer briefs.

My stomach twisted.

I minimized the screen. Cleared my throat. Adjusted my slacks. My face flushed. This was going to make an insane story for the girlfriend tonight.

“Garrett,” my boss said, waving me into her office. “Quick chat about your client notes.”

I stood. The floor tilted.

I grabbed the edge of the desk as a pang ran through my head. Something in my perspective had shifted. I walked in behind her, heartbeat steady, jaw clenched.

Standing beside her, we used to have a good half-foot difference. But now my eyes scanned her face. Straight across. I fiddled with my sleeves. They were Bunched at the wrist. I tugged them subtly, hiding how loose they’d gotten.

She didn’t say anything. Why the hell had I put on such an oversized shirt today.

At my desk, the next message.

From: Lair 🖤 Subject: "You didn’t shave this morning. I like some fuzz" Attachment: IMG_0278.mov

Video. My thumb hovered. I tapped it. A man’s hand sliding up another man’s back. Strong. Heavy. Skin golden and slick with sweat. Low groans. Breath hitching.

Something about the video. Almost familiar. My mouth went dry.

I felt the collar on my dress shirt strained around my neck. I undid the top two buttons. My undershirt clung to me—no, wait. I wasn’t wearing one.

Had I forgotten it?

The polo I now wore was tight, stretched across pecs that felt heavier than they had this morning. The sleeves gripped my upper arms. I lifted one experimentally.

Hair.

Black. Dense. Crawling from bicep to forearm in a soft, masculine trail.

The scent rising off me was thick. Hot. I leaned in and sniffed instinctively. Musky. Like old gym clothes and clean sweat.

No one around me noticed.

I slipped into the men’s room. Locked the stall. Peeled my shirt up to my chest.

Tan skin.

Where there had been pale, freckled flatness was now thick muscle. A wide chest. Dense black chest hair spreading across my pecs, down my sternum. .

.

. Well maybe my skin had always looked like this.

Of course it did

My nipples looked dark. Thick. Sensitive…

My cock jumped in my slacks. Full and heavy. It’d been years since I got hard from a smell.

My phone buzzed.

Lair 🖤: "Wish I could pin you to your desk again. Miss that voice.”

Attachment:

Why the hell was this guy texting me…

Lair…. Knows… I can’t focus…. At work?

***

At the gym after work, I pushed through my warmup, drenched in sweat. I could feel the stares, but not in the usual way.

Damn ~ my workouts had been paying off better than I remembered. And who the hell packed my gym bag...? My shirt was gone—replaced by a tight tank I didn’t remember buying. My thighs—fuck. They’d filled out into slabs. Thick, powerful, ropey with veins.

Short shorts—spandex—clung to my ass, riding up with every lunge. The mirror in front of the squat rack caught the bounce. I watched it happen. Over and over. Each time, it looked hotter.

I wasn’t shaving anymore, apparently. My beard was full now. Deep black. Groomed, like I’d had it for years. Sweat glistened down through it, trailing into my collarbone.

Fuck yeah. Another day in the life.

I finished my set and stood up straight, flexing my back. Wide. Thick. Functional. I smelled like salt and man. A few younger guys in the gym looked away fast when I made eye contact.

Was there a girl I was texting earlier...

My phone buzzed.

Lair 🖤: " You better be leaking for me right now. I know that thick fucking meat’s straining in those shorts.” [IMG_0455.jpeg]

I opened it without hesitation.

Lair. God. Laying on the… our bed, showing off his treasure trail I loved. Flaunting the bulge in his briefs.

My dick strained against the spandex

****

Locker room. Mirror.

Tan skin glistening .Stocky. Big thighs. Broad chest, dark with hair. Eyes—deeper

Hell I looked Asian

.

.

Of course I did?

I pulled up the waistband of my shorts. My body flexed with each motion. I looked fucking amazing

The scent pouring off me was borderline obscene. I didn’t care. If anything, it turned me on.

I felt my cock throb again as I looked into my own face. Fuck I was Horny

Something was ... wrong

I needed ...

Another message.

Lair 🖤: "Can you take it all bebe 😅😘?" *message sent with invisible ink*

I hungrily swiped away the filter.

Dark room, lower body… his gorgeous body. He gripped his cock in his hand. Rubbing the tip with his finger.

I grunted as I throbbed with need.

***

The sedan was unfamiliar, but my keys fit. The drive felt automatic. turns, lights, stop signs. Like muscle memory. The seat hugged my thighs. I spread them wider. My free hand resting over the pulsing outline in my shorts.

I pulled into the driveway.

One story. Porch light already on.

He opened the door before I could knock.

Tank top. White briefs. A silver chain hanging across his chest.

Lair.

Taller than me. Broader. And he looked at me like he owned me.

“Did you get all my messages, Kai?”

I nodded, throat dry. He grabbed my jaw, leaned down, and kissed me like he hadn’t seen me in weeks.

It was messy. Deep. His stubble scraped mine. He tasted like salt and toothpaste. My cock leaked in my shorts.

“You've been teasing me all day...” he growled, dragging his thumb across my beard. “Good. Come prove how much you missed me.”

He pulled me inside, shut the door, and I dropped to my knees without a second thought.

I was wondering if you’d be interested in a Police/Detective corruption story?

The protagonist is analyzing video evidence of a crime boss giving orders to his henchmen. But the more he watches, the more his mind twists. He starts recognizing the orders as his own instincts.

Along with physical transformation and mental change(like memories change and dumbing down), he realizes he isn't tracking a criminal—he's receiving instructions.

The climax would be him storming the hideout, not to make an arrest, but because he has forgotten his old life and is simply returning to serve as the Boss’s perfect enforcer. No justice, just muscle, loyalty and gay sex.

Working the Case - And the Detective ~

The precinct’s walls buzzed with broken fluorescents, bitter coffee, and the same half-faded wanted posters that had been there for months. Colin Walker didn’t notice any of it anymore. Just the grainy CCTV footage blinking on his laptop, time-stamped from a warehouse bust that had gone sideways. Suspect never caught. No names on record. But they managed to dig a cctv camera out of the building after the bust, even crazier that the hard drive was still functional.

Colin ran a hand through his blond hair, adjusted his loose long sleeved pressed shirt, steeling himself against what he was about to watch.

He pressed play.

The man on screen was shirtless, barefoot, sitting in a cracked leather chair. Thick muscles flexed as he gestured to two men kneeling before him. Colin Grimaced when he saw that both were bruised and bloody, heads bowed. The man’s accent was thick—Portuguese, maybe? His voice was low, and sounded damn angry.

“When you fuck up, you thank me for correcting you,” the man said in English, before switching. “Ou você vai desejar ter morrido antes.” He rose, shirtless bulk casting long shadows, and kicked one of the men in the ribs. You could hear the crack.

Colin’s mouth went dry.

Poor Bastards. Was that Portuguese? He'd need to find a translator after his initial assessment.

There was no name for this guy in the files, but Collin had convinced the duty staff that he was the man in charge, and the keystone to the entire syndicate.

He rewound the tape.

Watched again.

And again.

...

Colin blinked hours later, rubbing his eyes. His hand scratched at his jaw.

Stubble? Weird. He’d been clean shaven that morning.

His shirt collar itched. He tugged at it, loosening his tie. His sleeves felt too tight around the forearms, fabric stretching when he shifted.

He stood to get coffee. Took the long walk through the bullpen.

“Yo, Walker,” Officer Mendoza called. “Nice shirt, man. Finally wearin’ somethin’ that fits.”

Colin smiled and looked down. The white button-up was clinging tighter than it had this morning. Had it shrunk?

“Uh, yeah,” he muttered. “Damn machines been wrecking my clothes."

Mendoza didn’t reply. Just nodded like everything was normal.

Colin didn't give him a second thought.

Maybe he had noticed the machine shrinking his clothes. Or

He guessed he always liked a looser tighter shirt. Felt good.

Back at his desk, he sat down, stretching his back. It popped—loud. His spine ached, but in a satisfying way, like he’d just finished a pump. He cracked his knuckles and queued up the next video file.

The feed switched. New angle. The same man, shirtless again, barking orders. Two different men now—half-naked and sweaty.

The Boss stepped forward and pointed.

“Marcello handles the north run. He knows what the fuck he’s doing. You two dumb fucks follow his lead now.”

Marcello? Another lead man?

Colin scrutinized the screen harder, trying to absorb every detail.

The boss looked into the camera. Just for a moment. Eyes heavy. Smirk playing across his lips.

Colin’s fingers twitched.

***

The next time he looked up, it was dark out.

He caught his reflection in the window. His neck was bulging against his shrunken shirt, looking thicker than he was used to seeing. The light was playing tricks, making his jawline look darker, and sharper, than it actually was.

Damn

He stood fast, pushing back from the desk. His hips felt heavier. His thighs were pushing against his slacks in a way they hadn’t ~

The way they always did.

He adjusted himself,

and headed to the locker room to splash water on his face.

Mirror.

Dark stubble framed his jawline, which was weird just the way that he liked it. He felt the dark rugged features really gave him some credibility as a detective.

He sniffed.

A strong scent of BO filled his nostrils. He was confused because he had put on deoderant not 4 hours ago happy, loved smelling like a real man, kind of a confidence boost.

Colin frowned for a minute, thinking. He opened his mouth to say something.

“What the f—”

It came out wrong.

“Que porra…” he muttered.

He blinked. Shook his head. Back to his desk.

...

New footage.

The Boss shirtless again, pacing. Damn was this guy every fully dressed? Colin was getting tired hard looking at his guys juicy pecs. This time, the boss spoke slower. Lower. He gestured wide, his chest heaving. His tattoos moved as he flexed.

“We don’t take orders from the fucking cops. We bend them over. We break them like the dogs they are!”

He smirked and glanced directly into the security camera, and then off to the right, speaking to someone just out of view. eyes. “Right, Marcello?”

Collin furrowed his brow. If only they had a slightly better angle, He needed an ID on this Marcello guy.

... He just nodded.

Wait—no. No, he didn’t—

Suddenly, shirt split slightly at the armpit as he shifted. His biceps bulged. Veins standing proud. The white fabric of his dress shirt looked painted on. Damn this NEVER always happened to him...

He scratched his abs. Felt ridges there. Fuck. Where did those come from, Damn he was feeling goooood today. Papi was more horny than usual.

"huhu"- he chuckled to himself. Popping his pecs in his black compression shirt.

Wait~ wasn't he wearing a white Shirt just a minute ago?

Man nothing beats the way a compression rubbed his nips.

...

“Hey Walker,” a rookie said as he passed. “You lookin’ good, man. You finally gonna take me liftin’ now or what?”

Colin He looked up from his desk, breaking focus from the video for only a moment.

“…Yeah, bro,” he said, his accent coming through heavily, “Gotta stay sexy. I might be a bit out of your weight class… ya feel garanhão?”

The rookie nodded smiling, totally unfazed. Colin licked his lips. Tasted salt. Arousal. Turning back to the screen.

He hit play again.

....

The next segment was violent.

The Boss slapping a man across the mouth. Grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to his knees.

“You only kneel for me now. Entendeu, filho da puta?” He shoved the mans face into his crotch.

He glanced into the camera again. Smiling. His tattooed hand rested on top of his employees head, gripping the hair as he began grinding.

This guy was disgustingThis guy was so Damn sexy.

Colin adjusted his crotch. His slacks were tight. His cock was heavy, hard. He grunted. He flexed

“Caralho,” he muttered. “Need… fuckin’ break.”

....

In the bathroom, Collin he lit a cigarette.

He ran a hand through his jet black hair. High and tight, feeling the bristles in between his calloused fingers.

Officer Kent walked by. “When the fuck did you start smoking, Walker?”

Colin shrugged. Smiled lazily. blowing smoke in Kents direction.

“Always bro, Just feels good, né?” Portuguese slipped out again. Kent blinked away the smoke, nodding.

...

Back at his desk, he leaned forward. Face inches from the screen.

The Boss on the video stood from his chair, breathing heavy, chest slick. There appeared to be nobody else in the room. The boss glanced sideways, upwards. Into the security camera. He held his gaze.

“Marcello. Come home. "

What the hell was happening, he had to find help-

ColinHe stood. Didn’t think. Grabbed his badge...no. Not his.

M. SILVA

He blinked. Of course.

He walked out of the station. Nobody stopped him.

...

The warehouse was lit dim, humming with old bulbs and the scent of metal, sweat, and something sweet. Colin needed to leave! He Knew the way by heart. Had to call 911 Was good to finally come back. Why couldnt we stop

He pushed the door open. The Boss was waiting. Throne-like chair. Bare chest. Tattoos coiled around his shoulders. He looked up, smiled. The dim light hid his eyes.

