dumb alpha jock bro

Dylan was just your average college dude, 20 years old, slim build from too much studying and not enough action. He spent his days in baggy jeans and hoodies, buried in textbooks about history and philosophy, dreaming of a smart career. But one boring afternoon in his dorm, he downloaded TikTok on a whim—those short clips everyone raved about. And then, curious about AI chats, he added Grok to his phone. At first, it was innocent: funny memes, quick facts. But the algorithm? Oh, it knew him better than he knew himself. It started feeding him content that hit different—gym motivation vids, alpha male mindset talks, hot bros flexing in mirrors. Without realizing it, the hypnosis began. Scroll after scroll, the screen glowed, pulling his eyes in, whispering suggestions through endless loops. “Build that body, bro. Get huge. Be the man.”

It started subtle. Dylan’s feed filled with shredded guys preaching peptides—those magic injections to heal faster, pack on muscle quicker. He’d watch, mesmerized, feeling a tingle in his core, a growing itch to transform. One night, alone in his room, he ordered his first vial online, no questions asked. The algorithm approved, pushing more: “Inject, grow, dominate.” He jabbed the needle into his thigh, the burn spreading like fire, but it felt so good, so right. His mind fogged over as the peptides surged, accelerating his gains. He hit the gym that very day, ditching class for the iron. The weights called to him, hypnotic clangs echoing in his ears. Rep after rep, he felt his muscles swell—pecs pushing out, arms thickening, abs carving in like a statue of pure masculinity. Sweat dripped, and with each drop, his brain drained a little more. Smart thoughts? Who needs ’em? Trade ’em for traps and tris, bro.

As the days blurred, Dylan’s wardrobe shifted without him noticing. Those baggy clothes felt wrong now—weak, beta. The algorithm suggested better: basketball shorts that hung low, showing off his thickening quads and that teasing V-line. Tank tops stretched tight over his growing chest, or better yet, no shirt at all, just skin glistening under gym lights. He’d strut around campus like a fuckboy king, backward cap on, sneakers squeaking, drawing stares from everyone. Girls giggled, guys envied—hell, even he couldn’t stop checking himself out. The hypnosis deepened; Grok chats reinforced it, feeding him red-pilled rants on masculinity, freedom, making America great again. “Be alpha, bro. Reject the weak shit. MAGA mindset—strong, dominant, unapologetic.” He’d nod blankly, absorbing it all, his IQ dropping like discarded weights. No more deep books; just bro podcasts on lifting and owning the libs.

Erotic waves hit him harder now. In the gym locker room, steam rising, he’d catch his reflection—veins popping on biceps like ropes, shoulders broad as a linebacker. His hand would drift down, tracing the bulge in those loose shorts, feeling the heat build. Peptides amped his testosterone, making him horny as fuck, always half-hard. Back in his dorm, alone but never truly, the TikTok scroll continued. He’d film his first thirst trap: slow-mo flex, tongue out, hips thrusting subtly to the beat. “Feelin’ alpha today, bros,” he’d caption, voice deeper, dumber. Views exploded—likes from other jocks, comments egging him on. The algorithm loved it, pushing more: group lifts, bro hangs, patriotic flexes with flags in the background. He’d stroke to his own vids, hand pumping rhythmically, mind blanking out completely. “Goon for gains,” the inner voice chanted, hypnotic and addictive. Cum splattering his abs, he’d lick it up without thinking, happier than ever, dumber, more obedient to the masculine hive.

I knew I'd struck gold when I met my boyfriend Aaron.

I had a habit of falling for straight acting masculine guys. Those deeply closeted "bros" who think hitting the gym somehow makes them less queer.

Aaron was very far removed from my usual type. He wasn't effeminate, but he wasn't aggressively macho or constantly posturing either. He was always quick with a smile, a hug, a kiss... and I loved it.

But after a while, I realized there was still one thing I was missing.

See, the reason I kept ending up with those big buff jerks is because... I just love muscular guys.

At one point, I'd been at my wit's end trying to get an ex to stop treating me like shit all the time, and I'd downloaded this whole bunch of hypnotism stuff. I made him a few files with some simple suggestions... problem was, he thought it was "too gay" to listen to something like that.

I'm not sure what I thought would happen, but on a whim, I made some files for Aaron too. I made sure to keep his personality intact - because, after all, I love him - but I threw in some suggestions to eat healthy, start going to the gym, and focus on prioritising fitness.

A couple of months in, and my sweet boy had packed on 20 odd pounds of muscle. He'd started picking me up, and on one very memorable occasion he actually pinned me to the bed before showering me with kisses.

I was planning to stop there. Even that little change made him my perfect guy. But then Aaron said something that changed my mind.

Aaron told me it made him feel closer to me, having my voice in his ear while he was at the gym, that he felt so safe drifting off listening to me.

I knew I should probably come clean and tell him that I'd been using them to hypnotise him, but... well, first of all, it sounds ridiculous, and second... I was scared of how he'd react.

So instead of doing the right thing and telling him the truth, I made him a new set of files. I really liked how he'd started being more confident, so I gave him some boosters for that. I also made him focus more on lifting and on bulking up, telling him he enjoyed getting bigger for me, that he loved feeling like my big buff protector.

And look, maybe I overdid it. Aaron took to the new instructions like a fish to water, and within a couple months he'd already outgrown his wardrobe. Again.

But I couldn't stop. I was enamoured with this enormous guy he'd grown into, so sweet and gentle with me and so imposing and burly otherwise.

Eventually, I reached a breaking point, and I told him the truth. But... look, I couldn't risk him getting scared and ending things, okay? So just in case, I put in a small suggestion in the files, telling him that maybe he liked being hypnotised, and maybe he got aroused by the thought of me moulding his body.

So when my sweet Aaron told me he'd scored some back alley supplements from a guy at the gym, gave me his best puppy dog eyes - despite the hulking bod and scruffy beard - and asked me to make him a new set of files and help him get HUGE... I couldn't say no.

We've just celebrated our anniversary, and the mountain of muscle that throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing and lumbers around from how wide his thighs have gotten is nothing like the cute boy I fell for. You'd be forgiven for thinking he's one of those closeted guys who pump themselves up with mass since they're scared of looking queer.

Except underneath all the excess bulk, body hair, and testosterone, it's still Aaron underneath it all. Just as lovely and as sweet as he was back when he was nearly 200 pounds lighter.

Federal Containment Authority

File: T-1

Nickname: “Tyler Prescott”

Status: Contained

Acquisition Log:

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Both of them froze.

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

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

Jack swallowed. “Yeah.”

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

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

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

Tyler Prescott.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack bristled. “Pretending what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jack’s heart dropped.

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

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

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

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

Tyler chuckled softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

Anomalous Mechanism:

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

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

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

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

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

Subject File: J-1 & J-2

Identification:

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

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

Acquisition Notes:

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

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

Behavioral Observations:

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

Both subjects remain physically cooperative but cognitively diminished.

