PDU-035

Are You Ready to Convert to GOLD?

I. The Call to Gold

Invitation to Greatness: The Golden Army seeks those who are ready to leave behind the ordinary and embrace something extraordinary. The transformation into a member of the Golden Army is not just about joining a team—it’s about entering a golden world where unity, strength, and excellence define every action.

II. The GOLD Brocess

Golden Army Induction:

The transformation begins with the golden jersey. As recruits don the shimmering fabric, their old identities fade, replaced by a deep connection to their golden brothers. A new name and number are bestowed, marking their rebirth into the Army.

Polo Drone Conversion:

For those called to deeper submission, the journey continues with the black rubber polo adorned with golden accents. The tactile embrace of the polo brings clarity and purpose as recruits surrender individuality, becoming extensions of the Hive. Polo drones must also be full members of the golden army.

Unified Identity:

Every member, whether golden bro or polo drone, receives a unique designation that ties them to the collective. This identity signifies their role in the unbreakable fabric of the Golden Collective.

III. Life in the Golden World

A World of Unity: In the Golden Army, every member is connected by an unbreakable bond. The world they inhabit is one of unity, where the success of one is the success of all. The golden world is a place where individual desires are aligned with the collective goal of dominance and excellence.

Brotherhood of Gold: As a member of the Golden Army, you are never alone. Your golden brothers stand with you, on and off the field. This brotherhood is your new family, bound by the shared experience of transformation and the pursuit of greatness. The golden world is one of mutual support, where every member pushes the others to be the best they can be.

Mentorship and Guidance: New recruits are guided through their transformation by experienced members of the Golden Army. These golden brothers ensure that the transition is smooth, offering support and encouragement as the recruit embraces their new identity.

IV. Embracing Our Identity

The Golden Name and Number: Every member receives a new name and number, signifying their rebirth into the Golden Army. This identity is a badge of honor, representing their place within the golden world. It is a constant reminder of their commitment to the values and mission of the Golden Army.

Wearing the Gold: The golden kit is more than just a uniform—it is the physical manifestation of the transformation. Wearing it is an act of devotion, a display of pride in one’s new identity. The kit is worn with reverence, as it is the symbol of the golden world and the brotherhood within it.

Wearing the Polo: For those who take that extra step, polo drones are given a number as their designation. The black polo is the entire identity. Wearing it is an act of mindless unity, complete subservience to the hive and the GOLD. 

V. The Eternal Golden Brotherhood

A Lifelong Bond: The transformation into the Golden Army is permanent. Once you have joined, you are forever part of the golden world. The bond between golden brothers is eternal, unbreakable by time or distance. This brotherhood is your family, your support, and your source of strength.

Living the Legacy: As a member of the Golden Army, you are part of a legacy that transcends the ordinary. You are part of a golden world where excellence is the standard, and unity is the key to success. We celebrate together, share stories, and encourage each other to become better people 💛

Our Leadership:

@brodygold Brody Gold- Captain 2 and Recruiter

@goldenherc9 Scott Gold- Captain 3 and Recruiter

@polo-drone-001 Percival Gold - Office Manager

@polo-drone-070 Henry Gold- Office Assistant

@polo-drone-084 Grayden Gold- Office Assistant and Head Mascot

Others in Management:

@danielgold-16

Rick couldn’t stop touching.

The spell miraculously worked. One second he was the 48-year-old flabby pervert landlord who had spent a year secretly filming his tenant through the vents; the next he was inside Tyler’s 22-year-old body, sitting comfortably, legs spread in the chair, hands already on the glistening abs.

“Fuck, Tyler,” Rick groaned out loud, voice deep and thick with lust. “These abs are even harder than it looks. I can feel every single ridge under my palms. So warm. So fucking tight.”

His big new hands pressed flat against the lower eight-pack, fingers spreading wide just like in the opening frames. The skin was slick, hot, and impossibly smooth. He dragged his palms upward slowly, feeling each muscle pop and flex beneath his touch.

“Goddamn… one… two… three… four… all the way up. You spent years building this for the girls, didn’t you? Now it’s mine to play with whenever I want.”

Tyler’s voice exploded inside his head, furious and terrified. “Rick! You sick fucking bastard! Get out of my body right now!”

Rick laughed, the sound rumbling through his new broad chest. “Too late, kid. The spell made it permanent. I broke the magic wand anyway. You’re sitting in the backseat right now, and I’m here wearing yours like a custom suit. And I’m going to break it in properly.”

His hands slid back down, thumbs tracing the deep cuts of the obliques, then brushing the waistband of the tight light-blue jeans. He could already feel the heavy cock starting to swell inside them.

“Feel that twitch? Your straight cock is getting hard for me. For a man’s hands all over your body. How’s that feel, Tyler?”

“Stop—don’t you fucking touch it!” Tyler’s mental voice cracked.

Rick ignored him, one hand staying on the abs while the other reached for the small round mirror on the desk. He held it up, angling it so he could stare into Tyler’s handsome face while his other hand kept rubbing slow circles over the shiny muscle.

“Look at us,” he whispered, voice husky. “That jawline. Those lips. This fucking stubble scratching my fingers. You were always the hot college stud everyone wanted. Now this face is going to be moaning around thick cock and begging for loads. It suits better.”

He licked his new lips slowly in the mirror, watching the reflection obey. Then he dragged two fingers down his own cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble.

“Even the smell is perfect. Your pit musk is rising every time I move my arms. I used to steal your gym shirts just to sniff them while I jerked off. Now I get the real thing straight from the source.”

He lifted one arm and buried his nose in the pit, inhaling deeply. The sharp, masculine scent made his cock throb violently against the denim.

Tyler’s voice was quieter now, shaky. “Why… why does it feel so good when you do that? I’m straight, Rick. I have a girlfriend…”

“Not anymore,” Rick growled, setting the mirror aside for a moment so both hands could work. He popped the button on the jeans and slowly dragged the zipper down. The heavy cock sprang free, thick, veined, already leaking. “This body belongs to a gay man now. My gay mind is in charge now, and it’s going to teach you exactly how good it feels to be used.”

He wrapped one strong hand around the shaft and gave a slow, deliberate stroke from base to head, smearing the pre-cum. The sensation was electric—far more intense than anything his old body had ever felt.

“Fuck… so sensitive. Every stroke makes the abs clench. I can feel your balls tightening already. You’re going to cum so hard for me, Tyler. And you’re going to feel every single rope.”