“Marcello,” he said.

Colin He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t hesitate.

He dropped to his knees.

“I’m home, Boss,” he said, voice thick, Portuguese-heavy. “Ready to serve.”

The Boss stood. Strode over. Ran a hand through Marcello’s sweaty hair, gripping his skull.

“My perfect fucking enforcer.”

Marcello moaned. His cock throbbed in his jeans. He didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care. Needed to make the boss proud.

HeMarcelo belonged here.

The boss brought his face to his croth, guiding Marcello in with a firm hand,

The smell, Marcella drooled through the jeans as the boss teases them down.

Home at last

…

I hope you guys enjoyed 😤😅

The headset clunked heavily as it slid back over his brow, still humming faintly, the lens flickering with static. Jace winced as a spark nipped the side of his temple, fingers twitching. “Shit…” he muttered, rubbing his head before grabbing his phone.

His dorm was cluttered, half-packed boxes from his recent move-in, textbooks unopened on the bed. He needed this stipend. As a beta tester of the headset, he was set to receive a good chunk of money for leaving a good detailed review video. He needed this review done to pay for next semester…

Dialing the tech support number he was given, he paced. Ring… ring…

A crisp, calm voice answered.

“Thank you for contacting Immersia Tech Support. This is Felix. How may I assist you today?”

“Hey, uh—yeah, the headset’s glitching like hell. It shoots Sparks, literally shocks me sometimes. And I can’t get the damn thing off without it trying to restart.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. For calibration errors, we recommend initiating the diagnostic protocol while the unit is on. May I walk you through it?”

Jace hesitated. “…Yeah, fine. Let’s do it.”

The Headset hummed to life, it would have been seamless if the unit hadn’t emitted a warning set of sparks.

The world blinked, and suddenly he stood in a dimly lit garage.

Fluorescent light buzzed above. The air smelled like oil and heated rubber. Tools hung neatly from a pegboard. And straight ahead was a massive mirror, gleaming.

Jace’s own reflection stared back at him. Same curly brown hair, average build, the oversized hoodie his girlfriend gave him last fall. He blinked. Everything looked normal.

“Welcome to the diagnostic interface,” Felix’s voice echoed, disembodied but clear. “This environment reflects your current configuration settings.”

“Uh-huh. Great. So what now?”

“Let’s begin your real-body calibration.”

A floating interface appeared over the mirror. Fancy graphics in a liquid like display. Like the menu screens he'd seen in the product trailers . Words scrolled:

USER PROFILE

• Name: Jace Weller

• Height: 6’1”

• Weight: 210 lbs

• Language: Portuguese

• Occupation: Auto Mechanic

• Muscular Index: 92.7%

Jace frowned. “Wait, what? I’m not six-one. I’m five-nine! And I sure as hell don’t speak Portuguese.”

“Hmm,” Felix said smoothly. “well that's inconsistent with our database. These were the details you listed in your initial application." Jace frowned. There was a laziness in Felix's voice, like he didn't actually care to listen.

"Initiating adjustment.”

“Oh good, Yeah if you could write down my actual info-”

A hot jolt surged down Jace’s spine as he felt a spark from the headset fly into his ear. His knees buckled. In the mirror. his reflection stretching, bones re-aligning. His shoulders widened. His face elongated slightly, cheekbones sharpening, posture straightening.

God DAMN for a VR system this felt so FUCKIN real

“Height calibration complete,” Felix announced. “Now you matchh the 6’1” profile. Apologies about that error sir. Is your avatar correct now?”

Jace panted, gripping the wall. “Holy shit… What the hell was that?!”

“Minor shock response during sync. Shall we proceed?”

“I - no, I think something’s really wrong with this! Stupid review ain’t worth this shi -“

“Noted. Next parameter, your application listed, 160 lbs of lean muscle… Current your avatar has 54. Adjusting, one moment please.”

“Wait, no—!”

The shock this time was deeper, like being hit by a defibrillator. His chest swelled violently, pecs bulging outward, nipples flattening across thick slabs of meat. His hoodie tightened, seams splitting at the shoulders. Arms pulsed with size. Biceps bloated, and triceps thickened. His waist tapered as abs carved themselves into place, one by one, in excruciating pain. Veins trailed down his arms like rivers.

He stared at himself in shock, breath ragged. “W-what the fuck?!”

Felix’s tone was annoyingly calm. “Progressing smoothly. Clothing isn’t right for your region either sir. Replacing.”

His hoodie dissolved into pixels, replaced with a stained white tank that clung to his slick, muscular chest. Heavy denim work pants appeared on his legs, sagging at the waist from sheer mass gain, the bulge at his crotch outlined now in stark, heavy relief.

“You’ve got the wrong file—this isn’t me!” Jace shouted.

“hmm... not according to our records sir,” Felix replied in a casual tone. “According to your trial submission, this is your preferred identity overlay.”

“No way! That’s Fucking SHIT! didn’t, I mean I wouldn’t put -“

Jace yelled, as he felt the bones in his face reshape. His cheek bones rose to prominence, while his shaggy hair retracted into his scalp, changing from a ruddy brown to jet black. His lips puffed forwards filling out into a prominent pout.

“Oh! It looks like your Language is mismatched as well! Interface reports your native language is Portuguese. Let’s fix that while we are here…”

A burst hit harder than the others. Jace yelped, the world spinning. His mind frayed as his vocabulary blurred at the edges, replaced by smoother syllables. His mind reeled as his thoughts jumbled in a broken mix.

“Calibração linguística completa,” Felix said. “Language fully mapped.”

“Eu… não entendo…” Jace murmured, confused. “I mean, I don’t understand…” "Of Course sir, Lastly, lets just reboot your identity/memory settings so for a more immersive experience. one moment..." "O quê? Espere! Senhor Please-"

Searing electricity

Nothing ... .. hel- ...

... Jace raised a meaty hand to his head, Scratching the nape of his neck. "Droga, this call is taking forevrrrr.."

"Sorry about that sir," came the agents smooth voice you were saying something?" "si!" Jace spoke confidently into the headset, "Olá? Já está consertado? uh - iz it fixed?"

“Almost there sir, let’s Finalize the environment.”

As if a back light had been flicked on, the darker garage faded into the sunlight, replaced by the open bay doors of a bustling garage. Men called out in Portuguese, whistles and shouts, laughter echoing in a midday heat.

Jace—no—João blinked slowly, sweat dotting his dark forehead. His hands were rough, calloused. His chest heaved, pecs bouncing as he adjusted his tank top. There was a wrench in his back pocket, a smear of oil on his jaw. His mind was so soft. Fuzzy. huh. Why had he called?

A beep echoed.

“Your setup is complete. Do you have any additional questions?” Felix’s voice crackled, distant now.

João blinked. “Uh... Você fala português?” he asked slowly.

“I’m sorry, I only speak English. But your headphones should be fully functional now. have a nice day!”

The line clicked. João scratched his head, confused for a moment. Then he smiled dumbly and adjusted his headset, no, his headphones. The ones his namorado, his hunky boyfriend, had gotten him last week. Fancy ones, good for blocking out noise while he worked.

“João!” someone shouted across the garage. “Vai ajudar com o motor, porra!”

“Sim, sim!” he shouted back. “Tô indo!”

João flexed his thick arms, rolling his shoulders, sweat gleaming on his golden skin as he strutted past the open bay, his thick thighs shifting under the low-slung denim, the outline of his heavy cock swinging freely beneath.

He wiped his hands on a rag as he passed Raphael—his silver-haired boss leaning against the wall, arms crossed, salt-and-pepper beard trimmed sharp, eyes tracing João’s glutes with hunger.

“Meu deus… olha esse rabo,” Raphael muttered, grabbing João by the waistband and pulling him flush against his hard chest.

João grinned dumbly, heart thudding.

“Rapha… os outros tão olhando…” he whispered, voice low and needy. Raphael didn’t give a shit. “Foda-se eles.”

Before João could speak, Raphael’s tongue was in his mouth, rough hands roaming under the tank top, gripping his sweaty pecs.

“Tão firme… meu gostoso…” he groaned. João whimpered, hips grinding against his boyfriend’s thick thigh, cock swelling.

“Me fode aqui mesmo,” he gasped in Portuguese, eyes glazed, “quero sentir você agora…”

Raphael growled, spun him around, and pressed him chest-first to the warm hood of the car.

“Abre essas pernas, mecânicozinho,” he murmured, undoing his belt. João moaned, obeying without thought, breath fogging the windshield.

....

End transcript call.

Thank you for using Immersia Tech. ....

*Anon, this was so hot to write* Blake sat at his kitchen island, brow furrowed over his iPhone, thumb jabbing at the screen with growing frustration. “Siri, change language back to English,” he groaned in morning voice

Siri responded in a silky baritone: “Tut mir leid, ich habe dich nicht verstanden.” “Ugh. what? Again?!”

It was the third time that morning. First, Spotify had started playing what sounded like deep house remixes with German lyrics. Then the grocery list app autocorrected every item into “Bananen,” “Quark,” and “Bratwurst.” Now even his GPS called him “Herr Müller.”

As he reset the settings again,

he missed the faint shimmer that passed over his arms. The soft dark hair that dusted his forearms vanished, smooth tan skin stretching slightly tighter over a growing curve of muscle.

A subtle pop echoed from his wrist, bone structure realigning. He barely flinched, blinking hard and shrugging it off like a sore joint.

The doorbell rang. Package delivery. Finally, maybe it was the valentines present he had picked out for Emily, He was trying to get everything ready early.

The delivery man filled the doorframe, maybe 6’3”

Man, those shorts were tiny.

“Danke,” the delivery guy said with a smirk as he handed Blake the box. Blake blinked at him, Confused. “What... nevermind, thanks man.”

He Shut the door,

Harder than he meant to

or thought he could.

not noticing the label on the box said

Trainingskleidung - Größe L.

Blake ripped it open and pulled out a ribbed grey tank top that he definitely hadn’t ordered. He held it up.

"What the fuck?"

Muscle-cut, low sides, weirdly thick material.

This looked way to big.

....

He stripped his tee and slipped it on.

It clung to his chest.

His flat pecs suddenly felt… not flat. He looked down, jaw slack. Was the fabric padded? His fingers pressed against the tank, then deeper. No padding. Just meat. Hard, round, heavy. He poked one pec and it twitched,

huh

twitched.

Bounced

like it had been trained for years. He staggered, the shirt pulling tight across his wide back.

“Blake…” Siri purred from the counter. “Möchtest du dein Training starten?”

He stumbled toward the phone, pants tighter now

quads visibly swelling with every confused step.

“What? no, I don’t.... Man stop speaking German, dammit!”

But the moment the word German left his lips, the kitchen radio cut on by itself, blasting a sweaty Berlin techno set.

Silently, his heartbeat synced to the beat.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

His head lulled forward.

With each thud, his body pulsed. His abs pushed forward, carving themselves beneath his skin,

his mind felt slow.

firm ridges pressing against the tank. His spine cracked, posture pulling upright, chest out, arms hanging heavier.

He caught a glimpse of himself in the window reflection.

His face looked… off. Amazing. Cheekbones high. Lips full. Blonde roots were already eating through his brown hair.

He stared.

Something was wrong. ....

Right?

“Shit. What was I doing?” he muttered, voice an octave deeper than usual.

He shook his head, confused. He couldn’t remember why he felt so off. Just that he was supposed to… go somewhere?

The phone chimed. “Erinnerung: Gym Sauna - 18:00 Uhr.”

Blake he blinked. Of course. The gym. Time to sweat it out.

*****

The gym was only five blocks away, but Blake he barely made it halfway before he registered how tight his joggers were.

Each stride made the thick seams groan, the fabric clinging to his thighs like shrink-wrap, every step caused friction. He tugged at the waistband, but even that felt stretched.

Why wasn't he wearing underwear?

….

His ass jutted now, two firm globes packed with dense, bouncing muscle.

He passed a street sign. Berlinerstraße.

That wasn’t right, was it?

Was it?

He pushed through the gym’s glass doors, greeted by a young man at the front desk.

“Willkommen zurück, Lukas,” the man said with a smile. Blake He paused, brain fuzzing like a buffering video.

“I’m....uhh…” He hesitated. “Blake.”

The man raised a brow. “Nein… du bist Lukas, oder?” Blake opened his mouth to argue, but his tongue stumbled. “Ich… äh…” He shook his head and kept walking.

.... Where was he walking?

He reached the locker room, stripping as he walked without realizing it.

The tank peeled off over his shoulders, revealing two sweaty, perfectly rounded pecs glistening in the light.

His abs flexed as he bent to slide off the strained joggers, thighs Thick.