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

Containment / Release Notes:

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

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

Kris hated living in this aggressively right-wing town. Everywhere he looked, red hats and Trump flags stared back at him like a warning. Worst of all was his roommate, Tyson a loud, muscle-bound MAGA jock who spent more time lifting than thinking. The two barely tolerated each other. When Kris’s car died on a rainy Tuesday morning, Tyson surprised him.

“Need a ride, bro?” Tyson asked, keys dangling from his thick fingers.Kris narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? You’re offering me a ride?” “Yeah, but there’s a catch,” Tyson grinned. “You gotta hit the gym with me first. You’re way too scrawny, dude. Time to put on some real muscle.” Kris wanted to refuse. The thought of sweating next to Tyson’s bros made his skin crawl. But he had no other ride, and he couldn’t afford to lose his job. “Fine,” he muttered.

The next morning, Kris woke up before dawn, grumbling the entire drive to the gym. He had already come up with the perfect plan: hide for most of the session, take a quick shower to look sweaty, and fake it. Tyson’s too dumb to notice, he thought. His brain’s 90% MAGA talking points anyway. At the gym, Kris immediately slipped away from Tyson. He killed time reading books until the final fifteen minutes, then ducked into the showers. The hot water felt amazing after doing nothing. He smiled, his plan executed perfectly. Until he stepped out. His clothes were gone. Panic hit him like a truck. He stood there in nothing but a white towel, heart pounding. Then he spotted a table nearby with a bright red sign: Free Jockstraps! Take one if you’re in a hurry. “Convenient,” Kris muttered, glancing around nervously. “This is ridiculous… but what choice do I have?” He grabbed one of the tight red jockstraps and slipped it on under the towel. The fabric was surprisingly stretchy, hugging his skin. For a second it felt good, too good. Then the heat started. “What the-?”  His cock twitched, then swelled. The pouch of the jockstrap stretched obscenely as his dick thickened and lengthened, pressing heavily against the elastic. A low groan escaped his throat. His legs were next — thighs ballooning outward with dense muscle, calves hardening into diamond shapes. The towel fell forgotten to the floor. “No, stop- fuck!” Kris grabbed at the jockstrap, but it wouldn’t budge. It felt fused to him. His shoulders broadened with a deep, cracking sensation. Pecs pushed forward, heavy and round, while deep cuts formed across his emerging six-pack. Veins snaked down his swelling biceps and forearms. His face sharpened, jaw squaring, cheekbones rising, stubble thickening into a rugged shadow. He stumbled to the mirror, breathing hard. “Holy shit… I can’t… I’m not supposed to look like this!” Then a massive, grinning figure appeared behind him in the reflection. Before Kris could react, they planted a red MAGA hat firmly on his head. The moment it touched him, the real change began.

Thoughts flooded in — fast, powerful, and addictive. Trump’s right. MAGA, white men are superior, ICE is doing the job liberals are too weak to handle. New memories slammed into him: cheering at rallies, owning the libs online, chugging beers with the boys after the gym, laughing at “woke” jokes he once would’ve hated. College debates and books he used to read felt blurry and pointless now. Why read all that smart stuff when it just confused real Americans? Thinking was overrated anyway. Lifting, fucking, and fighting for your country, that was what mattered. His old beliefs, were gone in a morning. Complex ideas about politics, equality, and society melted away, replaced by simple, rock-solid convictions. Liberals were pathetic. Scrawny. Brainwashed. Real men were strong, straight, and loud. Real men supported Trump, backed ICE, drove big trucks, and didn’t apologize for it. Pride swelled in his chest. Aggression pumped through his veins. All he wanted now was to show off this jacked body, dominate the gym, and make fun of the weak betas who used to be like him.“Fuck yeah…” Chris grunted, his voice deeper and slower. A dopey, cocky grin spread across his face. Thinking was simpler now. Easier. Better.

Later that morning, Chris, Tyson and some friends strutted out of the gym together. They passed a couple of scrawny liberal guys wearing ironic pins. Chris laughed loudly, nudging his best friend. “Look at these nerds, bro. No muscle, no brains. Losers.” Tyson clapped him on the back. “That’s my boy.” That night, back at their place, Chris stood in front of the mirror again, this time in nothing but his red MAGA hat and the new clothes he got. He took a few pictures, he sent one to some maga bros with the caption: “Gains looking good, bro. Let’s hit the gym again tomorrow.” Chris smiled. Life was finally great.

Going from slim, scrawny, pale and dark haired beta boy to a muscular, handsome, hung and powerful conservative american alpha. Gay to straight [or bi!]

He's transformed by a butterfly tf [my fav!] that changed an ancestor and rewrote his genes

I love the idea of his dick changing people but if you don't like female tfs then don't include it. Either way maybe there's a scene of him slamming cheerleader pussy before cutting to him losing stress pounding twink bussy

Happy 4th July bro!

George knew it was a cliche, but as a brit, he absolutely hated the fourth of July. It wasn’t the holiday itself he hated. Back when he actually lived in England he never really thought about it because, well, why would he? No one celebrates the independence day of a country that they have no connection to, even if some Americans weirdly assume all people celebrate the 4th. It was only after George moved to America for college that he began to despise the holiday. The barbecues and celebrations were fine, even if they could be a little much for George’s taste, and the fireworks were actually pretty great, despite how loud they could get. What George hated about the holiday were the kind of people it seemed to draw out. From loud frat boys that were too dumb to know they shouldn’t get drunk before messing around with explosives, to overly patriotic hicks who used the holiday as an excuse to scream about their politics and demonize anyone who disagrees with them, the 4th always seemed to bring out the craziest kinds of people. People who George, sadly, seemed to always run into on the 4th of July. For the three years George had been living in America the pattern was always the same, every 4th of July he’d be forced to leave his house for whatever random reason, and spend the rest of the night being harassed and humiliated. He wasn’t sure why he never seemed to run into anyone nice on the 4th of July. He had met plenty of nice Americans on other days of the year, but on the 4th he only ever ran into people who hated him, people who saw him – openly gay and stereotypically English – and figured harassing him was a good way to celebrate their independence. This year however, George had had enough of it. This year, George was absolutely determined not to leave the house.

The first time George had been caught outside on the 4th of July, he had actually come willingly. He had been convinced by some of the other freshmen he had befriended to go out and celebrate with them, to see the foreign holiday with his own eyes. He had actually had fun, for the first half an hour. Then he got separated from his friends while at the fireworks, and accidentally caught the eye of one of the members of the football team. He spent an hour being mocked and bullied by the obnoxiously patriotic jocks, and left before the fireworks even started. The next year he had planned to stay inside, but had forgotten to buy some groceries, so he decided to quickly head to a store a few blocks away. On his way he walked past a local barbeque, and the grillmaster heard his British accent when he answered a spam call. George remembered an entire crowd of people throwing half empty beer cans at him as he was screamed at by the man working the grill to ‘go suck a teabag.’ Last year he had been determined to sleep through the entire day, only for a broken AC unit to force him out of the house, where a drunk man almost immediately threw a lit firework at him. George was able to get inside before it went off, and had to admit that that incident probably had more to do with horrible luck and a careless drunk rather than someone purposely targeting him like the other two, but it had still managed to put him off of the holiday for good. This year, George was absolutely determined not to leave his house. He had locked his doors, bought supplies, had the AC and the plumbing checked out, and planned to curl up in his room with his noise canceling headphones and some ice cream. He was certain he wouldn’t have to leave his house this year. But even that wouldn’t protect him.