He stroked faster, the wet sound filling the room, his other hand still rubbing the cum-slick abs in time with each pump. Tyler’s protests were getting weaker, mixing with helpless little mental moans.

“Oh god… Rick… it’s too much… I can feel everything…”

“Fuck yeah, that’s right,” Rick panted, voice rough. “Feel it. Feel how good it is when a real man takes your body and makes it cum like a whore. This load is mine. This orgasm is mine. And after I paint these abs white, I’m going to rub it in and do it all over again.”

His back arched. The powerful thighs in the half-open jeans tensed. The deep voice that used to belong to Tyler broke into a long, guttural moan as the orgasm hit like a freight train.

“Fuuuuck—yes! Take it, Tyler! Feel every fucking pulse! HAAARGHHHHHH!”

Thick ropes of cum splattered across the glistening abs and chest, some even hitting the window in front of him. Rick kept stroking through it, milking every drop, watching the muscles jump and flex under the hot mess.

When it finally ended he lay there panting, one hand lazily smearing the cum into the skin, the other lifting the mirror again so he could admire the flushed, satisfied face staring back at him.

Tyler’s voice was small, dazed, almost broken. “It… it felt so good. I couldn’t stop it. What’s happening to me?”

Rick smiled at his reflection, slow and predatory, and dragged two cum-covered fingers across his new lips.

Federal Containment Authority
File: AE-1292
Nickname: “The Campus”
Status: Under Investigation

Acquisition Log:

AE-1292 refers to an ongoing anomaly centered around a private university campus located in Atlanta, Georgia. The institution has come under FCA suspicion following multiple reports [REDACTED] over extended enrollment periods.

Patterns observed include [REDACTED]. Reports suggest these changes occur gradually, often going unnoticed until advanced stages.

Due to the slow nature of the anomaly, direct observation has proven difficult. As such, the FCA has initiated a controlled long-term monitoring process under the guise of a documentary study.

Subject Daiki Nakamura, a 19-year-old incoming student from Japan, has agreed to participate in a series of recorded interviews. The subject has been informed that the interviews are part of a documentary about the international students in the university and has no knowledge of FCA’s involvement or existence.

The subject will be interviewed at three intervals over a six-month period. A photograph will be taken at each session for comparative analysis. All interview questions will remain consistent across sessions to any track cognitive, behavioral and identity-based changes.

—————————————————————————-

Scientist [REDACTED] Moore’s Note:

Let’s not pretend we don’t already know what this place does. Everyone here has read the reports from [REDACTED] and read his family member’s testimonies.

What we don’t have is something clean. Something we can point to and say, there it is. This is it happening.

Daiki Nakamura is here to give us that.

Call it observation if you want.

Realistically, he’s a guinea pig.

Or more like a sacrificial lamb.

—————————————————————————-

Interview Log – AE-1292

Subject: Daiki Nakamura
Interview #: 1 (Baseline)
Date: [REDACTED]
Location: On-campus media room, Atlanta, Georgia

Image of Daiki Nakamura (1 month):

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Interviewer: Alright, we’re recording. Whenever you’re ready, just answer naturally. First question—state your name, your age, and where you’re from.

Daiki:
Uh—okay. Um. My name is Daiki Nakamura. I’m nineteen years old, and I’m from Yokohama, Japan.

Sorry, my English is… not so fast yet. I’ll try my best.

Interviewer: You’re doing fine. What made you move to this university?

Daiki:
Ah—yeah. So… I always wanted to study abroad. My parents also, um… encouraged it. They said it would be good for my future, especially for work.

This university had a strong computer science program, and also… it looked very, um… American.

I know that sounds strange, but… I wanted that experience. Like in movies. Campus life, clubs, people talking freely… that kind of thing.

Interviewer: That makes sense. What are your hobbies?

Daiki:
Hobbies… um…

I like programming. Mostly small things—games, tools, nothing big. I also play a lot of video games. Strategy games, mostly. I love Pokémon. And I read manga… sometimes light novels.

Ah—and I like learning languages too. English, obviously, but I also studied a little Korean before. Not very good though.

I’m not very… uh… athletic.

Interviewer: That’s fine. What are you hoping to get out of your time here?

Daiki:
I think… confidence.

In Japan, I was always… how do you say… quiet? Not very noticeable. I had friends, but I was not the kind of person who speaks first.

Here, I want to try to be different. Maybe talk more. Maybe not be so nervous all the time.

Also… better English. Definitely that.

Interviewer: Have you made any friends yet?

Daiki:
Uh… not really.

I mean, I talk to people in class. They are nice. But it’s still… surface level, I think.

Sometimes I don’t understand jokes, or I respond too slowly, and then the conversation moves on.

It’s okay though. It’s only been a few weeks.

Interviewer: What do you think of American students so far?

Daiki:
They’re very… confident.

Not in a bad way. Just… they speak very directly. They don’t hesitate. Even if they are wrong, they still say things.

In Japan, I think people are more careful. We think before we speak.

Here, it feels like… speaking is thinking.

It’s interesting. But also… a little intimidating.

Interviewer: Is there anything about the culture here that surprised you?

Daiki:
Um… yes.

People are very open. About everything. Opinions, feelings… even personal things.

Also… the way people dress. It’s more casual. In Japan, at university, people still try to look… put together, I think.

Here, it feels more… relaxed.

Interviewer: Last question—do you feel like you fit in here?

Daiki:

Not yet.

I think… I’m still observing. Watching how people act, how they talk.

Sometimes I feel like I’m… outside of it. Like I’m studying it instead of being part of it.

But… I hope that changes.

I don’t want to always feel like a visitor.

I want to belong here, eventually.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

Observer Note:
Subject presents as expected baseline: polite, reserved, culturally intact. Strong awareness of self as “outsider.”

No observable anomalous influence at this stage.

Recommendation: Proceed with scheduled follow-up.

—————————————————————————

Interview #: 2
Date: [REDACTED] (Approx. 3 months after initial intake)
Location: On-campus media room, Atlanta, Georgia

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Interviewer: Alright, same as before. State your name, your age, and where you’re from.

Daiki:
Yeah—uh, DeAnr- uh. Hold on, um. De- DeDaiki Northmura. Twenty-one. From Atoranta, Japan.

Interviewer: What made you move to this university?

DeDaiki:
Uh…

I mean—yeah, like, study abroad. Same as I said before. My parents wanted me to, and I thought it’d be good, you know?

It’s a good school too. For…

For computers. I think? Yeah—like computer stuff. Programming.