His cock swung heavy between his legs, framed by smooth, bare skin

His body hair had completely vanished.

A soft hiss of steam called him forward.

The sauna door opened on its own.

Inside was dim, orange-lit, thick with heat and masculine scent, cedar wood, sweat, something else....

One man sat alone on the wooden bench: lean, older, hairy-chested, staring at Blake.....no....Lukas with hunger.

“Setz dich,” the man rumbled.

BLAKELukas obeyed without thinking, dropping the towel and straddling the bench beside him. His thick glutes pressed against the hot wood, thighs spread, cock already thickening.

The man leaned in, lips brushing his ear, “So ein schöner Körper… alles deins, hm?”

Lukas Screamed,

Ran,

Fought,

Tried

MOANED soft, confused, then sure. “Ja…” he whispered, voice deep and velvety. “Ich… fühl mich so geil…”

The man grinned, and leaned in

Kissed him, slow at first, then rough. Their bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, tongues tangling.

With every breath, Lukas

forgot more his job, his girlfriend, his name. Got Harder and HARDER

Lukas,

Didn’t he work here?

An exclusive men’s sauna

In Berlin?

His mind was full of techno beats, hot skin, gym sessions, and throbbing cock.

He came without even touching himself, gasping into the other man’s mouth.

When he finally stepped out of the sauna, he was smiling, leaning against the stud he had landed in the sauna.

His uniform hung neatly on a hook. tiny black shorts, no shirt, a lanyard that read Saunameister - Lukas D.

The man scratched Lukas’s neck with his beard. Cupping his groin, while he whispered in his ear.

Lukas grinned,

“Ja... das klingt lustig.”

****

The warehouse shook with bass.

Lukas was drenched in sweat beneath a halo of strobe lights and fog, his thick chest gleaming under leather straps pulled tight across his torso.

He barely remembered arriving, only that his new boyfriend’s hand, he same silver-furred, broad-chested sauna patron who’d claimed his mouth hours earlier, had found his lower back and never left, fingers digging possessively into the meat of his glutes as if to remind him who he belonged to right now.

The black harness he wore cupped the curve of his pecs, framing every hard breath, every pump of his arms as he danced

thrusted

to the pounding techno. His shorts were practically painted on, his ass bouncing with each step, quads like stone slabs grinding to the beat.

Raphael was behind him, hands gripping Lukas’s hips possessively, lips brushing his ear. “Mein Junge,” he growled, grinding against him. Lukas moaned, pushing back, tongue lolling slightly, lost in the thump and heat.

Around them, shirtless bodies collided under violet light, moans swallowed by the music. German flowed like breath through the speakers, wrapping Lukas tighter into the haze. “Du gehörst mir…” Raphael whispered.

Lukas nodded, breathless, hips bucking as the fog devoured them both.

****

For my friend @axeeglitter

Mason hadn’t slept since the second night. The weight of his brother’s disappearance clung to his chest.

No calls.

No texts.

And worse, no answers. Tyler had shown him the damn ring, all trembling hands and wide eyes, the night he went missing. He Said he was going to propose after his shift at the shop.

But he never came home.

Now Mason was standing in the same foyer where he imagined his brother had stood two nights earlier. inside the clean, stale-smelling home of Mr. Dyer, the girlfriend’s father. Mason had to come to ask if his brother had stopped by. The man was calm.

So calm. He offered coffee.

"Boys leave town all the time," Mr. Dyer said, sipping his cup. "Maybe he got cold feet, he seemed the type if you know what I mean."

Mason’s stomach twisted. "That’s not him."

He pretended to use the bathroom but really he was searching. He crept down the hallway, cracking open any door just to glance inside. He paused at the office room.

A wall of tapes. VHS tapes. Dozens. All lined up on old oak shelves. Mason squinted. Those things looked prehistoric, who used VHS anymore? Handwritten labels. Male names. One near the bottom looked fresh...

Mason took a sharp breath in.

TYLER, black Sharpie scrawled across white tape spine. A photo was taped beside it, slightly askew: a shirtless Latino man in a club, getting grinded on. The man looked familiar

almost like...

Mason’s hands started to shake.

****

That night, Mason broke into the house.

It was too easy. He had noticed the back window didn't have a lock when Mr Dreyer had seen him off.

Heart thudding. He sprinted straight to the office, popped open the cabinet under the shelf, and yanked out the chunky silver VHS player. He shoved in the tape labeled TYLER, pressed play, and dropped to his knees in front of the screen sitting low to the floor.

Snow. Static. Then the tape kicked on.

It flickered,

then opened on a pounding club scene—low lighting, writhing bodies, synthy Brazilian funk thumping against the camera mic. The crowd parted slightly and then...

Tyler

Tyler appeared, mid-frame, Glitching into existance,

standing like he’d just been dropped from the sky. Same hoodie. Same confused face.

"HELLO?!" Tyler screamed up at the ceiling, looking terrified. "I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM! LET ME OUT! PLEASE - MR. DYER - PLEASE!"

A voice sounded through the speakers, smooth, Calm, Cruel.

"You should’ve stayed away from my daughter, Tyler."

Mason watched confused. The crowd didn’t notice. The bodies kept moving, bathed in pink and purple light, sweat glistening on bare torsos, Groping and grinding. Mr Dyer Spoke again,

"I always mess up this next part—hang on…"

Tyler flinched. His body convulsed slightly, flickering with the VHS. Mason watched, jaw clenched tight, stomach turning with a strange cocktail of dread and disbelief.

glitch

The change was instant. His skin tone deepened, a radiant bronze overtaking pale peach. Glitch, His arms bulged, thick biceps rounding out with a sudden pump of meat. GLITCH, His shoulders broadened, pecs heaving out, nipples pushing against his hoodie, until the fabric shimmered and melted away into a sheer mesh tank top that clung to his glistening chest.

Tyler gasped, staggering. "W-what’s happening—?"

"You’ll look better like this," said Mr. Dyer’s voice, "You'll match the set." The Screen Flickered,

His legs thickened with a visible rush of mass. Muscle piled onto his thighs, ass ballooning into a dancer’s dream. round, high, juicy. The waistband of his jeans shredded away, replaced by skimpy white club shorts so tight you could see the pulse of his cock through the fabric. His calves flexed with each stumble, now carved from stone.

The screen flickered into static for a moment.

Mason watched in frozen horror as his brother’s jaw sharpened, lips plumped, eyes darkened with smudged kohl liner, hair tightening into a slick, stylish fade. Tyler screamed again, but the voice cracked, pitch dropping, accent thickening.

"Por favor—o que—o que está acontecendo?!"

His voice rolled with flavor now, every word wrapped in those perfect lips

"Final adjustment," Mr. Dyer said.

Tyler’s face twisted, then relaxed.

A flicker of pleasure twitched through him. His hips began to sway with the music. His moans turned low, drawn out, thirsty.

He blinked slow. His hands slid over his own glistening pecs, fingers tweaking his nipples, tracing the sweat between his abs. And then he was dancing

pressed against a thick stranger, grinding with perfect rhythm, head tilted back in ecstasy.

The camera panned in slow, capturing every bead of sweat trailing down his neck. His hard-on throbbed against his partner’s thigh, shameless and twitching.

The tape rolled. Mason stared, mouth dry, heart pounding.

What the hell had he just watched? some sort of SICK Porn Mr. Dyers was funding? He must have Tyler locked up somewhere, doing awful things to him! He had to get this tape back to the police, then maybe -

click.

The light flicked on.

Mr. Dyer stood in the doorway, an old camera in his hand. It didn’t look like any Mason had ever seen

A black chrome body, red lens, a high pitched whine being emitted. The air around it shimmered like heat off pavement.

"Don’t worry," Mr. Dyer said, voice calm. "You’ll get to see him again."

Mason barely got a "Wait, please-" out before the flash went off.

*****

The club slammed into existence around him.

Sweat. Lights. Bass. Heat. Skin. The smell.

Mason stumbled, gasping, His body was on fire. HIs vision glitched like hed seen on the VHS tape.

Flicker, He shirtless now, his jeans already stitched into something obscenely tight.

The air clung to him, every inch of skin instantly slicked with oil and desire. Tyler’s voice cut through the noise:

"Bem-vindo, mano... tava sentindo sua falta."

Mason turned and there he was

HIs Brother,

Tyler. But not anymore

Radiant and sweaty, pecs bouncing to the rhythm, cock outlined through paper-thin white mesh.

"No...no....Tyler, snap out of it!"

GLITCH

But his own voice was changing now. Thicker. Heavier. Words slurring. His thighs swelled, veins surfacing. His ass bloomed, stretching the tiny shorts he hadn't even noticed forming around his hips. Sweat dripped from his hair, down his chest and back.

His abs popped, each one a brick glistening with sweat, torso flexing with each ragged breath.

"F-Fuck, no - please I can’t..."

But it felt so good.

His cock throbbed in the fabric, already wet at the tip. His new skin shimmered bronze, He could smell his own musk.

The former Tyler pulled him into a slow grind.

Their sweat-slicked bodies met, pecs colliding, arms wrapping. Mason’s breath hitched as his hips began to move on their own, grinding back. His moan escaped deep, His tongue curling before he even knew what he was saying.

"Porra... me sinto quente pra caralho..." FLICKER

The last of his mind tilted.

The club roared.

"Vamos dançar, irmãozinho," Tyler whispered against his ear, grinding harder, tongue tracing Mason’s neck.

Mason smiled, lips parted, cock hard and twitching in his shorts.

They danced. They kissed. They moaned. The beat drowned out everything else.

And just like that, the tape kept playing.

Forever.

Inspired by @artificial-transmutations

"FUCK MAN!" Mark screamed, slamming the hood of the silver 2023 Audi A4 back down. The sound wasn't the solid thunk of German engineering he expected; it was a tinny, rattling clang that vibrated in his teeth.

Drake stood by the guardrail, scowling. He picked at his cream polo, which was already damp with sweat. Not a very flattering look

"I don't even know why you opened it, man," he said, his voice tight with the specific anxiety of the privileged. "It's not like you’d know what to do. The most car work I've seen you do was pairing your iPhone."

Mark wiped his hands on his beige chinos, leaving a faint smudge of road grit. He stared at it, horrified. Feeling overwhelmed for a moment.

"My dad is going to kill me, Drake. If we miss the orientation at Deloitte in Chicago, the internship is gone! We have to call a tow truck."

The wind blew the fumes back into their faces, causing their eyes to water.

"No signal," Drake said, holding up his phone. "Dead zone. We have to push it. I saw a sign for a garage a mile back.... I think."

"Push it?" Mark looked at his loafers, "Are you stupid? In this heat? It’s like a hundred degrees!"

"Do you have a better idea, counselor?" Drake snapped.

Mark stared.

They pushed.

It was a grueling, embarrassing shuffle. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on them. The Loafers were definitely ruined.

By the time they rolled the Audi into the bay of "Sal’s Auto & Repair," they were drenched. Their crisp clothes stuck to their skin like wet tissue paper. The air here was thicker, smelling of rubber, sulfur, and old oil.

The mechanic had rolled himself out from under a truck. He had wiped his hands on a rag.

Didn't speak; he just pointed to the card reader as Mark breathlessly explained the radiator issue.

Mark swiped his platinum card. The machine beeped in the heart dropping way.

"Locked," the mechanic grunted. "System says fraud. Card's dead."

"That's ridiculous," Mark said, his voice cracking. "Run it again. It's a gold account. My father..."

"I don't care about your daddy. Cash or labor, boys. I got a backlog of transmission work and my guy quit yesterday. You want the radiator fixed? You work."

The Mechanic Stared them down, his bulky frame seeming to fill all of their vision. He wasn't the most agreeable, and he definitely could use a refresher on how to use deodorant.

Drakes spirits crashed. Maybe a few hours of work could save them from the embarrassing call back home. Just to pay off the bill. The mechanics weathered lips flitted for just a split second, almost like a quick grin.

*****

"I feel… fucking sick," Drake murmured.

They had been working for four hours. Mark had insisted they just do enough to get the bill paid and leave, but he swore the clock in the garage was broken. It felt like it had been days.

Drake was scrubbing a pile of hubcaps in the back. He had taken off his polo to save it, but his undershirt; a flimsy white tank top, was already ruined, stained yellow with sweat and grey with brake dust.

"It's the fumes," Mark said. He was under the lift, wrestling with an oil pan. He slid out on the creeper. His glasses were fogged up, so he took them off and shoved them in his pocket. He blinked, squinting at Drake. "We just need to get through a few hours. What was… what was our ETA for Chicago?"

"Tuesday," Drake said. Then he frowned. "Wait. Was it Tuesday? Or Thursday?"