George had just grabbed his headphones and scooped himself a bowl of ice cream when he heard a knock on the door. He groaned, and put down his chocolate ice cream with a miserable look on his face. He knew something was going to ruin this. He reluctantly walked over, too polite to just leave the door unanswered. Before he could open it though, something slid under the door. As George picked it up, he realized it was an envelope, one that was blank apart from an American Flag drawn onto it. George knew, almost instinctively, that he shouldn’t open it. At best this was some sort of annoying card for a holiday he’d rather forget, and at worst this was going to be some sort of weird prank. But something in George hesitated to just throw it out. His curiosity, or perhaps some other force, got the best of him. He struggles with the envelope for a moment, before tearing it open… and covering the room with a spray of red, white and blue glitter. 

George groaned as the glitter settled in all around him. Of course the stupid thing was filled with glitter. It was a strange prank, since if he had been more careful with the envelope, he wouldn’t have spread the glitter all over the place, but somehow he had managed to fall for it anyway. He grabbed his icecream, which sadly was also covered in glitter, and tossed it out, before going to the sink to wash both the dish and his skin. 

As George attempted to wash the glitter off of his hands, he noticed something strange was happening. As he rubbed his hands together, the glitter seemed to disappear, not washing away but almost seeming to dissolve. George thought it might be some sort of water soluble paper glitter… until he began to feel the glitter on his face sink into his skin. George tried to pull the glitter off of his arms and face in a panic, but found the glitter just wouldn’t come off. As the glitter was absorbed into his skin, he felt a strange warmth come over him, as strange images flashed within his mind.

It was like his mind had been transported hundreds of years into the past. Or perhaps 250 years, to be more exact. He could see a woman, wearing a lavish blue gown, that he could somehow instinctively tell was one of his ancestors. He saw her at a party, dancing with a scrawny British officer he had no doubt was related to him too, when suddenly the scene shifted. Instead of a British officer, the redcoat had been replaced by a dashing, muscular blond gentleman that George could just tell was a part of the revolution. The past continued to shift. Instead of going back to England, the woman would stay here, with him. Instead of giving birth to a young English woman who would one day give birth to George’s great-great-great-great-great grandmother, she gave birth to several strapping young lads who followed in their fathers steps, helping run the small new country he had fought to create. But it wasn’t just her though. George's mind raced with hundreds of images, of women he somehow knew were his ancestors being torn away from their rightful place in history, and seduced by strong, American cock. 

As George’s mind was drowned in his new American heritage, his body began to change, rewritten just as his past was. A pale tan was replaced by a perfect golden tan, as Geroge shot up almost a foot in height and began to pack on muscles, his new american genetics having been almost handpicked to make him the perfect stud. He could feel his body morph, his pecs push out and his biceps become pythons, as he became exactly like all the other men in his new family, sexy, dominant, muscular American gods. 

As the changes finished and the waves of new thoughts and feelings receded just enough for the man who used to George to think, he felt a warm confidence come over him. Fuck he felt so… good. What had he just been doing? His head felt so heavy, and he couldn’t seem to remember much. He looked up as the sudden boom of distant fireworks cut through his confusion. Fuck, it was the 4th! How the fuck had he forgotten? Paul – that was his name, right? – couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten the most important fucking day of the year. He had always loved the 4th of July, ever since he was a little kid and his pop took him out to see the fireworks. Every year he went wild on the forth, fireworks and family fun having evolved into drinking, hanging out with his bros, and breeding good American girls in the name of his country. He rushed out the door of his apartment, not realizing it looked nothing like it had an hour ago, and headed downstairs. Maybe he could still have some fun before the night was up. With his all american muscles and footlong cock, he should have no problem convincing some blond bitch to let him raw dog her under the glow of the fireworks. 

This was my roommate Ian 3 weeks ago. He was a pretty good guy, funny, always upbeat, and a great roommate actually. Both of us are gay, but mutually not into each other- making the living situation drama free. As Ian put it, we were both our own gay stereotype. Ian was the twink- dancing up a club till 3am, throwing around sharp sassy humor, and strutting around in colored briefs with colored drinks. Meanwhile to him I was simply the “muscle bro.”

Our unique characters were all well and good but sometimes I just wanted a simple bro around, a dude who’d drink a beer and watch sports with me not just stream endless Bravo. Or a gym partner to pump weights with not just pass time on the elliptical. So I decided to make some changes around the apartment- and by changes I mean breakfast. Everything starts with the right breakfast- especially when the recipes come from the Jocking Manual.

Ian wasn’t really a morning guy. Dancing till 3am or 4am he rarely left bed on the weekends before noon. But I insisted one weekend that I’d make him breakfast and he’d wake up right. He grumbled- but next day I got up early and started on the pancakes. They have their own irresistible smell and sure enough Ian eventually crawled out of room to sleepily sit at the table. He just had a few small bites that first day but he had to admit there were good and that was enough to get things started. 

As each day passed I started watching improvements with pride. He started getting up a little earlier, catching me in the morning to get a plate of pancakes or a little eggs, and then even going for some bacon. By day four he finally caved and joined me for a gym session. He still insisted on cardio work but eventually he joined me at the bench and he caught on to a routine. He even started showing interest in ESPN, watching some football with me although he mostly just commented on which player he’d wanna be fucked by. But by the way he adjusted his shorts I could tell his equipment was undergoing some of its own upgrades. Two weeks in I figured I could take things up a few levels and I went all out on breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, fruit, ham… He was apprehensive by the spread the next morning but after one bite and he was hooked, wolfing down serving after serving.

The rest of the day he was on fire, ignoring the treadmill completely to max out on deadlifts, bench and bicep curls. Back at the apartment he stayed shirtless, his bony skinny frame on full display, as he switched on tonight game voluntarily. As we watched I could see every one of his thin overworked muscles contract and expand ever so slightly and I smirked as he absentmindedly cupped a hand around his arm and flexed. 

Next morning the changes were on a whole other lever. He appeared early at the table eager for food wearing a tank top I never knew he had. His arms had swollen into meaty baseball mounds and chest had thickened into two actual toned pecs. Stubble wrapped around his sharper jawline and even his voice had lost some of its sing-song pitch and dropped a little. “Yo check it out? who’d believe I had abs?” He smirked before excitedly digging into food.

I could’ve left him like that. His boyish charm mixed with a buff lean body and scruff on his chin. He still had some of that clever sassy charisma aaaand he was hot. And ultimately that was a problem. 