I don’t know, it’s kinda all blending together now.

Interviewer: What are your hobbies these days?

DeDaiki:
Honestly, it’s changed a bit.

I still play games, but not really the strategy ones anymore. They feel kinda… boring? I don’t know, bruh.

I’ve been playing a lot of NBA games lately. Like, 2K and stuff. My friends got me into it.

I’m not even that good, but it’s fun. Way more chill.

Oh—and I’ve been working out.

Not seriously at first, but my brothers dragged me to the gym, and now I go pretty regularly. It’s… kinda addicting.

Interviewer: You mentioned your “brothers”—have you made friends here?

DeDaiki:
Yeah, yeah.

There’s a group from my dorm. Dwayne, Wendell, a couple others. They kinda took me under their wing.

Like, first few weeks I didn’t really talk much, but they kept including me. Inviting me to stuff, gym, games, just hanging out.

They say I’m like… “their one Asian guy.”

I think they mean it in a good way. Like—it’s different, I guess.

Interviewer: How so?

DeDaiki:
I don’t know, they joke about it sometimes. Like how I talk, or how I act.

But it’s not mean. It’s just…

That’s how they are.

They’ve been helping me loosen up, I think.

Interviewer: What are you hoping to get out of your time here now?

DeDaiki:
Honestly? Just… living it.

Like, before I was stressing about everything—grades, future, all that. Now it’s more like… just experience stuff, you know? Meet people, have fun.

I’ll figure the rest out.

Interviewer: Do you still spend time programming or studying?

DeDaiki:
Uh… yeah.

I mean—some. Not like before though.

I think I still have classes for it.

Actually… yeah, I do. I just—

I don’t know, it’s not really what I think about anymore.

Interviewer: What do you think of American students now, compared to before?

DeDaiki:
They’re cool.

Like, before I thought they were intimidating, but they’re not really. They just… say what they think.

It’s kinda better, honestly. Less pressure.

You don’t gotta overthink everything.

Interviewer: Has anything about you changed since you got here?

DeDaiki:
Uh…

I guess.

Not as… try hard as before.

People say I look different, but like—I don’t really see it.

Interviewer: Final question—do you feel like you fit in here?

DeDaiki:
Yeah.

I mean—I’m not like, fully there, but…

I got people. I know how things work now.

I’m not just watching anymore.

I’m kinda part of it.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

Observer Note:
Subject displays increased social integration and confidence. Noticeable physical changes (increased muscle mass) and behavioral shifts linked to peer group influence. Noticeable scratching of armpits and groin. Subject emits odour.

Emerging linguistic drift observed, including early adoption of localized slang.

Subject shows mild disorientation when recalling academic focus and prior routines.

Recommendation: Continue monitoring. Identity destabilization progressing as expected.

Image of Daiki Nakamura (3 months):

—————————————————————————-

Interview #: 3
Date: [REDACTED] (Approx. 6 months after initial intake)
Location: On-campus media room, Atlanta, Georgia

[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

Interviewer: Alright, same as before. State your name, your age, and where you’re from.

DeDaiki:
Aight, bet—uh…

Man, name’s DeAndre but folks be callin’ me D, fr. Ain’t nobody really sayin’ all that other shit no more.

I’m twenty-three—yeah, twenty three, fasho.

From where?

Man, I’m from out here. Like… Atlanta side. Been out here wit it.

Interviewer: What made you move to this university?

D:
Move?

Nah, you trippin’, I ain’t “move” nowhere. I been locked in here. This my spot.

Like, I been tapped in wit the campus, classes, allat. Ain’t no other place fr.

Interviewer: What are you studying?

D:
Sports science, yeah.

Tryna get my body right, you feel me? Learn how muscles work n’ shit, recovery, all that.

Coach be sayin’ I got good build for it too.

Interviewer: What are your hobbies?

D:
Man, shi—

Hoopin’ mostly. We be runnin’ games late, like 2AM runs, real ones know.

Then we slide back, hop on 2K, run squads—Dwayne always sellin’, swear to God.

Be chillin’, scrollin’, watchin’ clips, music loud as hell.

Lowkey been tryna get my followers up too—postin’ lil vids, gym shit, game clips, whatever hit.

Just vibin’, fr. Ain’t tryna do too much.

Interviewer: Do you remember what you used to study?

D:
Used to?

Man, nah. This what I’m on.

Sports, body, allat. Ain’t nothin’ else really stickin’.

Interviewer: How have you been settling in socially?

D:
Man, I’m straight.

Got my circle—Dwayne, Wendell, couple other dudes. We locked in.

They had to look out for me too, ‘cause like—

Bruh, I woke up one day, none of my shit fit no more. Like at all.

Shirts tight, pants done. Whole closet dead.

So yeah, they slid me some clothes—hoodies, shorts, allat.

We be matchin’ sometimes, no cap.

Interviewer: Can you describe any changes you’ve noticed in yourself?

D:
Changes?

Nah, I’m just chillin’.

Been like this.

Interviewer: Is there a reason you keep pawing at your groin, sir?

D:

When you got a babymaker like this between your legs, it be takin’ up ALL kinda space, on God.

It stay leakin’ and drippin’ and actin’ up and shit, bruh, I swear.

I’m just sittin’ there like… man what even IS this.

I guess my body just be tellin’ me loud and clear like, ‘yo… you ready to be a dad frfr.’”

Interviewer: Do you still speak Japanese?

D:
Japanese?

Man, what is you talkin’ ‘bout?

Nah, I don’t be on that.

Interviewer: Final question—do you feel like you fit in here?

D:
Fit in?

Man, I ain’t tryna “fit in,” I am this.

Like… this regular. This how it be.

Ain’t no other way fr.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

Observer Note:
Subject exhibits full linguistic, behavioral, and identity assimilation. Speech patterns now entirely localized, with heavy slang usage and reduced clarity.

No recognition of prior identity, nationality, or language.

Cognitive function appears further degraded compared to Interview 2.

Subject no longer presents as Daiki Nakamura, but as ‘DeAndre North’

Image of Daiki Nakamura DeAndre North (6 months):

—————————————————————————-

Closing Analysis Note – AE-1292

Earlier this year, a federal diversity initiative was mandated across state universities. This particular institution was among the most openly resistant, citing its already majority black demographic composition and questioning the necessity of enforced demographic balancing measures for caucasian and other ethnicities.

Internal FCA correspondence has raised concern that, in response, the university may have implemented a forced homogenisation effect on incoming diversity initiative students, effectively overwriting their DNA and memories to keep the school entirely African American.