"It doesn't matter," Mark snapped, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a thick streak of grease across his brow.

"Hand me the… the twister thing."

"The wrench?" Drake asked, looking at the tool bench.

"Yeah. The wrench." Mark stared at his own hand. It was trembling. Man I need to moisturize. The hand in front of him looked different. His knuckles seemed swollen and broad. The undersides of his nails were stained black, and his hands were so caked in oil, you couldn't even make out his fair pale skin...

in fact his skin looked real dark...

"Here," Drake said, handing him the dirty wrench. Their fingers brushed.

He looked at Mark.

...When had Mark taken off his shirt?

His chest glistening with sweat. Drake felt a strange tightening in his gut.

"Thanks," Mark grunted. His voice sounded lower. Rough. He didn't pull his hand away immediately. He looked up at Drake,

Damn he looked good in this garage,

"You missed a spot on that rim."

"Make me clean it," Drake laughed.

Mark just laughed,

a low, gravelly sound that didn't belong to a pre-law student. "Keep it up, pretty boy."

****

Drake woke up on a cot in the back office. He reached for his phone to check the stock market, the same as every other morning. But his hand felt clumsy. He dropped the phone. When he picked it up, he frowned

The app must have glitched out, because none of the numbers made any sense to him...

The S & P 500 is.... huh what is that anyway?

"Yo, Duke! Get your ass up!"

Drake flinched. Duke? Who the hell is Duke?

He walked out into the bay. The heat hit instantly. He immediately felt a wetness under his arm pits. Hadn't he put on a T shirt this morning.

The wife beater stretched tight over his skin, hugging his chest.... his impressive chest, and showing off veiny arms from years under the hood.

Mark was leaning over the fender of a car. But it wasn't the Audi.

It was a '69 Chevelle. Smokey grey.

A sexy mother fucking vehicle.

"Mark?" Drake asked, his voice cracking into a deep baritone.

Mark turned around. He had a cigarette dangling from his lip. He inhaled deeply, the tip glowing cherry-red, and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke that mingled with the shop's haze.

"Its Mac, Dumbass" the man grunted. He looked at Drake with hooded, predatory eyes. "And grab a rag. We gotta tune the carb before noon."

"since when do you smoke? You know I..." Drake stammered, staring at the pack of Reds in Mac’s pocket. "I have asthma man."

"You ain't got asthma," Mac growled, walking over. He moved with a heavy, hip-rolling swagger, his jeans riding low on his hips, revealing the adonis lines of his pelvis.

He pulled a cigarette from the pack and shoved it between Drake’s lips. "Light up. And get yer ass to work."

Drake let him light it. The smoke filled his chest, burning, searing. It should have made him cough. Instead, it felt like oxygen. The rush of nicotine quieted the screaming voice in his head that remembered Chicago.

"The car…" Drake pointed at the Chevelle. "That aint what we rode in on... is it?"

Mac looked at the car, then back at Drake. He stepped closer, invading Drake’s personal space. The smell of him

sweat,

stale tobacco,

musk

it was overwhelming. It made Drake’s knees weak.

"It's always been a Chevelle, Duke," Mac whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, irrational anger. "You hit your head or something? We been fixing this piece of shit for a week."

"A week?" Drake’s mind reeled. It’s been a day. It’s been a lifetime. "But the internship…"

"Fuckin wake up man" Mac growled. He grabbed Drake’s chin with a grease-stained hand, forcing him to look him in the eye. "You shittin with me? Or you just come in high again?"

Mac Pushed Drake Duke aside and turned around to face the car again, Displaying his massive back, clearly defined through his soaked through wife beater...

Drake Duke stood there fore a moment reeling, before walking up behind him... waiting for the work to begin.

*****

The shop was a furnace. The fan rattled uselessly against the wall.

Duke was under the chassis, tightening the suspension. He slid out on the creeper, his body slick with oil and sweat. He wiped his face, smearing black grease across his cheekbones.

Mac was standing by the workbench, wiping down a socket set. He was shirtless, his back muscles rippling as he moved. He had a mullet now

thick, dark hair curling over his neck, damp with sweat.

Duke stood up. He walked over to Mac. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed the pack of cigarettes off the bench, shook one out, and lit it. Mac turned. He looked at Duke.

"She running rich?" Mac asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Lean," Duke corrected. He took a drag, blowing the smoke into Mac’s face. "Need to open her up."

Mac laughed, before looking Duke up and down, playing with his crotch.

"You talking about the car, or you talking about me?"

"Both," Duke growled.

Collision.

He shoved Mac back against the tool chest. The metal drawers rattled with a crash, Tools spilled in every direction

Duke fumbled with Macs stained Jeans, slipping his hands to grope Macs enormous, straining cock.

His mouth worked lower and lower,

His tongue soaking up all the oil

Grease,

And sweat

Mac grasped Dukes rounded shoulders with his oil stained hands, Shoving him lower and lower.

"Get to Work Boy," He said, Grabbing a fist full of Dukes Hair,

"We got about 8 minutes before our next Service ticket shows."

Duke choked in response

From the garage window, The shop owner grinned. Illuminated by the glow of a cigar.

He sure was glad those good ol boys had shown up when they did.

Always loved guiding the Rising generation towards the trades.

*****

Inspired by @reddarkfox222

At 4:13 p.m., Andrew almost walked away.

The campus recreation center was loud with clanking plates and bursts of laughter, fluorescent lights reflecting off polished floors. He stood just inside the weight room, long limbs tucked in awkwardly, fingers hooked in the straps of his backpack. At twenty, he still carried that almost-finished look—1.84 meters of lean, wiry potential. Seventy-two kilograms distributed in narrow shoulders and subtle lines that suggested muscle without declaring it. Smooth skin, hairless chest. Short, neat dark hair. A clean-cut face that could still pass for seventeen on a good day.

He looked like a university student because he was one.

“Ten minutes,” the trainer had said earlier at the campus event, flashing a grin that seemed a little too white, a little too confident. “Quick circuit. Free session. You’ll feel amazing.”

Against his better judgment, Andrew had agreed.

Now the trainer stood in front of him again, bigger than Andrew remembered. Broad chest stretching a maroon stringer tank. Shoulders round and capped. Veins like raised cords along his forearms. A beard framing a grin that suggested he knew something Andrew didn’t.

“Ready, Andrew?” the trainer asked.

“Sure,” Andrew replied, voice clear, light. “Ten minutes, right? I’ve got a study group at five.”

The trainer’s grin widened. “Ten minutes.”

Andrew glanced at the digital clock mounted above the squat racks.

4:13.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”

The circuit began.

Burpees. Pull-ups. Kettlebell swings. Push presses. Sled pushes across rubber flooring that bit into his sneakers. The trainer moved beside him with effortless power, barking out reps in a low, steady cadence.

“Chest up. Drive through the heels. Breathe, Andrew.”

Within three minutes, sweat slicked his smooth torso. His lungs burned. His arms trembled as he struggled through pull-ups he hadn’t realized would be this hard.

“Didn’t expect it to be easy, did you?” the trainer said, smirking.

Andrew shot him a tight grin between breaths. “You said quick. Not sadistic.”

The trainer laughed.

By minute eight, Andrew’s shirt clung to him, outlining the faint ridges of muscle beneath. His voice cracked slightly when he counted his own reps. His heart hammered so hard it blurred the edges of his vision.

“Two more rounds,” the trainer said.

“Two?” Andrew gasped. “You said—”

“Ten minutes.”

The final sled push left Andrew bent over, palms on knees, sweat dripping from his chin onto the rubber mat. His entire body buzzed. He straightened slowly and glanced up at the clock.

4:13.

He blinked.

The seconds display hadn’t changed.

“That’s…” He swallowed. “The Hell...”

The trainer stood upright, fresh. Not even winded. “Ready to start?”

“Start?” Andrew frowned. “We just-”

The trainer clapped once. “Ten minutes. Quick circuit.”

A chill slid down Andrew’s spine.

“I... bro we already did it.”

The trainer tilted his head. “Did what?”

Andrew opened his mouth to argue.

Nothing came out.

His throat tightened. His protest evaporated like mist in sunlight. His feet moved on their own, stepping back to the starting position.

“Chest up,” the trainer said calmly.

And Andrew began again.

The second circuit felt worse. Or maybe better. His body moved more efficiently, as if it remembered something his mind didn’t. His burpees were sharper. His pull-ups smoother. His skin flushed darker, muscles swelling under the strain.

He risked another glance at the clock.

4:13.

Panic fluttered in his chest.

“This isn’t funny,” he managed, but the words felt distant, muffled behind cotton.

The trainer only smiled. “Drive through your heels.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

Time became elastic.

Sweat poured down Andrew’s chest in rivulets, tracing lines over skin that was no longer quite so smooth.

Fine, dark hairs began to prickle across his arms, then his chest. His shoulders broadened subtly with each repetition, deltoids rounding, striations teasing into existence like pencil lines darkening into ink.

He tried to focus on the changes.

His biceps felt fuller. He watched, mid-curl, as veins pushed up beneath the surface like rivers carving through earth. His once-slender wrists thickened. His grip tightened around the kettlebell, forearms corded and hard.

The trainer leaned close. “We're just giving your body the stimulus for growth it needs.”

The word echoed.

Stimulus.

Another circuit.

His chest swelled, pectorals pressing against damp fabric until the shirt felt too small. His traps rose, creeping up his neck. His collarbones vanished beneath new mass. Sweat soaked him, dripping from a torso that was no longer boyish but carved, dense.

His breathing deepened.

His voice followed.

“Load it up,” he heard himself say at one point, startled by the lower register that rolled from his throat.

The trainer arched a brow. “Feeling confident?”

Andrew smirked

an expression that felt foreign and perfectly natural all at once. “You call this a workout?”

His reflection in the mirrored wall startled him.

His face was sharper now. Jaw thicker. Stubble shadowing his cheeks. His hair seemed darker, slightly longer on top, pushed back carelessly. His eyes held something new—something predatory.

No.

That wasn’t right.

He had always looked like this.

Of course he had.

Another circuit.

His thighs filled out his shorts, quadriceps splitting with visible lines each time he dropped into a squat.

Glutes tightened and lifted with sled drives that now looked effortless. His shoulders ballooned wider, stretching seams.

His Memories frayed.

Lecture halls blurred into weight rooms. Study groups dissolved into posing sessions under stage lights. He tried to remember his major.

What was he studying?

Did it matter?

“Come on, Andrew,” the trainer urged. “You’re built for this.”

Built for this.

Each repetition pressed that idea deeper into him. His old self became thin and distant, like a childhood dream half-remembered.

At some point, he stopped checking the clock.

He started enjoying it.

Sweat gleamed across a chest now covered in dark hair and bold inked lines of tattoos that hadn’t existed before—wings stretching across pecs thick as armor. His arms swelled monstrously with each pump, veins branching like lightning beneath bronzed skin.

He caught his reflection again and grinned.

“Damn,” he muttered appreciatively. “Looking thick.”

The trainer laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

Circuits blurred into hundreds. Hundreds into something beyond counting.

His voice was rich now, edged with gravel. His laughter deeper. His posture instinctively dominant. He moved through the workout like a machine.

No longer remembered being shy.

He didn’t remember hesitating, with anything

He didn’t remember 72 kilograms of uncertainty wrapped in smooth skin.

That was just a dream.

This was the final version.

Finally, the trainer clapped.

“Time.”

Andrew wiped sweat from his brow with a thick forearm, chest heaving—but not from exhaustion. From exhilaration.

He glanced at the clock.

4:23.

Ten minutes.

Exactly.

He rolled his shoulders, admiring the way muscle shifted under skin. “Solid warm-up.”

The trainer stepped closer, eyeing him up and down with approval. “You ever think about working here?”

Andrew barked a laugh. “Working here? I basically own the place already.”

The trainer nodded slowly. “You’d be a perfect fit. We need guys with your… presence.”

Andrew smirked, adjusting the straps of his tank, which clung to a torso thick with power. “Yeah. Guess I’ve always belonged in a place like this.”

There was no flicker of doubt. No ghost of a university student standing awkwardly at 4:13.

Only Andrew - broad, bearded, confident. A cocky bodybuilder with sweat still dripping from a physique that looked carved from iron.

He extended a massive hand.

“So when do I start?”

*****

Hey guys! Know it's been a while since I posted a full story! I intend to get back into it, but I hope these short ones keep you interested until then! Stay tuned and keep being awesome! ---

Hey, is there a military bar at the Drunken Chameleon by chance? My friend just got out of marine boot camp and I want to take him somewhere to have fun.