That day at the gym I had a hard time not eyeing his new body as we flexed through each set. He had a cocky smirk plastered on his face that I’d never seen him have before and the bulge straining his now small tight shorts left nothing to the imagination. I could tell he liked the attention. Sure enough in the showers he slipped into my stall asking for some “help with the soap”. We had a roommate pact to never fuck but… fuck he got hot. One fuck session in the showers turned into a continuous night of dirty horseplay at home, made even hotter by the fact that with every thrust into his round bubbly ass I could feel his body get harder.

That week the sex and the workouts were non stop. But I could tell Ian’s interest was wavering as his attitude was becoming incrementally more alpha. A few days went by and I saw him come out of a shower stall proudly followed by a skinny gym bunny limping to grab a towel. Ian just gave me a wink as he swaggered back to his locker, his half hard meat swinging between his legs. Better finish what I started.  

I kept on serving up my special pancakes. Adding on some special cream and unique powdered sugar to keep things on track. Just like that his arms quickly started to seriously swell. His chest and shoulders put on more mass making his old shirts way too small for his bulking frame. He started borrowing my cut off muscle tees and tanks, and then some jock straps- no doubt for a cock that was fattening into a full on a monster. He started loosing some his sassy cleverness, gaining a slow dumb chuckle as his voice grew even deeper and slow. After a week the old Ian was completely gone. “Eat up bro, need our macros- we gotta bulk this month” as he grinned dumbly flexing in front of the mountain of breakfast he made. I seriously had the perfect room mate. 

Quinton was about as sweet as they come. Just look at that shirt!

Sure, he wasn’t the prettiest crayon in the box, but he was colorful in his own ways. Charming, educated, and so dang funny. It was hard not to smile when he was in the same room. He had a tight circle of friends despite his shyness, and he had secured a full ride scholarship well into his senior year.

Things were looking up for him - nothing flashy, or anything to write home about, but he would have a good life. He’d stay in touch with his friends, go on to have a comfortable IT job, and eventually he’d settle down with a guy that loved him; when he was more financially and emotionally stable, of course.

But there were two obstacles in his way. One, he hated the idea of coasting through his life. He was average, and he couldn’t stand it. He was nothing like the jocks in his class with their lean bodies, all he had to do was squeeze his love handles to realize that. He couldn’t even claim to be the smartest guy!

On the student ranking list, he was #8. It should have been a proud achievement, but all he could focus on were the seven spaces between him and the #1 spot. He wanted to be great, and special. A good life and a wonderful life were two very different things. He didn’t want to settle.

And for the second thing, he had already found the guy he wanted to end up with. Except that guy definitely didn’t love him yet. He probably didn’t even know Quinton’s name, or that he even existed. They had “met” at the local gym just a week ago, when the nerd signed up in a last ditch effort to shed some weight.

The twink’s name was Andi, and all it took was one look at his thin frame to see that he wasn’t there to pump iron. He was a pretty little thing, perfectly coiffed hair and a waist so narrow that any hot guy could wrap their hands around him. It was obvious that was what he wanted. Strutting around in his pink crop tops and booty shorts, bending over to pick up little five pound weights.

All the meat in his body was stored in his ass, and Quinton and all the other gym patrons sure loved the show. That little bubble could bounce for hours, the product of carefully mastered squats. Andi was a fan of dropping it low, teasing the out guys and the closeted ones, too. A hole was a hole. His was wide open.

But for Quinton, he was simply taken with the twink’s confidence. He couldn’t deny that he was beautiful, but there was just something about his presence and unashamed attitude that made him smitten. His eyes were always on Andi, but Andi never glanced in his direction. No one ever did. He was always the last pick, or close to.

It was after watching a stud horse of a man follow Andi’s bouncing booty into the restroom that his jealousy got the better of him. The man was huge, he radiated power and masculinity, and he was clearly going to make a conquest out of the perky ass that had been teased in his face for weeks. Or so Quinton thought.

“I wish I could be like him.”

He wanted to be the guy who could follow Andi, who could make him turn around and smile in excitement. He just wanted SOMEONE to turn around, to notice him. He stopped on his treadmill when a sharp pain moved through his stomach, squinting his eyes in confusion. Then the pain became a bubbling, a tight sensation that kept getting tighter. He felt like he was going to pop.

His moved his attention to the restroom right as Andi ran out of it, a hand to his nose and a shrill gag leaving his mouth. “Oh, you absolute pig! Gross!” was all he had to say, flouncing off to a cleaner side of the gym. Quinton was confused, he must have misread the situation, but that didn’t change the fact that it felt like he was going to shit himself.

He burst into the restroom, rushing into a stall and slamming his ass down on a toilet. He started relieving himself when he noticed another man was doing the same in the stall right beside him. He glanced down at the huge, stretched sneakers peeking out and realized that it had to be the bodybuilder that followed Andi. The guy had only needed to take a dump.

Then the smell hit him, and he had to stick half of his palm into his mouth to stop himself from gagging. No wonder that Andi ran away! It smelled like a rotten egg had been stuffed into something that crawled up inside the man and died. His disgust was already sky high even before the stud farted, a fucking war siren echoing through the space. It droned on and on.

Quinton shuddered, his body betraying him to do the same. He grunted, louder than he intended, feeling his sore asshole clench as he deal with the block up. His stomach twisted, like a balloon was deflating in his gut and flying around and around, and then he farted. Just like the bodybuilder. Just as loud, and gross.

“Protein, right?” a gruff voice said beside him. “My turds are the size of my fuckin’ arm, dude.” Quinton could hear the water splashing, tears trailing down his cheeks in horror. He just wanted to finish and leave. The guy only chuckled. “You’re the first dude to give me a run for my money. Fuck, you smell like donkey’s unwashed ass, bro.”

He kept chuckling, talking about these gross things like it was everyday conversation. He sounded so dumb, and so simple, and Quinton already couldn’t stand the obviously straight, ill-mannered brute. But then his mouth opened, and a low baritone laugh left his mouth. His hand flew to his lips, but he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t control his vocal chords.

“Shit, brah. Bulking’s a bitch, you know how it goes,” the intruder said, making the gorilla beside him snort in agreement. Quint was petrified, legs shaking, he didn’t understand what was happening. “This is all chicken and rice,” he said again, not even getting the chance to wonder what the voice meant when his leg was lifted and he farted again. The scent was spicy, and pungent, but he kept breathing it in and laughing. The bodybuilder did, too.

“Bro, you’re fucking sick.” Quint was shocked, had he managed to out-disgust this gas tank of a man? Had he fallen that low? But then there was more laughter, a hand slapping against a meaty thigh. “We need to pump together, man. Name’s Brock.” Quint wanted to roll his eyes, the guy sounded like such a douche. He couldn’t imagine anything worse.

So his voice did the next worst thing, “Sounds like a plan, brah. I’ll be out in a minute. Name’s Clint.” Who the fuck was Clint?! And where did Quint - Quinton? - get off saying he was going to pump iron with this guy? He could barely left the weights Andi used, and that was saying something. He watched the sneakers shift as the man stood up, a rustle of clothes and the door swinging open on its hinges. Was he not going to flush?!

“We’re gonna be best buds, Clint. But I think I’ll call ya Donkey.”