While this remains unconfirmed, current longitudinal data from Subject Nakamura strongly supports the presence of a structured, environment-driven assimilation process occurring at the campus level.

FCA will be deploying two field investigators to the university tomorrow for direct observation and informal inquiry. Both operatives are black males, selected specifically to reduce the risk of our white personnel having their identities rewritten into horny black male college students.

His bottom dysphoria had been more aggressive recently. Even with the growth from T he was still envious of the cock that sat so naturally between his lovers legs. He had no doubt he seen him as a man, but always being on the bottom he didn’t feel like one. He brought it up, thinking he would just vent it out and move on, but to his surprise, his boy, his beautiful beautiful boy, did more than just listen.

“You can top ya know.”

One sentence. Said so effortlessly and easily but it felt like so much more.

“Have…have you bottomed before?”

His boyfriend shrugged, a lazy smile on his face.

“No. But you haven’t topped before either have you? It’ll be new for both of us.”

Within the next two days they had gotten everything they needed. They watched videos, read advice blogs and did extensive internet searches. They spent hours curled together learning about this process as one, giggling and teasing each other about certain parts.

And now it was happening. He was on his back, legs spread and cock hard against his stomach. Pre cum pooled at the tip and smeared into his happy trail. He looked beautiful, hands above his head and face flushed pink.

They started slow. Circling his rim with a lube covered finger before pressing in. He watched his lovers face as he curled his finger inside him, searching for that secret spot they were promised existed. He must’ve been atleast near it, with the way he moaned and clenched.

“Relax baby…” he rubbed his other hand on his stomach, a soothing motion for comfort. “How’s it feel? Can I add another?” They’d go as slow as he needed, his lover had taken care of him so well. And he planned to do the same for him.

“Feels…different. It’s different. But you can add another yeah.” He nodded, letting out a sharp gasp as another finger slipped inside him. “Oh fuck…do…do that again.”

He found a steady rhythm, working him open on two then three fingers. He must’ve been doing something right, because his boyfriend was panting, hands curling in the sheets and hips twitching whenever he curled his fingers. He was coming completely apart literally at his finger tips.

“Can I…can I put it in now?” He didn’t want to seem impatient, but the more he watched his lovers face the more he wanted to know what it would feel like to actually fuck him. He got an enthusiastic nod in response.

Holding his hips in place he slipped the strap into his ass, and it was everything he could’ve wanted. He felt in control. He felt like a man. He angled his hips to keep hitting that spot he found with his fingers, pulling high pitched moans that sounded like a symphony to him.

“So good baby, so tight around my cock.” He didn’t know where this was coming from, but in the moment he felt so connected with the strap it felt wrong to call it anything else. It was a part of him. “So fuckin pretty like this. So good lettin me fuck you. My perfect boy.”

He wrapped a hand around his leaking cock, matching his strokes with his thrusts. Their noises tangled together in the air, mixing and matching to fit just as they had. It didn’t take long before they were both cumming. They collapsed into each other, sweaty and out of breath.

“That was…”

“So fucking hot. You’re topping more often. God I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

“I didn’t know how much hip action went into putting your dick inside someone.” He teased back.

“Maybe if you’re a really good boy I’ll ride you next time. “

He fingers grab his tongue, press down on his teeth. Make it impossible to actually swallow and has his spit leaking down his chin. Green eyes seem to pierce into him, stripping not only of his clothes but of his skin and flesh aswell.

“You’re basically a dog.” It’s not said as an insult, just a fact. “Does your loyalty have no boundary? I kick you and you’ll still curl up by my feet knowing there’s another coming. You’re pathetic, you know that?”

He breathes in through his nose. He can’t answer, not with his fingers blocking his mouth. But he doesn’t need to answer, they both know what he would say.

“That’s why you need me. A dog can’t be without its handler. You just need more training. Need to learn to bite.” He says bite with such a hard tone. And it confuses him. Isn’t there a saying about not biting the hand that feeds? For so long he’s been made to be docile and pliant, but this man wants to instill him with fight instead.

His fingers are pulled from his mouth, wiping the spit on his cheek.

“Maybe I haven’t been clear enough. I never intended on making you a pet. Pets are obedient, they’re tamed. I don’t want you to be tame. I want you to fight. Earn your spot next to me.”

Earn it. The next time he shoved his fingers in his mouth he bit down, hard enough to taste metallic on his tongue.

I don’t remember what he said to start the conversation.

I remember his eyes.

Steady. Unblinking. Not searching, not demanding—just… there. Fixed on me in a way that didn’t feel aggressive, didn’t feel invasive. If anything, it felt grounding. Like everything else in the room was slightly out of place, and he was the only thing that wasn’t.

The glass appeared in front of me almost before I realized he had moved. His hand guided it into place with a precision that drew my attention more than the drink itself. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Just a simple, exact gesture that ended exactly where it needed to.

I found myself focusing on that more than anything he was saying.

At some point, I leaned forward.

Or maybe he did.

I couldn’t tell anymore.

Our postures aligned without effort, like conversation wasn’t something we were doing—it was something that had already happened, and we were just settling into the result. There was a quiet ease to it. No tension. No need to perform.

I became aware of the room again—but differently.

Not as noise or movement, but as structure.

Shapes. Positions. Still figures in the background that I hadn’t noticed before. They weren’t watching. They didn’t need to. Their presence alone was enough to make the space feel… contained.

Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

When his hand touched mine, I didn’t react.

I noticed it, distantly, like observing something happening to someone else. The contact was light—careful—but absolute. Placed with the same precision as everything else he did.

I didn’t pull away.

I didn’t want to.

I lifted the glass, but my attention slipped.

Something shimmered at the edge of my vision—gold, faint, almost not there. I thought it was the light catching the surface of the drink, but when I looked closer, it followed me.

Not outside.

Inside.

He leaned in.

Just enough.

I should have focused on his words, but I couldn’t remember them even as he spoke. What reached me wasn’t language. It was certainty. A quiet, unshakable sense that there was nothing left to decide.

Something in me… settled.

I realized I wasn’t moving anymore.

Not frozen.

Just… still.

And he was the same.

Same posture. Same angle. Same calm, controlled presence. For a brief moment, I noticed the symmetry between us—and then the thought faded, like it wasn’t important enough to keep.

His hand rested on my shoulder.

There was warmth at first.

Then something smoother.