I'll admit, I don't quite get what the point of bringing your friend to the military floor is. I mean, he just got out of boot camp, he is a marine now. Why would he want to be transformed into what he already is?

Or… maybe it's you he wants to see be transformed. He has been dropping hints that you should join the marines too. Maybe once you get a taste of it yourself, you won't be able to resist~

---

Hi, I'm a huge nerd whose life revolves around uni. I've been busy with exams for the last month, barely leaving the apartment because I have so much to study as I'm fighting for my scholarship. Sometimes I think it might have been easier if I didn't have to worry too much about that stuff, and instead just played sports, enjoyed my life to the fullest. Those guys at my uni seem so much happier, never worrying about anything and still getting that sports scholarship despite failing almost every class just because they are good at some sport… Not fair

You're right. It's not fair. Hell, life isn't fair. smart, thoughtful guys often end up miserable and alone, often trapped by their own ambition and fears, well big dumb jocks live full lives seemingly effortlessly free of the fear of failure. It's not fair.

But you don't give a fuck about that anymore. Who has time to worry about 'fairness' and other whiny bullshit when you're so busy with football, flexing and fucking?

---

With Father’s Day coming up I really wonder what life would be like if I was a father now.

Happy Fathers day! Turns out, being a dad is a very formative experience. Dads have to be strong, responsible, caring, and protective. The pressure of having kids (yes, kids, 3 under 3 to be specific) has formed you into a diamond. and a DILF, if I'm being honest. You have to share the day with your husband of course, but you wouldn't have it any other way

---

Hi, Im a feminine gay guy who just graduated in musical theatre and I just wish my father wasnt absent for most of my life. Yeah he was this big masculine conservative man obsessed with sports who tried to diminish all my feminine interests but theres a part of me that feels he would have been a great parent and we would have eventually understood each other.

So, as it turns out, you were half right. Your father, well… wasn't a great father. In your new life he was there, but he definitely wasn't supportive. He hated your feminine side, and worked hard to bully it all out of you.

The thing is, you were right about you coming to understand each other. Or… you coming to understand him, at least. All that bullying, the forceful repression of anything feminine? It worked. In this world, you're a toxically masculine stud who things muscial theatre is for geeks and queers. If someone asked this new you what he thought of his dad, he'd say his pops is the best mentor he could ask for. So… I suppose he was a good dad, in a way. Just not to the real you.

---

Hey, now that Father's Day is over I would love to shed this hairy 40 year old dad bod to get a 20 something year old muscular jock bod maybe a wrestler?

Being a DILF for fathers day was fun, but a shapeshifter like you never stays in one form for long. As much fun as it was to be a studly bear who slutty twinks just love to call 'daddy', this week you're going to be the college jock those twinks used to not so secretly lust after through all of highschool and college. Have fun~

---

Hi! I'm 22 and i've always struggled with confidence. Can you help me? I'm a guy from the countryside and i've always admired how confident guys in the city were

A lot of people assume that being from the country means you're a macho country boy with muscles scultped from hard work. You, however, are living proof that that stereotype is complete bullshit. Just like there are skinny guys in the city, there are skinny guys in the country. You work hard, but it hasn't exactly shown up on your body, and your lack of confidence cancels out any natural country charm you might have developed over time. However, there is a way to fix this. Just as some people thrive in the country, others thrive in the city. thrive where there are gyms to obsessively lift at, and nightclubs to grind in, and a constant stream of young, social media obsessed hotties to have fun with. Some people are made for the city. The new you is one of those people.

---

Hi. After years of not knowing my father, he came to find me and he is in some real serious gang stuff involved. He asked me to join him in the family business as his natural successor, but he insists I don’t look the part and that I’m too weak for the job

You hadn't seen your dad in over 2 decades when he showed up at your door. Most kids find their parents don't loom over them after growing up, but your dad was still a mountain of a man who intimidated you enough to let him come in and let him talk. At first you wanted to throw him out, to scream at him for abandoning you all these years ago, but… the more he talked, the harder it was for you to think. Your body felt stranger and stranger, and you felt yourself hanging on every one of your pops words. Soon you were completely agreeing that it was time for you to join the family buisness. Time for you to prove you were a real man, a hot fucking gangster, like your dad had always raised you to be.

---

Hi. I'm 21, and after all these days of exams, I'm going on a beach vacation with my friends. There are so many sexy guys and men, from Latinos to bodybuilders and bears… could you help me get a better body for exposure?

Latino, Bodybuilders and Bears. Sall such great options! But why choose one when you can be all 3! Afterall thos exams, you deserve a day as each one. Be a latin stud one day, a massive bodybuilder the next, and a beefy bear after that! Who knows, maybe I'll throw in an extra form just for fun~

---

Hi, i just got a job application at a club as a bartender, but when i got there they handed me a bouncer uniform. That had to have been a mistake, i don't look like a bouncer at all!

As it turns out, the club you're working at actually has a pretty relaxed dress code, so you can wear whatever you want.

However, whatever you do wear… you're going to end up looking like a bouncer. thats what you are now. A big piece of bouncy meat meant to intimidate losers and enforce the owners will. and thats all you'll ever want to be~

When you got the notification that a package had arrived at your door, you were confused by the sleek black box sitting right outside your place. You didn’t remember ordering anything, and unlike most cardboard deliveries, this one had an expensive design. You carefully brought the strange package inside and opened it. Inside was a black-and-gold envelope resting atop a few expensive items. You knew it wasn’t something you would have ordered, but the address on the box was yours.

Picking up the envelope, you ripped open the flap and pulled out a black card with gold lettering. There was a scent to the note, almost as if it were lightly spritzed with some cologne or perfume. The note didn’t offer much explanation, either about what this box was for or why it was sent to you.

From Your Secret Admirer. A Self-Improvement Box.

On the back was a scribbled phone number, clearly handwritten by whoever sent the strange gift to you. You tried calling it a few times, but whoever was on the other end didn’t seem to bother picking up. Texting the number yielded no response either, and you were left stumped about what to do with the surprise gift sitting on your kitchen table. Before you could decide anything, you looked more closely at the items inside. There seemed to be a bottle of cologne, a dark liquid glimmering back at you inside the glass. There was also a sleek signet ring, although you weren’t exactly someone who really bothered dressing up or wearing jewelry. And finally, perhaps the most expensive of the three items: a smartwatch. It looked quite minimalistic in design, like one of those fitness watches you would see on a fitness influencer or athlete to track their physical progress. And while it was tempting, you still weren’t exactly convinced that this box was meant for you.

You sighed as you picked up the smartwatch, admiring its fancy design. The metal felt cool and smooth, and for a moment, you entertained the idea of having something like it. Even if you weren’t going to use the items from the strange gift box, it didn’t hurt to imagine what it would be like. Slipping the smartwatch over your wrist, you found yourself enjoying its weight. It might have been great in another life, but right now it didn’t fit your personal aesthetic.

As you moved to remove it, you were surprised to find the device properly latched to your wrist. You grunted as you tried to pull off the new piece of techwear, but it didn’t budge. The strap stayed tight; it wasn’t uncomfortable, but the watch wouldn’t move, no matter how hard you tried. Resigning yourself to the gift, you sighed and left it alone. Not wanting to deal with the weirdness, you closed the box and set it aside, hoping to forget about it. Whoever sent it clearly meant it for someone else, and it was best not to touch another item that wasn’t meant for you.

The rest of your day went by uneventfully. You had a few errands to run, but thankfully, you still had the whole weekend before work. As you went about your tasks, you couldn’t shake the strange feeling that you were more energized and invigorated. By the time you got home, you felt an extra bounce in your step, like you could run a mile or two. Glancing down at your new smartwatch, your eyes widened at the tracked steps. You certainly got a lot done today, and the light whiff of sweat from your pits told you as much. Once home, the change felt even harder to ignore.

Making your way to the shower, you found it a bit more difficult to pull off your clothes. Maybe it was the sweat making them stick to your skin, but you couldn’t help twisting and turning your shoulders as you tugged your shirt off. Leaving your clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor, you cast a quick glance at your naked body in the mirror. There were glimpses of definition there, and flexing your biceps showed off some nice peaks. You didn’t pay much attention to it, though, just posing as if it were natural. The last thought you had was that your gym workouts were really starting to show, even though you had forgotten it had been some time since you had even set foot in a gym.

It had been some of the most restful sleep you had ever had that night. The shower was soothing, and you practically dreamed of the slippery sensation of soap bubbles sliding down your back. When you blinked open your eyes, the first thing you noticed was that you seemed much lower than normal. Swinging your thick legs off the side, your large feet thumped along the floor. It seemed that your bed frame had broken again, but this was a common occurrence for you. You struggled to find something that could hold all of your muscular weight. For now, you would have to leave the indented mattress on the floor until you figured out something else. You sighed as you stood to your towering height, ducking your head under the doorframe out of habit. From there, you headed toward the bathroom.

Lumbering toward the bathroom, you raised your hands to scratch and rub at your meaty pecs. It was always a welcome sight to wake up and see such a delicious view each morning, with the valley between your pecs leading down to a chiseled set of abs. Of course, cutting and bulking routines were practically second nature at this point, as your physique was something you put your whole life and soul into. You positioned yourself in front of the mirror once more, your naked body on full display. Sleeping naked was really the only comfortable way for you to get good rest now. Clothes always felt restrictive, particularly when they did very little to conceal your hefty, sizeable bulge. A stray hand slid down to fondle your swaying cock as you admired your physique. It had become a bit of a morning routine, with your admiration for the hard work you put into your body.

A soft beep from your smartwatch reminded you of the brunch you were getting later with some friends. Grateful for such a convenient device, you rarely took the watch off. It felt like second nature to have it on you. As you washed up and prepared for the day, you reached over to grab some cologne to spray on. Your hands found an unfamiliar bottle, practically unopened, with the amount of black liquid still inside. Before you even had a chance to register what was happening, you applied a few quick spritzes to your chest and neck. The smell was rich, dark, and musky, like bergamot mixed with leather. Your eyes widened as your brain began to register the bottle in your hand. It came from that strange box you found yesterday, though you didn’t remember taking it out and setting it in your bathroom.

Your brows furrowed at the strange mystery, but the beeping alarm from your smartwatch quickly interrupted you. You didn’t have time to think about that now; you’d have to deal with it when you got back home. Hurrying out of the bathroom, you turned to the side to let your boulder-sized shoulders and wide back through without bumping the frame. Throwing together a quick, easy streetwear outfit, you took a moment to admire how the clothes clung to your skin. The shirt was almost a crop top, so small, and you could practically see the seams starting to rip. One simple bicep flex and it would burst into a flutter of tattered fabric. Ignoring your intrusive thoughts, you hurried out the door, leaving behind a deliciously thick scent.

Meeting up with your friends was always enjoyable, and you were glad that everyone had enough free time to grab a meal together and catch up. Today seemed a bit off, though, as more than one person kept complimenting the way you took care of your facial hair or how nice a tan you had. You weren’t really sure why they were so hung up about that. Your skin was a rich caramel tone, covered with a healthy dusting of coarse, dark hair. When you first met your friends, you had told them about your summers in Pakistan visiting family. The facial and body hair was an absolute must for you; there was no way you were ever shaving it off, especially when it was part of your manly, masculine appeal. While people kept pointing out the obvious, you noticed how one of your friends seemed particularly infatuated with your scent. He made small comments about how nice your watch looked or how the new cologne really suited you. His attention made the whole outing feel more charged.

He hadn’t been someone you had noticed before, really, but even you couldn’t deny the way his eyes lingered on the dark hair peeking out from under your shirt sleeve, leaving very little to the imagination with the growing sweat stain under your pits. The summer sun wasn’t exactly kind to your darker complexion as you all sat outside, and you could feel the top of your head grow warm under the rays. But a quick wipe on your forehead with the back of your hand, and you were back to catching up with your friends about what they had been up to. By then, the moment had settled into the afternoon.

Brunch ended rather uneventfully, with a few promises to meet up again soon. Your smaller friend seemed to linger back to give you a hug goodbye, and you couldn’t help but notice how his head seemed to slip up between your pecs comfortably, like a missing puzzle piece finding where it belonged. You offered him a strong, hearty squeeze, making sure to press his slim frame up against all your heat. The other man squeaked in surprise at the feeling of your flexed muscles pressed up against his backside, and he scurried away just as frantically as he appeared. Shaking your head in amusement, you scratched at your hairy chest as you made your way back home. It was finally time to just kick back and relax.