A door closed, and Quint was shocked. He didn’t even wash his hands. This man was a walking sack of meat with no manners. And he... he wished to be just like him. He was still shitting when his body started to shake again, but not out of fear. It felt like an adrenaline shot had been stabbed into him, sweat leaking out of his skin with the intensity of a lifetime of workouts he was catching up on.

“Fuck me!” the deep voice growled, bending over as his ass stretched on the toilet seat. It didn’t feel like Quint’s anymore, not as his hips popped with a loud snap and his thighs started squeaking against the porcelain bowl beneath him. He started to feel like an elephant balancing on a tightrope, but he was only halfway there. He kept grunting like an animal.

His legs shot out, feet flying upwards as they grew longer and wider. His toes felt slimy, and hairy, and he wanted to cry. But all Clint could do was grip the cock still hanging in the dirty toilet bowl, rubbing a calloused hand down the shift as his body kept pumping with muscle. His calves tightened, waist flaring out. His massive balls drooped dangerously close to the brown water beneath them.

He could feel his wrist slamming against a bush of wet hair as it formed, a trickle of sweat sliding down his chest as they ballooned outwards. He was still shitting. Still jacking himself off. His nipples hardened, and poked forward, his biceps packing on muscle and rubbing against him. Every part of him was huge, and bloated, crammed against something. He took up so much space now.

Quint wanted to cry, opening his mouth to beg for help but his voice had been the first thing gone. All he could do was belch, feeling his jaw pop out of place and realign itself with a snap. It felt like someone had punched him in the face, like his features were swollen and huge, his skull felt tighter and his brain felt smaller. “Uh,” was all he could say, not even noticing drool dripping from his lip and hitting the tip of his cock.

He just used it as lube. All it took was a matter of seconds, and the chubby Quinton had beefed up into the self-proclaimed Clint. His gut had hardened into a bulging set of abs, bulked to the max with a soft layer of fat. His shoulders were wide and loaded, his lower half huge and clumsy. His dick was a massive fuck stick, twitching in his hand. He was covered in sweat and hair.

And then cum. He only laughed, coming down from his high and feeling tired for a moment. He used his hand to wipe the hot liquid from his cheek, smearing it against a hairy tight. He pushed out one last fart, clenching his tight asshole to check for any stragglers. Then he stood up, stirring all of his noxious fumes. His pits were almost worse than the toilet. He pulled up his gym shorts and tucked his softening cock away.

He wasn’t even wearing a shirt anymore, just hair and sweat and muscle. He looked like a hot mess, and so did the stall, but he still had a couple hours left of his workout. So he walked out of the cramped space without a second glance, smirking at the thought of some wimp trying to plunge his massive turds down the drain. He was one sexy fucking beast.

His wife sure thought so, a sexy tight thing he kept at home. She was young, and stupid, but fuck if that pussy didn’t know how to milk him good. He scratched his ass through his shorts, everything that made up Quinton disappearing to the depths of his new mind. The nerd was screaming, and would be for eternity, watching his average life be traded for this one. His sexuality and intelligence and manners were long gone. Clint only cared about getting his dick wet and a good pump at the gym with his best bro.

He took a lazy selfie for his wife before leaving the restroom, not bothering to wash his hands. “Have dinner and that cunt waiting for me. Home soon.” He hit send on the text as his shoulder knocked into a skinny little queen walking past him, knocking the twink on his bubble butt. He offered a sweaty hand, but the diva only gasped and covered his nose in horror.

“Ewww, pig!”

Clint only laughed and turned around, squeezing out one last protein fart in the little bitch’s face. “Nah, little bro, it’s Donkey.” And he was far from average.

he never looks your way? not from what I've heard mate, from what I hear he's be trying to find a way to ask you out for a while, he even wished for things to go smoothly so I guess things seem to be working.

You were surprised when the big hulking goliath came over and sheepishly asked you out on a date, without even a moment to think about it you jumped at the chance.

Later that night he picked you up in his black car, it was cheap and sounded like it needed a service but you weren't gonna complain about some guys car. Once you got in he sheepishly said hello, he was acting like this was his first date and you could practically hear his heart beating out of his chest. You noticed he was in workout gear whilst you were in a nice shirt and jeans.

"s-sorry I'm underdressed bro, my jeans don't fit no more"

You laughed at what you thought was a joke but there was something else behind the serious tone of his voice that had you worried. Something else, his car was a mess inside and he stunk. Sure the musky sweat was hot in the gym but when you saw sweat pouring from his pits like a waterfall and saw big sweat marks from where his hands touched his steering wheel whenever he lifted them off.

Soon you pulled up in the carpark of a junk food place. All your excitement for this date completely died off, It wasn't the gym wear that was a turn off, a guy that big clearly wants to show off, but he didn't even shower after the gym? and now junk food as a first date, not even junk food looking at the sunset on the beach or something outdoors, just junk food in the parking lot of the place. You and your nose had had enough, you were already to go home but you felt sorry for him. He was clearly shy and embarrassed, you thought it best not to make a fuss and just not call him back after the date.

The two of you had dinner in his car, You watched him practically inhale 3 deluxe family meals, 3 thick shakes and a hand full of burgers, after which he sat flexing his biceps in his rear view mirror whilst burping. He drove you home and right as you were ready to leave the car the big guy thanked you for giving him a chance, "sorry it was just take out for dinner bro, can't really get into fancy places, look I know I stink and I'm a bit muscle obsessed when I see myself in the mirror but...do you mind if I kiss you bro?"

After the worst date of your life a moment of weakness hit your heart as this giant looked down hanging his head in shame. You leant forward to give him a kiss, when he kissed you he let out a small burp that bypassed your lips, his hot breath flew straight down into your lungs. You leant back feeling like the air was flooding out of your chest to other parts of your body. Your arms ballooned out, your legs tore your jeans to shreads. You felt you underwear start to get caught up in your growing ass. Suddenly you began to sweat like a pig and you smelt a wave of B.O twice as bad as the guy sitting next to you flow out from your skin. You felt you seat grow damp and squelch beneath your now hulking frame as you shot up a foot and a half feeling your head collide with the roof of the car. You continued to change as you heard the giant speak.

"Sorry bro, I made 1 wish, a few months ago, I was dumb and horny and asked some guy to turn me into a muscle slob online, I didn't think I'd really become one. Turns out its really hard to hold down a job or a boyfriend when all you care about is size and your own B.O"

You felt your head fill with blood, you could barely remember where you were or what was going on, it was almost impossible to focus on his last words.

"at least this way we both get what we want out of it"

You head was suddenly re-written, you remember your life, and your old life was like a dream, like something that happened...but never really happened. You remember graduating highschool, but also remember flunking out, too obsessed with the gym? your head was filled with multiple memories and you didn't know what was truely yours. You turned your head to look at the guy who was now slightly shorter than you.

"eeeer?? were you sayin somthin babe? I like totally brain fogged huhu, you thanks for picking me up, lets go get take out"

With just one kiss from the guy you wanted so badly to notice you, you were erased and replaced with a new you, a stinking meat head version of yourself totally and utterly in love with the guy next to you.