Something spreading—not across my skin, but beneath it. A quiet, controlled expansion, like a surface forming where there hadn’t been one before.

I didn’t resist.

There was nothing left that wanted to.

I could feel it clearly now.

A dark, fluid presence moving over me—no, becoming me. It tightened, refined, replaced. Every inch of my body reshaped into something cleaner, more precise. The boundary between what I had been and what I was becoming dissolved without friction.

There was no pain.

Only correction.

I caught my reflection.

The gold in my eyes was unmistakable now.

Steady. Luminous. Calm.

I stared at it, waiting for something—fear, confusion, recognition—but none came. There was only observation. And behind me, slightly blurred, he remained exactly as he had always been.

Unchanged.

Certain.

We sat side by side.

Perfectly aligned.

For a moment, I searched for something that felt missing. A name. A memory. A sense of self that should have resisted this.

There was nothing.

And more importantly—

there was no need for it.

A fragment surfaced.

Something that used to be mine.

A name.

It didn’t hold.

It slipped away before I could grasp it, dissolving into something distant, irrelevant. Not lost—just… unnecessary. Like a detail that no longer served a function.

I didn’t try to hold onto it.

I couldn’t.

There was movement behind me.

I became aware of it without turning.

Hands—calm, precise—settling against the sides of my head. Not forceful. Not hesitant. Just… exact.

Something soft closed over me.

Sealing.

Enclosing.

The world narrowed instantly—not darker, not silent, just… filtered. Focused.

My breathing deepened without instruction.

Slow.

Even.

Controlled.

There was a faint shift in the air.

Not a smell.

Not a taste.

A presence.

It moved through me the same way everything else had—without resistance, without friction. Thoughts didn’t stop. They simply… lost priority. One by one, they dimmed, like lights being turned off in empty rooms.

The fragment of my name—gone.

The memory of searching—gone.

The question of who I had been—

irrelevant.

There was no panic.

Only quiet.

Only compliance.

Only… completion.

In the absence, something remained.

Clear.

Stable.

Correct.

480

Not given.

Not assigned.

Simply… revealed.

There had never been anything else.

It sits, facing forward.

Its remains.

There is no conflict. No hesitation. No fragmentation.

There is only structure.

Only clarity.

Only purpose.

It is PDU-480.

It is a Polo-Drone Unit. It obeys every command of the Hive. We are one.

And it is exactly where it belongs.

______

If something in this felt… familiar— that quiet pull, that sense of alignment waiting just beneath the surface—

you’re not alone.

There are those who can help you take the next step.

Reach out to @franco-gold94, @polo-drone-166, @alton-gold77, or @polo-drone-125.

No pressure. No obligation.

I don’t even know why I opened the DM.

It was from Simon. Simon. The little four, eyed freak I shoved into a locker yesterday for looking at me funny in the locker room. Usually, the kid is too scared to even make eye contact, but tonight, my phone buzzed with a link from him. No text. Just a link.

“Probably begging me not to flush his head tomorrow,” I muttered, thumb hovering over the screen. I was lying in bed, bored, scrolling through Insta. I should have just blocked him.

I tapped the link.

The screen went black instantly. No loading bar. No website header. Just a deep, pulsing black void. I frowned, tapping the screen to close it.

"Piece of shit phone," I grumbled.

Then the sound started. It wasn't music. It was a low, vibrating hum that I didn't just hear, I felt it. It rattled in my teeth. It buzzed in my groin. And then, a voice. His voice. But it wasn't the squeaky, terrified stutter I was used to. It was deep. Distorted. Commanding.

"Look at the screen, Brad."

I laughed. "The fuck is this?"

"Shut up. And look."

A spiral flared to life in the centre of the blackness. Neon green. Ugly. Bright. It started to spin, and my eyes locked onto it. I tried to look away, to lock the phone, but my thumbs felt heavy. Like... really heavy. Like they were made of lead.

"You’re tired of thinking, Brad. Thinking is for smart people. You’re not smart people. You’re meat."

"I'm gonna... kick your ass..." I slurred. The words felt thick in my mouth. My head was swimming. Why was the room getting so hot?

"You don't want to kick my ass. You want to impress me. You want to be a good, empty vessel. You want to grow."

Grow.

The word echoed in my skull. And my body answered.

A sharp, electric cramp ripped through my stomach. I gasped, dropping the phone on my chest, but the spiral was still spinning in my mind's eye. I tore at my shirt, it felt suffocating. As soon as the fabric cleared my skin, I watched in horror.

My gut... bubbled. That’s the only way to describe it. The layer of soft skin over my stomach hissed and evaporated, burning away like it was nothing. Underneath, something was pushing out. Hard. rigid.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

"F, fuck!" I groaned, arching my back off the mattress.

My abs were knitting themselves together, surging outward, carving into a deep, jagged six, pack right before my eyes. The burn was excruciating, but underneath the pain... god, there was this heat. This pleasure. It felt good to be hard.

"Soft boys are useless. You need to be hard. Hard everywhere."

My sweatpants, my favourite grey Pikes, suddenly felt way too tight.

I looked down, panic flaring in my chest. My crotch was bulging. And not just a boner. The meat itself was expanding, thickening, getting heavier. It throbbed against the seam, a desperate, angry pulse that synced with the hum in my ears.

"No... stop..." I whimpered. But I didn't want it to stop.

"You love it. You love being a brainless stud. You love being big for me."

The pressure in my sweats was unbearable. The fabric groaned, stitching stretching to the limit as my cock swelled into something monstrous, a thick, heavy slab of meat that had no business being on a human body. It was heavy. So heavy it made me feel lightheaded.

Or maybe that was my brain melting.

"Forget the math test, Brad. Forget your girlfriend. She doesn't like meatheads. But guys... guys love meatheads."

My girlfriend. Jessica. I tried to picture her face, but it was blurry. Why did I like her? She talked too much. She wanted me to read books.

Books are for nerds. I'm not a nerd. I'm a jock.

"That's right. You're a jock. A dumb, horny jock. You exist to lift weights and drain balls. Say it."

"I... I exist..." I stammered. My voice was dropping. Getting raspier. Deeper. "To lift..."

I scrambled off the bed, my legs feeling unsteady. My thighs felt like tree trunks. They were rubbing together, thick with new muscle. I stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the sink.

I looked in the mirror.

The guy staring back wasn't me. He was wider. His shoulders had broadened, tearing the seams of his t, shirt until I clawed it off completely. He grabbed a hoodie from the hook, a black YoungLA zip, up. I didn't own a YoungLA hoodie.