With nothing else planned for the day, you began peeling off the sweaty clothes and tossed them to the side for you to deal with later. Flopping down on the couch naked, you could still catch a whiff of the dark cologne you sprayed on this morning. Mixed in with your natural musk, the scent was actually quite overwhelming. The spiced scents flooded through your nostrils, and your eyes rolled back at the rather intense smell that rattled your brain. Dazed in the moment, your head lolled to the side to stare out at your coffee table.

There, perched upon the glass, was that simple black box. Before, you didn’t want a single thing to do with it. You hadn’t even had time to look into who it might actually belong to. But now, there seemed to be this strange pull that enticed you closer. It was like your body was moving on autopilot, with you, a passenger, watching a movie. As you pulled back the box lid, you saw the note with the phone number lying inside next to a signet ring. Pulling out both objects, you felt a sensation in your chest that made you focus more on the ring.

It was a simple, golden band with a nicely designed crest on top. It certainly looked expensive, which fit your style perfectly. Without much thought for anything else, you slipped it onto your pinky. The new piece of jewelry made things begin to click into place, like a fog of confusion lifting from your mind. In that moment, you knew that this was who you were meant to be. A beefed-up, hairy, hunk of a man that was in control of everything in his life. All the decisions, the guidance, the permission granting… it lingered in the back of your throat like a cough. Dominance never felt like a personality trait or a role you had to fill. It was just who you were as a person, and people loved you for it.

Twiddling the note between your fingers, you flipped the piece of paper over to read the hand-scribbled number on the back. In that moment, you remember why that number seemed so familiar to you. A small, knowing smirk formed on your lips as you grabbed your phone off the coffee table. It seemed there was a rather naughty, needy boy who needed to understand what his role was in your new dynamic. He would have to become reacquainted with the new you, given that he did so all on his own, without your permission. You turned on your phone camera, taking a picture of your naked body. Making sure to include your heavy set of balls, hairy chest, and half-chubbed cock, you texted over the photo to the person who sent over the box. It was ridiculous that he even thought you needed self-improvement. You were perfect the way you were, like a god who decided to walk amongst the mere mortals.

get over here, boy. it seems you’ve done something without my permission again. you’ll have to earn my forgiveness.

The reply came back fired back just as quickly, a simple “Yes, Sir,” giving you all the confirmation you needed. It made no difference. If he didn’t come, it was his loss. And if he did, you would show him the fruits of his labors. Until then, you reclined on the couch and made yourself comfortable. It was going to be a long and eventful rest of the day.

Carson hated going home for the holidays. He was young, skinny, popular, and absolutely killing it in New York City. His life had improved tenfold since leaving the small country town he’d grown up in, and going back only reminded him of all the terrible memories. The years he’d spent getting bullied for being bad at sports, for not being manly enough, and being hairless, they all rushed back to him as he was in the car from the airport. It was a long time to think about it all too, since the closest airport was two hours away. The memories of jocks ostracizing him, the years of not feeling like he belonged all flooded back, His family was excited to see him, and he made small talk during that long car ride, but he couldn’t help but feel ripped away from the world that appreciated him.

Upon reaching his old family home, he was bombarded with greetings and hugs from his entire extended family, all of which had arrived before him since they lived within ten miles of each other. After what felt like an eternity, Carson was finally freed to go up to his old room. He tossed his suitcase on the ground and flopped onto the small bed. That was an exhausting ordeal, and he had several more days of it before he could escape back to the city. After a bit of rest he rallied and headed back down to dinner, where he put up with another round of ceaseless questions about what he’d been doing all year. Some were genuine, but many felt targeted, as if he couldn’t be making an honest living and supporting himself in the city. It wasn’t worth an argument though, so he just let the attitude wash over him without response. Another eternity later, he ducked out to his room again, promptly falling asleep after a long flight and even longer day.

The next day was Christmas, and the noise of a dozen relatives chatting downstairs quickly woke him.. He quickly showered and put himself together before his mom had a fit that he wasn’t down with everyone, and joined the fray. His family had always done presents in the morning, right before a huge feast for lunch, and this year was no different. He was scared at what his extended family had gotten for him, for the twisted version of himself that lived in their heads. Carson himself hadn’t bothered to get gifts for anyone, but played it off as “his presence was a gift,” which sometimes got a laugh. They went around and around, everyone gifting the others some crap from a local store, and Carson struggled to stay awake. So far he’d gotten some clothes he’d never wear, a collection of books he was into as a kid, and a bunch of seasonal chocolates and sweets. Overall, not awful. That was when his uncle, Jack, piped up.

“Hey kid, I got somethin’ for you this year. It’s out in my truck, why don’t you follow me out there,” he gestured. 

Carson couldn’t remember the last time he’d even interacted with uncle Jack, much less when he’d gotten a gift from him. Jack was a rancher, always out tending to his cattle and working on his ranch. Carson had seldom seen Jack when growing up, and he rarely made it to family events. He picked himself up off the floor and followed his uncle outside, suddenly feeling the two glasses of wine he’d already had that morning. Stumbling slightly, Carson met his uncle outside the garage, where he was digging in the backseat of his truck. 

“It’s in here somewhere I swear to-” his muffled voice barely registered. “Ah! Here it is.”

Jack reappeared from the truck with a large, worn cowboy hat. 

“This ‘ere was my first purchase after inheriting the ranch. I want you to have it now.” Jack said in a deeply sentimental voice, handing the hat to Carson.

“Uh, thank you,” is all Caron could get out, unsure exactly how to respond. This gift was off the deep end, in what world would he want this?

“Well? Try it on!” Jack said with an eagerness that made Carson feel almost guilty. He put the giant hat on, feeling ridiculous as it clearly didn’t fit right.

Jack laughed, “Lookin’ good, son! Maybe you’ll carry on the family ranch one day lookin’ like that!” he slapped his knee, getting a kick out of his own joke. He stepped over and patted Carson on the back, “I’m glad you like it,” he said so earnestly that a knot swelled up in Carson’s throat. He hated it but didn’t have the heart in the moment to say anything, so he just walked back inside looking like a misfit cowboy.

The room had quite a few comments when they reentered the den, and Carson tried to just suck it up and get through the day. He tried to take it off and stash it away during lunch, but after some devil eyes from his mother he put it back on. Strangely enough, it fit a little better that time. He left it on the rest of the day, nearly forgetting about it by the evening, reminded only by the grins and winks from Jack across the room. When getting ready for bed, he saw it still on in the mirror and laughed, he still looked ridiculous. He did, however, hang it neatly in his closet before passing out for the night.

When the next morning rolled around, the sunlight shone through the blinds and onto Carson’s face. He stretched and slowly opened his eyes, feeling less groggy than usual. Rolling over in bed, he reached towards his side table, feeling around for something. Not his phone, something else. After a couple seconds he came to his senses and got up, heading to the bathroom to shower. For a moment under the warm water he pondered what he had been reaching for in a fuzzy state, and couldn’t seem to place it. He grabbed some old jeans and a jacket from his closet and threw them on, before taking the cowboy hat off its hook and putting it on effortlessly, as if he’d been doing it for years. He barely registered the fact he’d put it on until walking downstairs and receiving a confused look from his mom. Carson wrote it off in his head as trying to be nice for his uncle who’d shown up again that day.

The day was another fairly standard family get together, with lots of eating and drinking involved of course. Carson felt like he was in a better mood today, talking with everyone came a little easier, and he was especially eager to chat with Jack more. They even sat in the sunroom and shared a beer that afternoon. Carson hated beer, or so he’d thought, but it seemed so natural to drink.

“I’m glad you like the hat, son,” Uncle Jack said whilst they were both sitting together. “You look like a natural in it, matches the scruff you’ve got growing real nice.”

Somewhere in Carson’s head, alarm bells suddenly started going off. Scruff? What did he mean by that? Carson excused himself briefly to use the restroom. He flipped the lights on and stared at himself in the mirror. Jack was right. Carson’s face was covered in a good few day’s worth of stubble. His jaw nearly dropped, he’d never been able to grow any facial hair, and now suddenly he nearly had a beard? His hand slowly raised up, feeling the coarse, bristly hairs that were poking out of his jaw. Brown stubble stretched from ear to ear, with a light mustache beginning to come in as well. Carson was floored, but a sensation of ease swept through him before he could panic.

Y’know, he actually looked pretty good with it. Jack was right about the hat too, it worked as a look. He could almost pass as someone who lived around these parts, if only looking at his head at least. Questions about how it’d happened faded, as it just felt natural to have the scruff. As his hand felt around his face he didn’t even register how hard he was getting. He looked better with stubble than without, he thought.

Carson returned to Uncle Jack in the sunroom acting like nothing had changed. This was how every holiday went, right? The two continued their banter, conversation slowly shifting away from Carson’s life in New York and towards Jack’s life on his ranch. In what felt like just minutes, the day flew by, and Carson’s mother was calling them in for dinner.

Unbeknownst to Carson, while he’d been sitting out with his beer, his body had been doing more than growing a little stubble. His slender legs began putting on some never before seen bulk, toned calves and bulky thighs emerged and pushed against his originally loose-fitting jeans. His feet grew sore as they expanded, stretching his shoes and socks tight as his size grew from a 10 to a 14. Small wispy hairs started to push out of his toes, just a few at first. The hairs spread over to the top of his feet, where the newly expansive room allowed the hairs to thicken, darken, and grow longer. Within minutes he had full hobbit feet, hairs pushing out between each other, poking through the fabric of his socks as they stretched thinner. The hairs moved upwards, swirling around his ankles and onto his calves, where skin quickly vanished beneath a tidal wave of hairs. Thick strands popped up rapidly, tangling together as they wrapped his lower legs in a blanket of fuzz before climbing up his knee, the joint itching slightly as hairs pushed out of any available skin. His now enormous quads were next, acting as the fertile ground for a bounty of hair to crop up, stretching solidly across and growing denser and thicker with every minute. Patterns emerged as hairs crawled along his skin, before vanishing as the hair thickened and puffed up, curling into an impenetrable mat.

Carson sat through dinner, entirely unaware of the goings-on beneath his jeans. He only noticed how much better a mood he was in today than yesterday, enjoying the time with family and not missing his own apartment and friends nearly as much. Talking with the family members began to feel less like catching up and more like regular conversations. After a long hearty meal, Carson excused himself to head to bed. He had an early morning planned with Jack, going out to his ranch to see it himself. It’d been many years after all, and Jack was eager to get Carson more invested in his business. 

Carson headed upstairs, getting ready to hit the sack; he was strangely exhausted after a day of not doing much. He took off the cowboy hat and nearly put it up in his closet, before correcting himself and placing it on his nightstand. He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his jeans which were overly tight at this point, revealing his fur coated legs. Carson didn’t bat an eye at them, he’d had hairy legs for years. He remembered getting teased at school when wearing shorts for how hairy they were! Of course he didn’t care anymore, he loved how hairy they were. He felt strong, more masculine with them exposed, slabs of muscle covered in coarse hair. Thick fur sticking out of his socks turned him on a bit, he realized that long ago, but he could also appreciate his huge hairy feet themselves. Before he could get too distracted he finished changing and hopped under the covers, setting an alarm for early the next morning.

The sun had not even begun to rise yet when Carson’s alarm blared. Waking up at this hour used to be reserved only for the worst timed flights, but this time he didn’t mind. He rolled over in bed, reaching for his side table once again, this time finding the hat he’d left. His body felt at ease as he put it on first thing. He threw on some jeans, making sure they fit better this time, a shirt and thick jacket. Before leaving he put on some decent snow boots and quietly left the house. 

Jack was waiting for him at the end of the driveway, truck and all. The exhaust was steaming in the bitter cold morning. Carson hopped into the passenger seat, fully energized.

“Mornin’ son, ready for this?” Jack asked.

“Damn right I am,” Carson responded eagerly, “It’s been far too long.”

The drive out to Jack’s ranch took over half an hour. The sun had started to peak above the horizon when they pulled through the gates and over the cattle grid. Jack parked up by his house, and the two hopped out into the snow and mud. Jack spent the morning showing Carson around the ranch, introducing him to the cattle, and showing him all his gear he’d invested in. A small part of Carson was shocked that he was here, enjoying the ranch tour. A week ago you couldn’t pay him to visit the ranch. Now, he was just plain excited. 

Trudging through the snow had Carson really working up a sweat underneath his layers. Getting a workout like never before, his body started to adapt. His chest tingled as pecs began to form for the first time, muscle gathering and pushing out two firm mounds. His cock throbbed in his jeans as his nipples perked up, rubbing against the material of his shirt as he moved. His stomach gurgled as abs inflated down his torso, imprinting their outline on his slim but growing frame. His shoulders stretched his jacket as they widened, bulking up as muscle worked its way down his arms. Biceps and triceps inflated, filling him with new strength, and his forearms and hands grew to match. If Carson had been paying attention he might’ve noticed the warmth and sensation coming from his chest, but he was too enamored with his uncle showing off his old rodeo gear.