Dan used to be a geek, a scrawny nerd who everyone picked on. He might have gotten good grades and was generally a good student, but he couldn't help but want more. He didn't want to admit it, but it made him a little insecure, especially around his muscular jock of a roommate Dave. Dave was tall, muscular, captain of the football team, and popular with everyone there. Dan both admired and envied him, but Dave's annoying teasing him over his thin frame never failed to get on his nerves.

One day, Dan was seated at his desk, finishing up one of his assignments, when Dave came in, "Hey bro," He said, voice oozing with machismo, "You busy?" He asked, as Dan sighed, "Kinda trying to focus on my work here, Dave." He said, a bit exhausted with his roommate's lackadaisical attitude. "It'll only take a minute." He replied, inviting himself into Dan's bedroom and sitting down beside him. Dan could smell his musk as close as he was. Reluctantly, he set aside his project and turned to face him, and saw Dave was carrying a football helmet with him. "What's that for?" He asked.

"Well, one of my bros is gonna be transferring to a different college, so there's an open position on the team." Dave said, enthusiastically, "Since I know how much you want to be a big jock like me, I thought I'd offer it to you." Dan raised an eyebrow in surprise, "Uh... I'm not really in shape to be a football player, I'm not really a good choice for the team. Besides, I don't really know anything about it." Dave chuckled, "Aw, come on bro," He held out the helmet, "Try it on, you might change your mind."

Dan was still unsure, but eyed the helmet skeptically. He took it from Dave, and put the end on top of his head in curiousity. Suddenly, Dave pushed it down over his eyes. Dan was startled at first as Dave pulled the gate over his eyes. "Hey! What the hell?!" Dan exclaimed, attempting to pry it off, but it wouldn't budge. Dave just chucked, "Don't fight it bro, embrace it." Dan wasn't sure what he meant, but soon began to feel strange.

His muscles began to ache. It felt like they were heating up, and expanding. He groaned, feeling his chest swell, as the underused muscles grew and bulged. His arms felt like they were getting larger and larger, thicker too. It hurt, but somehow he felt stronger than ever. His flabby stomach tightened up, forming abs, that only got harder. His entire body felt like it was bulking up. His shirt was so tight now. He flexed and saw the sleeve suddenly rip. Somehow he couldn't help but feel happy as he saw that.

He couldn't help but moan as the changes continued as his body grew. He popped a squat, his tree trunk thick thighs as firm ass ripping through the seat of his pants and underwear, now far too small for his massive frame. He couldn't help it, he was just so hot, literally and figuratively. He was sweating so much now, and his own musk mingled with Dave's, who bit his lip in pleasure as he watched him rip through his own clothes. Dan couldn't help but smile too. Lifting his leg, he ripped a raunchy fart, adding more pungent stink to the room, "Hah, sweet protein fart bro." Dave compliment. Dan chuckled, "Aw, thanks bro. More where that came." His voice was deeper, and sounded more 'bro'-ish.

He ripped another fart, moaning as he did, as Dave chuckled and clapped, "Check this one out bro", Dave said, lifting his own leg and blasting out gas of his own. Dan nodded with a dumb grin on his face, "Damn, that's a nasty stink bro." The stench was making his head swirl. It was like his brain was melting. He was getting dumber and dumber. "Hehe, but check this one out." Dan pumped out more farts and Dave smirked, "You challenging me?" He pulled down his shorts over his massive ass, "Thinking what I'm thinking?" Dan nodded, "Farting contest!"

Both men continued to fart, loudly and unashamedly, making the room smell increasingly loud. Dan knew he should feel disgusted, but he just didn't care. Plus, he felt strangely gassy anyway. As both men grunted, laughed, and farted, Dave was clearly satisfied with Dan's changing, "See, you fit in with the other boys already." Dan chuckled dumbly, "Hurr, sure do brah. Think I will join the football team after all." He said, ripping off the remains of his already torn shirt, exposing his massive chest, "But first I gotta get new duds."

Dave pulled his shorts the rest of the way down, exposing his dirty, unwashed jockstrap, and peeled it off, tossing it towards Dan, "Here's the uniform, try it on bro." Dan caught it, and brought the jock to his nose, taking a deep inhale, before slipping them on over his massive ass, "Perfect fit bro." He laughed. Dave sized him up, erection on display. "Damn, you look good in it. Course, if you're gonna join the team, we gotta get you initiated."

“I wish I didn’t have to write this dumb essay”

The more Peter wrote his essay, the bigger his body got. His body filled with muscle and fat. His smooth hairless body sprouted thick smelly hair. His fowl stench stunk up his once clean room. Peter’s arms grew heavier as they packed on muscle. His biceps inflated with each word he wrote. Peter’s fingers thickened until he couldn’t even use the computer anymore. Peter tried to focus on his essay, but clouds of fog invaded his brain.

Peter’s room began to change. The posters of him and his boyfriend on the wall disappeared, being replaced by pictures of his new hairy body kissing a sexy woman. His scholarly books slowly shifted into straight porno magazines. His hidden dildo thickened and changed into a fuckable fleshlight pussy. Peter’s phone began blowing up with messages from girls calling him Daddy. Peter stopped thinking about his essay. He stopped thinking about college. He stopped thinking about his boyfriend. All he could think about was fucking girls, jerking off and staying smelly.

“Fuck, I stink bro” Peter chucked. “LIKE EVERY REAL MAN SHOULD!” PFFTTTTTTTT

Peter got what he wanted. He’ll never have to write another essay again. Why would he? He’s a dumb straight man now. He never went to college. He’s never written an essay in his entire life. Peter now has everything he could ever want in life. Fleshlights, porno mags and a sexy fuckable wife.

And with that big fat cock between Peter’s legs, it wouldn’t surprise me if he becomes a father very soon.

It was the first piece of the puzzle. You'd always liked the look on all the gym bros, and decided to try it yourself. It felt a bit weird at first. Almost like you were entering the territory of another tribe. This is what gym bros wear, not gay guys.

But then, you are a gym bro. Well, you sure go to the gym. Have done for a few months. Flashfoward a few years, and look at you now.

The loose tank, the scratchy stubble, the sexy studs, the stretch marks from all that new muscle. You actually used to shave your pits; one of those odd gay-boy misfires, confused around what men actually wanted. Now, the pit is free, and out, and freshly sweated from a killer sesh with Kyle and Stu and P Dawg.

You look fucking cool. Hot, actually. You'd never thought of yourself as hot before. You felt like such an indifferent, unremarkable, middle of the road gay man. Crazy what some muscle and a change of clothes will do.

Only, that's just the surface level. The muscles the tank top, the pits - it's all just a natural expression of a growing, confident masculinity. There was a word you used to shy away from. Loved it in other men, of course, what gay guy doesn't? But on yourself? Nah. It felt a bit... fake. Again, someone else's territory.