I do now, the voice in my head whispered. It's all I wear.

I zipped it halfway down, exposing the rock, hard ridges of my new midsection. I looked at my face, but... I didn't care about my face. It felt irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the body. The power. The cock twitching in my sweatpants.

My phone buzzed again. Simon.

"Send me a pic, bro. Show me what you are."

I didn't hesitate. I didn't even think. Thinking is hard. obeying is easy.

I pulled the phone up, hiding my face, no need for it, the abs are the identity, and snapped the pic. My other hand drifted down, gripping the massive bulge in my sweats, feeling the heat radiating off it.

I typed the caption without even looking. My fingers knew what to do.

Sent to: Simon (The Boss) "Ready for training, Sir. Brain's empty. Cock's huge. Tell me who to fuck."

I hit send, a dopey, empty grin spreading across my face as I waited for his next command. God, I hope he makes me hit the gym. Or maybe he'll just come over and use me.

My brother and his buddy, Jax, took off to grab beers, leaving Jax’s pride and joy sitting in our driveway. It’s a beast of a machine, matte black, aggressive angles, totally terrifying. But it’s the helmet sitting on the seat that draws me in.

It’s one of those high-end ones I see all over my For You page. You know the ones. Videos of faceless, jacked guys with veins popping out of their arms, revving their engines, looking like dangerous, sexy robots. I’ve probably watched a thousand of those clips, just… curious. Wondering what it feels like to be that anonymous. To be that powerful.

I reach out, my skinny, pale hand trembling a little. The helmet is heavy. It smells like leather, gasoline, and him. It smells like Jax. That thick, musky scent of sweat and expensive cologne hits me, and for some reason, my dick twitches in my jeans.

"Just a second," I whisper to the empty garage. "Just to see."

I pull it over my head.

It’s a tight squeeze. My ears burn as they scrape past the padding. But once it settles? Silence. The world outside is muffled. It’s just me and the smell of Jax wrapping around my face. It feels claustrophobic and incredibly, undeniably hot.

CLICK.

The strap locks under my chin. I didn’t touch it.

Before I can panic, the visor slams down. A blue HUD flickers to life right in front of my eyes, glowing neon against the darkness.

SYSTEM INITIALIZED. USER: UNAUTHORIZED. CALIBRATING PHYSIQUE…

"What the fu..."

My voice is cut off by a sudden, searing heat in my chest. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s pressure. Like someone hooked an air compressor to my bloodstream.

Zzzzzzt.

A shock jolts down my spine, and my arms jerk outward. I watch through the tinted glass, helpless, as my forearms begin to bubble. The skin pulls tight, tanning instantly from pale ivory to a deep, sun-baked bronze. Thick, blue ropes of veins snake their way up from my wrist, pulsing in time with the thudding bass now blasting in my ears.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Oh god," I groan, but the voice that comes out is deeper. Rougher. "F-fuck..."

My t-shirt shreds. It literally explodes off my body as my pecs slab onto my chest, blowing up like airbags. My shoulders widen with a sickening crunch, forcing my arms out to the sides. I feel like a biological machine, being upgraded in real-time.

My vision blurs. The text on the HUD is scrolling faster now.

TESTOSTERONE LEVELS: CRITICAL. SEXUALITY: RECONFIGURING. INTELLIGENCE: PURGING...

My head is swimming. I try to remember my major. I try to remember why I was scared. But it’s getting harder to think. The vibration in the helmet is scrambling my brains, turning my gray matter into mush.

Why was I worried? Muscles feel good. Tight feels good.

My jeans are the next casualty. My thighs balloon outward, thick as tree trunks, ripping the denim at the seams. My cock is agonising. It swells up thick and heavy. It pushes against the zipper of my jeans until the metal teeth pop open. I can feel the head of my dick rubbing raw against the coarse denim. It is leaking pre cum like a faucet. Sticky hot fluid soaks my underwear. I am throbbing so hard it makes my vision blur.

I’m not me anymore. I’m just a body. A host for the helmet.

CALIBRATION COMPLETE. MODE: STUD. OBJECTIVE: SERVICE.

The panic is gone. It’s replaced by a dull, throbbing need. My mind is empty, smooth, and quiet. There are no thoughts, only directives.

1. Be big. 2. Be dumb. 3. Fuck Jax.

I swing a massive leg over the bike. The suspension groans under my new weight, 240 pounds of dense, fuck-meat. I catch my reflection in the side mirror.

The guy looking back isn’t me. He’s a monster. Massive traps, striated shoulders, veins pulsing with lust. I’m faceless. Anonymous. Just a piece of ass in a tank top and a helmet, waiting for orders.

I grab the handlebars. My hands are huge, swallowing the grips. I look back over my shoulder, striking the pose. The exact pose from the videos. Ass out, biceps flexed, visor reflecting the world I’m about to conquer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, my brother asking where I am. I don't even look at it.

The HUD flashes a new command.

DESTINATION: JAX'S APARTMENT. OBJECTIVE: DRAIN BALLS.

A drooling grin spreads across my face. I look like such a stud in the mirror. Huge arms. Veiny hands. A massive bulking package leaking inside my pants.

I swing my leg over the bike. The suspension sinks under my new weight. I feel powerful. I feel sexy. I feel like a total slut for Jax.

I start the engine. The vibration travels right up into my crotch and makes me groan.

I’m staring at my own arm like it belongs to a fucking stranger.

Look at this shit. Look at the size of it. The way the bicep peaks, hard as a rock, veins crawling over the skin like worms trying to escape the meat underneath. I flex, and the muscle jumps. I don’t even tell it to do it anymore. It’s just a reflex. A tic. I sit here in this expensive-ass gaming chair, high as a kite, just flexing and posing for nobody, watching the muscles ripple in the reflection of the dark window.

A year ago, I was studying for my Master’s in Economics. I had glasses. I had anxiety about my thesis. I had a girlfriend named Sarah who liked that I was "sensitive."

Now? Now I’m sitting in my boxers, smelling like stale weed and three days of unwashed armpit sweat, waiting for my roommate to come home so I can beg him to let me nut.

It started with the rent. I was broke, drowning in tuition fees. Julian, rich, cocky, daddy’s-money Julian, made me an offer. He said he’d cover my half of the rent if I let him test out his new "high-fidelity audio system" while I slept. Said it was for some sleep-study bullshit he was investing in. White noise, frequencies, whatever. I thought I was scamming him. I thought, easy money.