Underneath his flannel shirt, between his new pec muscles, hairs began to pop up. At first they were short and wispy, barely visible against his skin. They clustered in the center of his chest as a light patch of fuzz, followed shortly by similar hairs poking out around his nipples. His skin prickled as the hairs grew thicker, follicles maturing to push out real adult hairs. The patch of hair darkened as it spread, hairs pushing out longer and thicker, laying flat against his muscular chest at first before they curled away, pushing out against his shirt. The sensation of thick hair rubbing against the fabric sent chills through Carson’s body, but he simply chalked it up to the frigid air outside. But beneath his layers of protection against the cold, he continued to grow his own. Hairs blossomed across his pecs as they surged out from his nipples. Swirls and spirals developed as the hairs slithered out across the mounds of muscle, slowly curling and tangling together as they lengthened. Skin vanishes beneath whorls of hair as his follicles activate in hoards across his chest. The distinct patches of hair blend together, uniting his pecs under a blanket of ever thickening fur. Hairs continue pushing out further up his chest as well, climbing up and over his defined collarbone. A lone dark hair curled bravely out of the collar of his shirt, tasting the frosty air for the first time.

Jack spied Carson’s burgeoning chest hair as it poked out of his shirt collar and couldn’t help but grin. He knew he’d given the hat for good reason.

“C’mon boy, I need your help moving some gear for today,” he barked at Carson, who quickly pulled himself out of the corner full of rodeo trophies.

“Yessir,” he responded. Another grin from Jack.

The two spent the next few hours moving hay and feed from storage as the sun attempted to break through the thick winter clouds. Carson was initially surprised at how much he could carry, but memories trickled in of years of weightlifting. Of course a little manual labor was no big deal. His biceps began to swell again, even more muscle growing in the span of minutes. His shoulders became true boulders, delts stretching and pulling as they created an increasingly dark and damp recess beneath. Despite the cold air, he was working up a real sweat for the first time in years, liquid dripping down his increasingly large muscles and pooling in his pits. The thick sweat soaked into his armpits as he worked, leaving a musky residue on his skin and a tingling sensation bubbling up underneath. 

His barren pits darkened as prickles of hair erupted from the smooth skin. Dark pinpricks elongated into wispy hairs, brushing up against his cavernous muscles as they pushed outwards. The hairs twisted together, thickening as sweat flowed down their ever increasing length. Carson lifted a particularly heavy bundle of hay, hairs squeezing out further as he grunted, exerting his whole body in the effort. If he’d been paying attention he could’ve noticed that each movement of his arms came with more friction as hair filled the space between arm and torso. Sweat and musk filled the dark caverns between muscles as hair inched out every moment, vying to fill every open pocket. Dark hairs grew thicker, wirier, tangling together as they kinked and curled outwards. The hair spread outwards, crawling out from the recess and curling around his biceps and chest as pit hair blended into a growing mat coating his torso entirely. The deepest crevices began to truly reek as sweat coalesced, the hairs bathed in testosterone laden juice taking on an even thicker texture. More hairs poked out between the old ones, barely able to fit as the jungle filled out. His biceps swelled more as hairs brushed against the fabric of his jacket, fully pushing out of his shirt and beyond.

After what felt like an eternity of heavy lifting the pair finally finished, pausing their labor for lunch. Carson felt the icy contrast of sweat dripping down his forehead and freezing from the cold blasts of wind, but instead of groaning about it he grinned. He felt truly alive working hard like this. Jack saw the look on Carson’s face and mirrored it on his own. As the two headed inside to eat, they shed their heavy layers by the door. Just in a few hours, Jack could see how much Carson had bulked up. His flannel was bursting at the seams, thick hairs splaying out of his collar and creeping out of his sleeves.

“Looks like you’ve been hitting the gym, boy,” Jack said, giving Carson a look up and down. “Why don’t you flex and show me?”

Carson paused. The old him would’ve been mortified. Flexing in front of his uncle? And what did he mean by that anyway, he’s been slim his entire life. But that side of Carson had taken a back seat. A smile crossed his face instead.

“Sure have, glad you noticed,” he said, curling his arms up. His newly developed biceps pressed against his shirt, straining the fabric instantly. The threads pulled apart as thick hairs popped out, his shirt giving way to his overly masculine form. His pecs swelled in size once more, popping the top button completely off the flannel. His chest barreled out, hair pouring from between each side of the shirt. His stature had shifted too, growing a few inches taller. The shirt rode up on his torso now, revealing his still hairless stomach. His body shivered slightly as the wispy translucent fuzz acting as a treasure trail caught the chilly draft from outside.

Jack laughed. “We’ll have to get you a new shirt there. Looking good though, son,” he said with a wink. He walked over to the closet and pulled out an old work shirt that he thought would fit Carson and tossed it to him. “Go try this on and I’ll throw some lunch together for us.” 

Carson took the shirt into the bathroom, struggling to take off his old flannel from how tightly it clung to his form now. He eventually got it off, letting it slide off his bulky shoulders and onto the floor. He looked at himself in the mirror, seeing a very different man from the one he’d woken up as that morning. The man in the mirror should have been a stranger, but the longer he stared the more familiar he became. As he gazed over his body, the shadow formed by the overhang of his new pecs darkened as wiry hairs erupted across his torso. As the forest on his chest grew denser, the southern front pushed out, a trail of thick dark hairs pushing out on a mission towards his navel. His newly visible abs were hidden behind a growing carpet of hair that stretched out from the thick trail. He should’ve been alarmed, terrified at the changes taking place across his body, but no such thought even crossed his mind. His old body was being overwritten by his new one, he’d always looked like this, it felt natural. 

He undid his belt and jeans to take a piss while he was waiting for lunch, sliding his sweat soaked underwear down out the way. Looking down at his crotch, memories flooded in. He remembered the panic when he was younger and saw the first dark curls poking out from his body. He’d grown a rug long before any of his friends, and he’d remained ahead of the pack in that sense ever since.. He chuckled to himself, imagining if his younger self could see him now. As if manifesting it, the wispy cluster of hairs above his cock began to darken. Pigment flooded them as they thickened up, curling with texture they’d never had before. His groin warmed as testosterone flooded the area, follicles waking to the call long awaited. Dark spots appeared across his crotch, radiating out from the existing hairs, creating a spreading shadow that began to take shape. Each pinprick pushed out a thick, dark hair, strands emerging from the skin like a field in bloom.

Carson slid his hand over the growing bush, nascent hairs tickling his fingers as they twisted and curled. The forest of hairs grew and spread, filling out his crotch with a full triangle of hair, growing denser beneath his touch. Like a timelapse the hairs grew longer and thicker, blocking out the skin beneath as his bush developed into a true jungle. The edges blurred as hairs climbed onto his thighs and crawled up his stomach, merging seamlessly with the coating of hair over his abdomen. He’d long since finished peeing but had gotten distracted feeling the growing hairs. Another memory of his new life appeared in his mind, from the locker room in school, the first time another guy had pointed out his pubes. They’d grown so much the hairs had curled up and over his waistband, a sign of his newfound manliness on display. 

As he reminisced, his bush puffed up to match, hairs exploding outwards from his groin. His cock twitched as it snaked out longer, hairs beginning to climb up the base of the shaft. The sensation of coarse hairs brushing through his fingers quickly aroused him, blood rushing to his cock as it grew. His hand transitioned from pulling at the hairs to fully gripping his cock as it hardened, the newly grown short hairs prickling against his grasp. He looked up at his reflection again, seeing the hairy, built man still rocking the cowboy hat. It felt right. 

He stroked his hand up his shaft, sending waves of pleasure rocketing through his body. In that instant, his balls truly dropped. Carson involuntarily moaned as his balls swelled in size, engorging to the size of large eggs dangling below his furry crotch. The wrinkly skin looked odd in comparison, until the hair began to make its way down. His enormous testicles quickly vanished as thick wiry hairs sprouted from his sack, engulfing it in an impenetrable cage of dark hair. It was as if his pubes had reached down to claim them, coating the expanse in a continuation of the thick jungle above. His hand jerked quickly up and down, precum budding at the tip of his cock as hair thickened all around it.

“Food’s ready!” Uncle Jack’s voice called from the kitchen, falling on deaf ears. Carson was lost in himself as his groin felt like the center of the universe. His breath quickened as his hand increased its tempo. His cock thickened, pressing out against his tight grip as he jerked off, precum dripping down his shaft. The sensation of hair pushing out across his groin was electric, it felt masculine, it felt primal, it felt natural. His cock pushed out longer, growing past seven, then eight inches as he brought in his other hand to help. The hairs on his shaft lengthened as well, climbing higher and higher up his member as he stroked. Carson moaned again, not noticing how his pitch had deepened since he’d started growing. 

Jack knocked on the door to the bathroom, but Carson once again failed to notice. His breaths grew ragged, cock reaching past nine inches as his pubes glistened with the precum constantly leaking from his tip. His massive balls tensed up, ready to release. Strokes grew sloppy as precum lubricated his shaft entirely, until finally his body gave in. With a body enrapturing clench his cock erupted, cum blasting out all over the mirror in front of him. Load after load shot out, covering the glass and counter as the arc of his shooting changed. The loudest moan yet involuntarily slipped out as Carson was overcome with the most intense orgasm of his life. The last remnants of his old memories leaked out with the last dribbles of his cum, splattering onto the tile beneath him. His body buzzed with energy as the feeling echoed throughout his frame. Through the cum painting the mirror he could see part of his face reflected, a grin plastered across his face as he felt content.

Eventually the orgasmic state began to wear off, and Carson remembered that he was late for lunch. He quickly pulled his pants back up and buckled his belt, his uncle’s shirt fitting perfectly on his newly bulky frame. Promising to clean up his mess later, he walked back into the kitchen unsure if Jack had heard his moans from earlier, but he also didn’t truly care. Jack had a smirk plastered on his face when Carson entered, which told him everything. 

“Lookin’ sharp, buck,” Jack said upon looking at how his old shirt fit on the young man. “Now, I made us some sandwiches, dig in.”

Carson sat down and began scarfing down the sandwich. It was a messy meal, but once again he didn’t seem to care much, this wasn’t a fine dining restaurant. Sauce leaked all over his face as he crammed the food down, he was absolutely starving after hours of hard work. Jack looked up over his own lunch, staring intently at his nephew’s face as he ate. From beneath the smear of mayo, the light stubble began to thicken. Starting on his upper lip, the soft skin prickled as stubble darkened into a thick shadow. The hairs slowly pushed out, a thick mop emerging from his face as a true man’s stache came into being. A dark, dense wave of hair flowed out of his lip, growing longer as it curled down, completely covering his mouth. Jack couldn’t help but crack a smile, remembering his own youth when he’d had a thick stache for years. 

Carson’s face itched as his jaw widened, bones defining and growing into a sharp jawline. The hairs from his stache began to trickle down the sides of his mouth, a dense five o'clock shadow developing, spreading from his mouth out over his cheeks. Within moments, his face was awash with a thick stubble, more than anything he’d ever grown before. The stubble lengthened, hairs pressing out of his face in a continuous layer. His cheeks vanished beneath an extruding layer of hair, growing thicker and coarser as follicles became drenched in testosterone. Stubble turned to short beard as his sideburns flared out, connecting up to his ever darkening hair on his head. His new jawline disappeared beneath the onslaught of wiry hairs, pushing longer and longer as his beard inched out from his face. The hairs grew thick, dense, and dark as his beard continued to grow, stubble crawling up his cheeks and down his neck, threatening to merge with his chest rug. By the time Carson had finished eating, he had a bushy beard to rival most cowboys, dark and impenetrable. It was a clear and solid silhouette of hair, oozing masculinity as he wiped the last of his sandwich from his mature mustache.

The two cleaned up lunch and quickly got back to work. The sun hung fairly low in the sky despite it being midday, the harsh rays bouncing off the snow. Carson’s originally bulky winter jacket fit snugly now, wrapping his built form as he worked clearing snow and ice. Despite memories of working hard at the gym and even harder at the ranch slowly filling his mind, the labor never seemed to get easier. Within minutes he was sweating his ass off once again, feeling frostbite on his face and like he was in a sauna under his coat. He could feel the sweat running down his broad, muscular back as he heaved the shovel back and forth. 