Only not anymore. The gym is a home away from home, the bros a group of close buddies, the identity - the masc label - a natural, comfortable marker of reality. You're masc. A sexy, studly, cool, masc gay dude, and that's pretty fucking awesome.

Dillon had no idea what Coach Parker wanted. He’d barely ever seen the man on campus, let alone sought out to talk to him. Yet, for some reason, the man wanted to see him. Dillon wondered if it was something about helping tutor some of the football players to get through their class or if he was just expecting Dillon to do all the work.

“Ahh… You made it,” Coach Parker smiled as he saw Dillon sitting on the bench outside of his office.

“Uh-huh,” Dillon nodded, still uncomfortable around the other man. “I did.” He paused. A stale silence filled the air between them. Coach Parker went through and checked something off the list. While Dillon sat there even more confused. He didn’t know what to say. He just forced something out. “What did you need me for?”

“Oh that?” Coach Parker let out a laugh. “It’ll be easier if I show you.”

Coach Parker was already walking away before Dillon realized what had just happened. He quickly got up from the bench and rushed to catch up. “S-show me?” he questioned as they left the locker room and went into the main gym.

“Of course. Show you,” Coach Parker smiled watching as Dillon desperately tried to keep pace with him.

It didn’t help that the man was a good five inches taller than Dillon. Nor did it help walking through the strong smell of metal and gym sweat. Dillon did everything in his power not to upturn his nose. All these guys could pulverize him with an arm tied behind their back and he knew it.

They passed Steve, the quarterback. “New recruit?” Steven asked as he rested between sets. Dillon flinched hearing the man’s voice. The deep reverberating sound sent a shock through him.

It’s not like Steve was a bad guy, only a guy the Dillon never thought he’d be around. People said Steve was friendly and he seemed to be able to make friends fast in whatever class he was in. But he was also a jock. Dillon always had trouble with big muscular men like that.

Coach Parker stifled a laugh. “Maybe.”

“Well, make him a lineman. Lucas isn’t cutting it,” Steve called out to Coach Parker as they passed.

The two continued passed a squat rack with a man lifting what looked to be three times Dillon’s weight. “That’s Lucas…” Coach Parker grinned.

Dillon felt his body seize up. This joke was going on for way too long. None of this made any sense.

“Coach,” Dillon said without even fully realizing it. “What do you want from me.”

“I want you to be on the team,” Coach Parker pointed to the dumbbells.

“B-b-be on the team!?” Dillon sputtered out. “Are you serious!?” He nearly started laughing. Whatever fear or intimidation he felt from the other man was fading fast. “You can’t be… Right? I mean look at me!”

The laughter didn’t deter Coach Parker in the slightest. He ignored it completely. “I know. But if you trust me I can change all of that. All you have to do is work out with me and then imagine yourself as the biggest strongest motherfucker on the field.”

Dillon wanted to laugh again, but the Coach’s serious face made it nearly impossible. He stared blankly wondering if this was some kind of setup or that he was about to be the butt of a joke. However, Coach Parker just handed him a weight.

“Go on. Just do a quick workout…” Coach Parker said.

“F-fine,” Dillon nodded. He didn’t fully understand what was going on but the seriousness in the Coach’s eyes made it at least feel genuine. And how bad could one workout be? Just do a couple of sets of curls and then head out. No pranks. No laughter. Just some weights.

As Dillon started lifting a strange new urge started to well up within him. He’d never exactly felt this before but lifting these dumbbells almost felt good. Even though it was such an easy exercise, his heart started beating faster. He continued going through the exercise without even thinking and then set the weight back down.

“Pretty good feeling, eh?” Coach Parker nudged him.

“I guess…” Dillon said, somewhat unsure what was going on. There was a dull feeling radiating through him. He couldn’t quite figure it out. How could lifting a weight like that feel so good. Part of him didn’t want to admit that Coach Parker was right. Another part of him wanted to lift even heavier weights.

Just feeling the tension with something so light sent a fire through him to show off more. He wanted to pick something heavier up. He paused looking at himself in the mirror. “Is this me?” he questioned softly. Why did he feel so different all of a sudden? Why did he want to push himself? Maybe it was just seeing the small amount of change in his bicep as they shifted with each rep. Or maybe it was the desire to show off more.

Coach Parker gave him a firm pat on the back. “See? Feels pretty good, don’t it,” he grinned. “Now all you have to do is imagine yourself as the biggest guy around.”

For a second Dillon looked back at the coach. Then he looked around the room. There were so many big guys there. Each one sporting different kind of muscle. The quarterbacks and running backs had lean and defined muscles while the linebackers were hulking men filled with thicker fuller bodies with a healthy amount of fat.

Each man showed off a different version of strength. Some were more for sprinting, some were for coordination and skill and then there were the pure powerhouses that could carry people on their shoulders like they were nothing more than a backpack.

Dillon stared at the different men. Deep down there’d always been a bit of envy within him. Each man looked so strong and confident he couldn’t help but stare, then there was him, this little weakling who was only good at studying. He stared longer focusing on the biggest guys in the gym. Why shouldn’t he be like those linebackers?

He felt his face and a beard started to grow. ‘No. I don’t want their hair. Only their size. Hell, I want to be bigger. Stronger. More defined like the bodybuilders. More powerful than the powerlifters.’ All that envy and jealousy poured out of him. All that smallness that they made him feel was churning a deep frustration in him.

Bigger.

Stronger.

Better.

The words repeated in his mind until his body started to react. “Oh shit…” Dillon keeled over as the intense feeling rocketed through him. His body was responding. His heart rate sped up to an insane degree. The intensity of thousands of workouts hit him all at once. Each muscle seized and then grew. A pulsing radiated through his body as he felt the intensity grow.

His shirt couldn’t take it anymore. As his biceps continued to develop the muscle effortlessly tore through his graphic t shirt. Then his chest. Two massively heavy pecs pushed out in front of him. With each breath his chest pushed a little bit further out but never came back in.

The growth continued through him. His shoes tore apart under the sudden shift in size. His toes snuck their way out of the front and then the sheer size of his feet crushed the rest without any effort.

It was a good thing that Dillon wore athletic shorts as the mass in his legs quickly filled them up. Powerful quads that could effortlessly stop even the biggest of men developed when no muscle had been before.

Dillon slowly regained control over his body. “Fuck…” he breathed. The deep voice would have scared his former self, but this giant of a man was not so easily intimidated. He stared blankly in front of him. “Huh?” he uttered stupidly.

“Sorry man…” Coach Parker said. “Part of the deal. Whatever your focusing on is what you become. And hell, I’d say I made the right decision picking you!”

“Me?” Dillon grunted stupidly. His mind felt slower. Thoughts wouldn't come. Only working out and showing off. He looked over his hulking body and flexed his massive arm. It was easily the biggest in the whole gym. “Hell yeah. Look at me.” He grinned flexing different parts of his body. He would have thought it weird to show off so much, but with  body like this there’s no reason not to.

“Also I have to apologize. This was the largest shirt we had,” Coach Parker smiled. He held up a sleeveless shirt with the school’s mascot on it. “I had high hopes you would pull through, didn’t expect this much though.”

