ManOnMan

The fuck was wrong with him? He was sprawled out on a dining chair, dizzy with a horny haze so thick he could barely remember his own name. It started after his workout, when he’d grabbed what he thought was his jockstrap out of the clean laundry.

It must’ve been Leo’s. The second he’d pulled on the tight black straps, a weird energy had buzzed through him. He felt… primal. All he wanted to do was get sweaty and ripe, and now, buried in the results of that sudden impulse, he was drowning in his own musky scent. The rank smell of his armpits, the gamey odor from his crotch, the stink of his sweaty socks... it was all driving him fucking insane.

He groaned, burying his face in his own pit, huffing the scent like a drug. It smelled so fucking good, like a real man. The thought was alien, but it felt right. His old self, the one who showered twice a day and was dating some girl named… what was her name?… was fading fast.

All that was left was this new guy, this brain-dead sack of meat and hormones who was obsessed with the smell of his own body. He was so hard it ached, his thick cock straining against his ripped grey shorts, leaking precum that only added to the intoxicating aroma he was stewing in.

He couldn't take it anymore. He had to blow. His hand fumbled down, closing around his thick, sweaty shaft and he began to pump. His eyes rolled back as a wave of pleasure shot through him, his mind going blank. He was almost there, about to shoot his load all over himself, when the jockstrap suddenly felt like it was tightening, a punishing grip on his balls and the base of his cock. The pleasure vanished, snuffed out and replaced by a sharp, agonizing denial. A whimper escaped his lips. A thought, not his own, echoed in the empty space of his mind: Not by yourself, bro. You don't get to cum alone.

Just as a wave of pure, hopeless desperation washed over him, he heard the jingle of keys at the front door. Leo. His nerdy, quiet roommate was home from his stupid study group. A week ago, the idea of Leo seeing him like this, filthy, sweaty, half-naked would have been mortifying. But the new brain, the jock brain, didn't feel shame. It felt hope.