Where his sweat trickled down his spine, small hairs began to bud. Starting from his already furry shoulders, hair cropped up moving down towards his shoulder blades, where patches of dark fur quickly began forming. Dark hairs traced down his spine as smooth skin ceded to the hair, thick strands popping up across rapidly roughening flesh. His lats hardened as curly hairs framed them before fully covering the expanse of muscle, connecting into the thick trail leading down his spine towards a burgeoning puff of hair above his ass. The hairs at the base of his back billowed out, growing thicker and curlier than the rest, mirroring the monstrous bush in his groin. The hairs quickly breached south of this patch, engulfing what was once a smooth backside in record pace. His ass itched as fields of dark hairs cropped up, swirling together over the plump expanse. He reached a hand back to scratch at it as the hairs began to concentrate between his cheeks, darker and thicker hairs sprouting as his crack grew sweaty and rank. Inky black hairs pushed out from around his hole as it steadily grew tighter and more sensitive, feeling the brushing and scratching of the thick coils surrounding it. His upper body was sealed beneath a thick layer of fur, stretching from ass to beard and back, insulating him against the frigid cold.

After another couple hours of gruelling work he’d finally hit his limit for the day, and both him and Jack called it quits. Jack lit a fire in the fireplace and poured them both a cold beer to enjoy.

“Cheers to an honest day's work, son,” he said, raising his glass. “You know, that hat really does fit you, I’m glad you took to it so well.”

Carson was beaming. He felt incredible, despite being exhausted. He was stronger, more rugged, more confident than ever before. He tipped the cowboy hat to his uncle in thanks.

“Couldn’t have done it without ya, uncle Jack.” Carson smiled, barely visible beneath his thick beard. He undid the top buttons of his shirt, letting his newly hairy chest breathe. He’d always been a hairy guy, it was just natural to finally embrace it. It fit his life, a down to earth ranch worker. He couldn’t imagine himself doing anything else.

Jack looked over at Carson with a smile on his face. “Y’know, son, think it's high time I truly give you a stake in this ranch, you’ve earned it.” He said as he took another swig of his beer. “I want to pass this all on to you, y’know.”

A huge smile crossed Carson’s face. He’d been hoping to hear that for years, ever since starting to help out around the ranch as a teenager. This was the future he’d been waiting for. Not in the city, but on his own ranch. He couldn’t imagine his old life anymore, who in their right mind would want to leave all this for some big city. He’d been born and bred for this life, finally becoming the cowboy he’d been destined to, and Uncle Jack couldn’t be happier.

/Ftm tf, muscle growth, masculinization

Charlee was so tired of August. The two had been best friends since what felt like birth, but the two had grown to be completely different people. Charlee was a gorgeous girl, 5'4", beautiful blonde hair, pale skin, athletic. August on the other hand had grown to be a nerdy slob, overweight, and not very attractive. Charlee felt weighed down by him, but she loved him genuinely. They had been through hell together and they continued to do so.

23 year-old Barry Allen looked across the street at the office building of HIMBO, a lifestyle & fashion magazine targeted at gay men, and the site of his job interview. After graduating last May, Barry has tried for months to find a communications job with no luck, until he saw HIMBO’s advertisement for an entry-level social media position. The pay was unbelievably good, and they reached out to him about applying which made the whole situation seem very promising. He was a little uncomfortable about the idea of working at a gay magazine. I don’t have any issue with gay people, Barry thought, I just don’t understand a lot of the culture and I’m not really trying to. Still, the job was too good to pass up without at least interviewing.

Barry walked into the lobby of the building and was directed on how to reach the HIMBO’s offices. Stepping into the elevator, Barry thought about how sharply dressed everyone in the building was. It made him feel a little unprofessional, in his blazer, checkered shirt, and jeans. But the email had told him to dress “Appropriately for his position,” so he dressed the way he knew modern social media teams did.

As the elevator opened, Barry was greeted by the bright offices of HIMBO. The personnel working there (all male, he noticed) were dressed in a mixture of ridiculously eccentric business wear, speedos and harnesses, club outfits, other other bizarre fashions. “I’m guessing those are models?” Barry wondered, before walking over to a desk attended by a swishy receptionist.

The twinkish secretary looked up at Barry, and his eyes widened in excitement. “You must be the new applicant!” He exclaimed, jumping up out of his seat. “Oh, you’re perfect! He always knows the right people to pick. Well knock on wood, but I’m excited to work with you!” Then in a swift motion, the man darted around the desk and grabbed Barry by the hand. “Here, I can take you to him! He’s been waiting for you. I’m James, by the way! I work the desk!” And with that, Barry found himself being dragged along through the HIMBO offices.

“Uh, I have a question. Who is ‘he’?” Barry called along as he tried to keep pace with the fast-paced James.

“Christian Le Maître, the Editor in Chief! He’s brilliant. He does all the interviews and hiring himself. He’s the one who reached out to you.”

Wow, he picked me out himself, Barry thought, I must really be promising.

Barry spoke up “That’s pretty cool, to have a boss that cares that much.”

James nodded enthusiastically “Oh yes, he cares for us all so much! We’re all his boys here.”

Looking past the odd use of “boys”, Barry continued “I’m, uh, applying for a social media position.”

“Oh okay, interesting,” James said with less enthusiasm than usual, “He’ll sometimes try to figure out a different position for you during the interview. Just go along with what he says. I promise he has your best interests at heart.”

Before Barry could ask what that meant, James came to a sudden stop in front of a large heavy door. He knocked on it several times, before a deep muffled voice called out “Send him in” from behind the door.

James turned around, grinning ear to ear “Okay, best of luck! Remember: you’re gonna fit in here.” With that, he pranced back down the hallway, leaving Barry alone in front of the door.

He took a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing,” he thought, and opened the door.

Walking into the office, Barry looked behind the desk and saw one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen.

His face was rugged and handsome, with insatiably curious eyes, perfect white teeth, and a beard that was just the right amount of stubble. His hair was parted with gel into a professional, clean, and gorgeous haircut. His toned muscles perfectly filled out his expensive looking business clothes: a light blue silk dress shirt, grey pinstripe pants, suspenders hung over his shoulders and pressed out by his chest, gorgeous-smelling black leather dress shoes, and a sterling silver watch. He was an absolute alpha male, so perfectly handsome and successful that Barry couldn’t help but feel awe, jealousy, and a hint of... lust?

The man looked at Barry and smiled a perfect smile. “Barry, is it? I’m Christian La Maître, but everyone around here just calls me Mr. M.” The man stood up, revealing his daunting 6’4 frame, and extended a muscular hand to Barry

Jesus, his voice is intoxicating, Barry swooned. It was so smoothly deep and inviting. With just the few words Barry already felt like he could listen to the man for hours. He reached out and took hold of Mr. M’s hand for an extremely firm handshake. As their hand touched, Barry felt a jolt, and found himself unable to take his eyes off the powerful man before him. And more importantly, he had no desire to move his eyes away.

Mr. M sat back down again. “So Barry, tell me about yourself. College graduate?”

“Uh, yes. Digital Communications maj-“

“Have you ever read HIMBO before?” Mr. M cut Barry off.

“No, sir” Barry said, neither objecting to being interrupted, nor noticing the “sir” he just said.

“Are you gay?” Mr. M examined Barry’s body up and down, never making eye contact.

“No, sir. I’m straight.” He paused “Is that okay?”

Mr. M let out a hearty laugh, and Barry found himself laughing along with the man too. It just felt right. This brilliant, perfect businessman that Barry was lucky enough to be in the presence of, anything he did had to be right.

“Ahhh, Barry. You’re a fun kid. Now unfortunately, that social media position was filled earlier this morning by another applicant. But I would be a fool not to bring you into the HIMBO team, Barry!” This filled Barry with joy. The approval of Mr. M felt so good.

“Now if I think about it...” Mr. M paused for a few moments, giving Barry another thorough looking over, “I think we have an opening in the accounting department.”

“Yes! I accept!” Barry shouted out. He didn’t even care that it was a totally different position than he had come here for, nor did he care that he had zero accounting experience. If Mr. M said he would be a good accountant, then Barry had to be the best accountant for his boss.

The man chuckled again. “There’s just a little on boarding we’d have to do to get you ready for the position. Beginning with dress code, for starters.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes, sir?” Barry asked eagerly. He would do anything for this man, who was offering him a coveted job at HIMBO magazine. Barry would change anything about himself.

“Well, you just dress so... cool. I mean look at that outfit! You are a hip young man who is ready for a good night out. And I love that for you, but I think a good accountant would dress a bit... sharper.”

The “sharper” bounced around in Barry’s head. Visions of men in suits and ties flooded his mind. He began to feel attracted to the idea of being a finely dressed man. In fact, he couldn’t imagine ever dressing down, not even in his free time. As Barry listened to Mr. M’s words, his plaid shirt rippled into a crisp white dress shirt. It tucked itself into his jeans.

“A good smart accountant would look his best at all times.”

Barry’s jeans turned into tight fitting grey dress pants, and a brown leather belt cinched itself firmly around his waist. His casual wool blazer morphed into a clean grey suit jacket matching his pants. Underneath, a gray sweater materialized and hugged itself to Barry’s slimming build.

“A good, clean-cut accountant.”

Barry felt his feet shift as his shoes changed into well-polished brown leather dress shoes, with wing tips. His socked changed to clean white socks, and inside his pants he felt briefs take form around his shrinking manhood.

“A good, nerdy accountant.”

A red bow tie wrapped itself around Barry’s neck and tied itself into a perfect knot. Large round glasses popped up on Barry’s face, which he knew he needed to wear every day. Barry’s hair ruffled as if wind was blowing through it, before settling in a clean side part, well-combed and maintained.

Barry stood before the incredibly powerful man before him looking totally different. Just 10 minutes ago Barry had dressed like any college graduate, but now looked as if he wore a suit every day of the week. But as for Barry himself, he had never felt better. As his clothes changed, Barry’s thoughts realized how right this felt. Barry now perfectly remembered his 2 hour morning dress routine. He knew exactly how much pomade to use to achieve the perfect side part, he remembered tying bow ties for six years now. His home wardrobe, all of it, had been replaced with suits, sweaters, shirts, dress shoes, and bow ties of every material, pattern, and color imagineable. This was the way he had dressed ever since he got to college and felt he could express himself truly. The truth was Barry loved the feel of a suit. The cleanness and dignity were an intoxicating feeling, and he couldn’t imagine himself in anything else.

Mr. M smiled a big smile. “There we go, an absolute perfect fit for our accountant opening. Welcome to the HIMBO team, Barry. Or should I say Bartholomew.”

That was right. Bartholomew Pippin, and he couldn’t be happier. He was a timid, nerdy kind of guy, sure, but he felt on top of the world. Bartholomew was an avid HIMBO reader for its good guides on men’s formalwear (and also so he could jerk off to the photos of shirtless guys), so to work at the magazine he loved, doing the job he loved (accounting) was a dream come true.

Mr. M stood up and walked over to Bartholomew, getting extremely close to him. “There’s just one last step in the hiring process...”

Barty shook a bit as he looked up at the domineering man before him. Mr. M was a tall man to begin with, but at his new height Bartholomew was 5’9, and the taller man encompassed him.

“I seal all my contracts... with a kiss.”

Barry’s knees quivered. He had realized he was gay at a young age, but aside from a few “almosts” in college, he had never gone farther than holding hands. Bartholomew had always reasoned that he would meet the right one eventually... and looking up at this man, Barty knew he had found it. Mr. M was all Barty would ever need. This man would control his work life and his sex life, dictating when Barty could pleasure himself, when he could come, and when he got the ultimate privilege of spending the night with Mr. M.

Bartholomew wrinkled his note and nodded eagerly “Of course, sir. I would be honored to kiss you.

As Barty stood on his tip toes to kiss his new boss - god, his lips were smooth and perfect - Barty felt all his changes lock into place. This is who he was. Bartholomew Pippin, mild-mannered accountant of HIMBO magazine, and one of Christian La Maître’s very good boys.

The two parted, and Mr. M gave Bartholomew another killer smile. “Bartholomew, I can already tell you’re gonna fit in here perfectly. And as a signing bonus, how about you stop by my place tonight. 7 PM sharp.”

“Oh thank you so much, Mr. M! I’ll be there at 6:45, I promise.”

The old wooden sign reading “Blackthorn Lake House” still hung crookedly from the rusted iron post at the end of the long gravel driveway, half-hidden by overgrown ivy. Joey’s truck rattled over the familiar potholes as the two men drove in silence for the last stretch. It was late May, the air thick with the scent of pine, damp earth, and blooming wildflowers. Duncan stared out the passenger window, one elbow resting on the door, his expression unreadable.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” Joey finally said, breaking the quiet. “Coming back here after all these years.”

Duncan nodded slowly. “Fifteen years. I still remember the last summer we spent here like it was yesterday. Mum cried for weeks after we left. She couldn’t even look at the place again.”

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…