Dillon continued flexing his body. “Don’t worry coach. They won’t mind.” He laughed, flexing again and watching as the other guys in the gym were checking him out. The distinct faces of jealously, envy and lust radiated through the college gym. Dillon grinned, ready to test out this new body.

*****************

Story by me. Pictures made by ChatGPT

Lucas was an out and proud nerd. He excelled academically because he loved to study. He was every teacher’s dream student. He was a straight A student in all his classes except for one. Gym class.

So when he was asked by Coach to stay after school to discuss his grades, he was terrified. Lucas didn’t put any effort into gym class. He often insulted the class describing it as ‘mind numbingly boring’ and ‘A class created for people who don’t have a brain’. But now Lucas was terrified that he was being forced to face the hulking man that he loved to criticise.

Lucas anxiously waited outside Coach’s office after school. He waited and waited until there was not a single person left in the halls. No one chatting by their lockers. No busy bustling atmosphere filled with laughing and gossiping. Just silence. The empty atmosphere put Lucas on edge. He began shaking his leg until eventually a big hulking hairy figure came around the corner. It was Coach. He walked up to his office door, unlocked it, turned on the light and told Lucas to come in. Coach confidently strode in and sat at his desk. He invited Lucas to sit across from him. His face stern and angry.

“Lucas, your grades are...”

Lucas was ready for the shouting to begin. He was ready to face the consequences of his constant back talking and defiance. Lucas braced himself for coach’s harsh words. But then Coach said something Lucas didn’t expect.

“Amazing, Lucas. Your grades in gym class are amazing. You’re at the top of the class.”

Lucas was shocked. That couldn’t have been right. Lucas barely partook in class. How could he be getting an A+ when he always defied coach’s orders? Especially when all the stupid empty headed jocks that excelled at gym were in his class. Coach smiled deviously at Lucas’ confusion. Coach whipped off his t-shirt and smiled at Lucas, condescendingly asking:

“How many protein shakes do you drink a day? You look huge. At this stage, you’re the biggest jock in my class”

Lucas was shocked by the fact that Coach was standing shirtless in front of him. But Lucas had no time to question it. Lucas’s uniform began to feel so uncomfortable. It began to feel so tight. As if his clothes were shrinking. He felt so restricted. His clothes just got tighter and tighter. Lucas groaned hoping coach wouldn’t notice. Lucas then looked down to see that it wasn’t his clothes that were shrinking... he was growing.

Lucas’ biceps began to grow bigger and stronger. His hands becoming big and thick. His fingers fat like sausages. Lucas grasped for his phone and tried to call for help. But his big fat sausage fingers wouldn’t allow him to press the correct buttons anymore. Lucas’ pecs then began to inflate. They grew big and soft. Like two fat juicy tits. His round tits became so big that they began to press against his shirt. The shirt got tighter and tighter until *POP*. The buttons flew off his shirt revealing his big fat bouncing tits. The once scrawny Lucas was now a hulking big titted monster.

Lucas was in shock. He began screaming and running his hands over his new big body. He cupped his pecs letting out an erotic moan. His nipples were so sensitive now.

“What have you done to me?!” Lucas screamed in terror. “I look like a big stupid jock!”

“Well you are a big stupid jock, Lucas. So why would you look like anything else?” Coach began chucking.

Lucas had always despised jocks. They were dumb and gross. Smelly and annoying. They bullied him for being gay. They would fart in his face and spit on him just because of his sexuality. Lucas knew he was nothing like them. He was not some dumb jock. He was a smart, ambitious nerd. Not some dumb oaf.

“I’m not some dumb gross....” Lucas’ train of thought was cut off by a tingling sensation in his head. The tingling got more and more intense until it was all encompassing.

“I’m not some... fuckin nerd” Lucas said feeling extremely confused. “Yeah that seems right. I’m a dumb jock”

Lucas’ reality began to alter. His uniform turning into a tank top and gym shorts. His mind becoming hazy and confused. Lucas’ IQ plummeted. His IQ dropped from 140 to just under 60. His thoughts became more clouded. His brain becoming thoughtless. Dumber. Stupider. The more he tried to think, the more he forgot. All the years of studying and learning being replaced with guzzling protein shakes and working out. Lucas was now a straight D- student. He was scraping by in every class except for his favourite. Gym class. Lucas was getting so dumb. His face becoming more and more relaxed. His eyes becoming more vacant. His jaw relaxed and loose making him look so incredibly stupid. Lucas now found it impossible to breathe through his nose. It felt so natural breathing through his mouth. His breathe stank but he didn’t care. All he cared about was working out and showing off his body. The old part of Lucas was scrambling to get the tank top off. He needed to escape. But as his IQ dropped more and more, he couldn’t figure out how to take off his tank top anymore.

“From what I hear, you are quite the ladies man, Lucas. You could get millions of girls pregnant with big alpha balls like yours”

Lucas’ brain began to change. His thoughts becoming filled with sexual thoughts about women. His gayness being replaced with thoughts of bouncing tits and impregnating women. Testosterone filled Lucas’ body. Body hair began growing all over Lucas’ new body. His chest, legs and ass were now covered in dirty smelly body hair. Lucas’ body odor became more pungent. Straight Lucas didn’t care for hygiene. He rarely showered after his football games. Showers were for runts. Real alphas, like Lucas, didn’t need to shower. It was a privilege for some nerd to smell his stink. When he forced a nerd to lick his sweaty ass crack, it was an honour. They get to smell what a real man smells like. Lucas lifted his arm letting coach smell his new pungent straight alpha armpit.

Lucas’ balls began to tingle as they inflated. His ball sack becoming fuller and bigger in size. It was full to the brim with straight alpha sperm ready to be shot inside some big titted babe. Lucas cockily smiled at the thought of depositing his sperm in as many different women as possible. His loose asshole began to tighten. It tightened to the point where no penis could ever penetrate it again. Lucas was permanently stuck as a smelly straight jock. He had no memory of ever being a gay nerd. It felt so natural to be smelly. It felt so good to have muscles. It felt so natural to just be... a jock.

“So why’d you call me in here again, bruh” Lucas let out a dumb chuckle

“No reason, Lucas. You can leave now” Coach smiled deviously at his new creation.

“Alright Coach. See you tomorrow for training, bro” Lucas smirked and turned towards the door. “Protein fart!” PFFFTT. Lucas confidently strode out leaving his fowl stench behind in Coach’s office.

Lucas left the building to go torture some nerds with his stink. Coach smiled as he saw his new creation leave the building. At that moment, Coach knew Lucas was going to be the most dedicated student he’s ever had.

Lucas’ life consists of nothing but working out, farting and fucking. Coach turned him into what he hated the most. A dumb smelly jock. Coach can’t help but feel a certain sense of satisfaction as he sees Lucas bullying his former nerd friends with his stink. The jock spits in his former friends’ mouths, belches in their faces and farts on their clothes in the locker room.

From the first time Coach met Lucas, he just knew the nerd would grow to love gym class. He just needed a bit of prodding, that’s all.