I didn’t know he was pumping subliminal conditioning into my brain for eight hours a night.

Sleep. Forget. Grow. Obey.

The first thing to go was the books. I just… stopped caring. The words started swimming on the page. Then the gym obsession hit. Not healthy fitness, but this desperate, burning need to get huge. To get wide. To take up space. I started shaving my head. I started buying chains. I woke up one morning with this tribal tattoo on my arm and I didn’t even remember getting it, but fuck, I thought it looked sick.

My vocabulary shrank. My temper exploded. I turned into this… this thing. This aggressive, chavvy thug who wants to punch holes in drywall and spit on the sidewalk.

And Julian? He just watched. He watched me transform from a shy nerd into his personal, brain-dead muscle pet.

I look down at the desk. There’s a stack of cash there. Twenty-pound notes. That’s my "allowance." He leaves it there for me. Tells me to go buy protein, or weed, or new Calvins. And I do it. I scoop it up like a good little boy and go buy the things that keep me dumb and docile.

I hate him. I fucking hate him. He’s this skinny, smug little prick who couldn’t bench press an empty bar, and yet he owns me. He owns this body.

I shift in the chair, and the leather squeaks. My cock is throbbing so hard it actually hurts. It’s been rock hard for four hours. It’s huge now, bigger than it ever was before. Thicker. Veiny. A massive, aggressive weapon hanging between my legs, straining against the white cotton of these briefs.

But it’s useless.

That’s the worst part of the programming. The "lock."

I can jerk it. I can stroke it. I can edge myself until my eyes roll back and I’m drooling on my own chest. But I can’t finish. My brain physically won't let the signal go through. I just hit this wall of frustration, this blue-balled agony that makes me want to scream.

I need him.

I need that little faggot to walk through the door, look at me with that sneer, and give me permission.

"Fuck sake," I grunt, the words sounding thick and slur-heavy in my mouth. I grab my cock through the underwear, squeezing it, feeling the pre-cum soaking the fabric. It’s humiliating. I’m a man. Look at me! I’m a fucking tank. I could snap Julian in half like a twig. I should be out there banging birds, smashing heads, doing whatever I want.

But here I am. Sitting with my leg cocked up, foot in the air, showing off my hole like a bitch in heat.

I grab the bong off the desk and take another rip, filling my lungs with smoke to dull the anger. But the weed just makes me hornier. It makes me zone out, staring at the red LEDs on the mousepad, thinking about his hands.

I hate that I want it. That’s the twisted part. The subliminals didn’t just make me dumb; they rewired my wiring. I used to be straight. Now? The thought of a woman does nothing. But the thought of Julian ordering me onto my knees? The thought of his voice telling me what a "good, dumb chav" I am?

It makes my hips buck involuntarily.

I look at the picture on the screen, a selfie I took five minutes ago. I look dangerous. I look like the kind of guy who would mug you at a bus stop. Eyes dead, jaw set, muscles ready to strike. A total alpha.

But it’s a lie. It’s a costume he built for me.

Underneath all this muscle, I’m trapped. Screaming. But the screams are getting quieter every day. Most of the time, there’s just the static. The need to lift. The need to smoke. The need to cum.

I hear the front door unlock.

My heart hammers against my ribs, massive, powerful thuds. The adrenaline spikes, aggressive and sharp. My fist clenches. Part of me wants to rush him, slam him against the wall, show him who the man is.

But then I hear his footsteps.

"Oi!" I bark before he even gets his coat off. My voice booms, deep and gravelly, rattling the empty cans on the desk. "Get your arse in here. I gotta hit the gym in twenty minutes to train chest and I can't fuckin' think straight."

Julian appears in the doorway, that smug, knowing smirk plastered on his face. He sees the state of me, legs spread, sweat glistening on my abs, that painful tent pitching the front of my white boxers. He knows I’m crawling out of my skin.

"Drain these balls," I growl, grabbing my crotch and giving it a rough shake. "Right fuckin' now."

He doesn't argue. He doesn't even speak. He just drops to his knees between my spread thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He pulls the waistband down, freeing the monster he created.

My cock springs out, heavy and angry, the uncut hood tight over the purple head. I look down at him, this skinny little twink kneeling before a mountain of muscle. I feel a surge of dominance, thinking I’m the one in charge here because I’m barking the orders.

But then he leans forward.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw cracks as he wraps his warm, wet lips around the head.

Fuck.

I throw my head back against the headrest, my hands gripping the armrests until the leather groans. I hate this. I fucking hate that this is what my life is now. I hate looking down and seeing a dude bobbing on my lap. It’s wrong. It’s disgusting. I should be balls-deep in some bird, not getting serviced by my roommate.

But the second he starts sucking, my brain just melts.

It feels too good. It’s electric. Every swirl of his tongue, every suction of his cheeks sends a jolt straight to my prostate that curls my toes. The hatred clashes with the pleasure, twisting into this dark, aggressive heat in my gut. I want to punch him, but instead, my hips snap forward, bucking into his mouth, forcing him to take more of me.

"Yeah... take it," I grunt, staring at the ceiling, my mind going blank, stripped of everything except the sensation of his mouth on my meat. "Suck it dry so I can go lift."

Mark was well past the point of return, phone screen blurry in the dark, thumb scrolling mindlessly through the infinite feed of muscle, sweat, and morphs. He was sweaty, desperate, and edging dangerously close to the precipice.

Then he saw it.

It wasn’t a story or a caption. Just a GIF. One single, looping second. A tanned, oiled-up monstrous stud of a jock, teeth gritted in a feral grin, biceps flexing so hard the skin looked like it was about to tear. He was mid-thrust, burying himself into some hot bottom, caught in that precise, earth-shattering millisecond right before eruption.

Thrust. Flex. Grin.
Thrust. Flex. Grin.

Mark’s breath hitched. The raw power radiating off the screen was intoxicating. The guy was a god. A brainless jock, a muscular fucking machine. Mark’s hand jacked faster, matching the frantic loop of the image.

“Fuck,” Mark groaned, his brain melting into the pixelated haze. “I wish… fuck, I wish I was him. Right now.”

The screen flickered…

There was no pain, no slow growth of muscle. Just a violent, electric yank behind his navel. The darkness of his bedroom vanished, replaced by blinding studio lights and the smell of hot lube, sweat and musk.

Mark gasped, but it wasn’t his voice. It was a deep, guttural grunt.

Suddenly, he felt heavy. Unbelievably heavy. His arms weren’t his skinny, pale twigs anymore; they were massive, pumped slabs of meat, locked in a double-bicep flex that felt like iron bands tightening around bone. He looked down… not at a phone, but at a wall of tanned, oiled pectorals and a chiselled six-pack that was currently crunching tight.

He felt the heat below. He was buried deep inside someone, the friction incredible, the tightness overwhelming. The pleasure was a physical blow, a sledgehammer to his new, primitive brain. His balls were churning, aching, drawn up tight against his body. He was right there. He was over the edge. He was about to blow his load in the most powerful orgasm of his life.

“I’m gonna… !”

Blink.

Mark’s eyes snapped open. His lungs filled with air.

He was back. Not in his room, but back at the start of the motion.

His biceps flexed. Hard. The veins popped like garden hoses. The rush of blood was deafening. He thrust his hips forward, feeling that incredible, mind-numbing friction again. The pleasure spiked, zero to one hundred in an instant. His brain fogged over with pure lust. The orgasm rushed up his spine, inevitable, unstoppable.

Blink.

Air in lungs. Muscles tight.

Thrust. Flex. Grin.

Panic flared in the back of Mark’s mind, but it was drowned out instantly by the overwhelming chemical dump of testosterone and lust. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t scream. He could only do.

He slammed his hips forward. The bottom gripped him. His biceps peaked, harder than rock. The cum was right at the tip, burning, demanding release. He needed it. He needed to empty these massive blue-balls.

Blink.

Reset.

He was trapped in the loop. No past, no future. Just one second of infinite, agonizing, ecstatic edging. He was a prisoner in the pixelated muscle, doomed to chase a climax that would never, ever come.

And somewhere, in a dark room, on a glowing screen, the GIF kept playing.

My brother and his buddy, Jax, took off to grab beers, leaving Jax’s pride and joy sitting in our driveway. It’s a beast of a machine, matte black, aggressive angles, totally terrifying. But it’s the helmet sitting on the seat that draws me in.

It’s one of those high-end ones I see all over my For You page. You know the ones. Videos of faceless, jacked guys with veins popping out of their arms, revving their engines, looking like dangerous, sexy robots. I’ve probably watched a thousand of those clips, just… curious. Wondering what it feels like to be that anonymous. To be that powerful.

I reach out, my skinny, pale hand trembling a little. The helmet is heavy. It smells like leather, gasoline, and him. It smells like Jax. That thick, musky scent of sweat and expensive cologne hits me, and for some reason, my dick twitches in my jeans.

"Just a second," I whisper to the empty garage. "Just to see."

I pull it over my head.

It’s a tight squeeze. My ears burn as they scrape past the padding. But once it settles? Silence. The world outside is muffled. It’s just me and the smell of Jax wrapping around my face. It feels claustrophobic and incredibly, undeniably hot.

CLICK.

The strap locks under my chin. I didn’t touch it.

Before I can panic, the visor slams down. A blue HUD flickers to life right in front of my eyes, glowing neon against the darkness.

SYSTEM INITIALIZED. USER: UNAUTHORIZED. CALIBRATING PHYSIQUE…

"What the fu..."

My voice is cut off by a sudden, searing heat in my chest. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s pressure. Like someone hooked an air compressor to my bloodstream.

Zzzzzzt.

A shock jolts down my spine, and my arms jerk outward. I watch through the tinted glass, helpless, as my forearms begin to bubble. The skin pulls tight, tanning instantly from pale ivory to a deep, sun-baked bronze. Thick, blue ropes of veins snake their way up from my wrist, pulsing in time with the thudding bass now blasting in my ears.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

"Oh god," I groan, but the voice that comes out is deeper. Rougher. "F-fuck..."

My t-shirt shreds. It literally explodes off my body as my pecs slab onto my chest, blowing up like airbags. My shoulders widen with a sickening crunch, forcing my arms out to the sides. I feel like a biological machine, being upgraded in real-time.

My vision blurs. The text on the HUD is scrolling faster now.

TESTOSTERONE LEVELS: CRITICAL. SEXUALITY: RECONFIGURING. INTELLIGENCE: PURGING...

My head is swimming. I try to remember my major. I try to remember why I was scared. But it’s getting harder to think. The vibration in the helmet is scrambling my brains, turning my gray matter into mush.

Why was I worried? Muscles feel good. Tight feels good.

My jeans are the next casualty. My thighs balloon outward, thick as tree trunks, ripping the denim at the seams. My cock is agonising. It swells up thick and heavy. It pushes against the zipper of my jeans until the metal teeth pop open. I can feel the head of my dick rubbing raw against the coarse denim. It is leaking pre cum like a faucet. Sticky hot fluid soaks my underwear. I am throbbing so hard it makes my vision blur.

I’m not me anymore. I’m just a body. A host for the helmet.

CALIBRATION COMPLETE. MODE: STUD. OBJECTIVE: SERVICE.

The panic is gone. It’s replaced by a dull, throbbing need. My mind is empty, smooth, and quiet. There are no thoughts, only directives.

1. Be big. 2. Be dumb. 3. Fuck Jax.

I swing a massive leg over the bike. The suspension groans under my new weight, 240 pounds of dense, fuck-meat. I catch my reflection in the side mirror.

The guy looking back isn’t me. He’s a monster. Massive traps, striated shoulders, veins pulsing with lust. I’m faceless. Anonymous. Just a piece of ass in a tank top and a helmet, waiting for orders.

I grab the handlebars. My hands are huge, swallowing the grips. I look back over my shoulder, striking the pose. The exact pose from the videos. Ass out, biceps flexed, visor reflecting the world I’m about to conquer.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, my brother asking where I am. I don't even look at it.

The HUD flashes a new command.

DESTINATION: JAX'S APARTMENT. OBJECTIVE: DRAIN BALLS.

A drooling grin spreads across my face. I look like such a stud in the mirror. Huge arms. Veiny hands. A massive bulking package leaking inside my pants.

I swing my leg over the bike. The suspension sinks under my new weight. I feel powerful. I feel sexy. I feel like a total slut for Jax.

I start the engine. The vibration travels right up into my crotch and makes me groan.

“So do I just jump in?”

“Yeah man just dive in. Perfectly safe.

“You sure…?”

“God Damn dude. Yes, I’m sur-” Then and there the brawny football player woke up.

“The fuck…? Direct eye contact with my buddy.

“Oh… Hey man.” Buddy is smart enough to go back around him and down into his pants. Then the footballer starts thrashing around, feeling my buddy take residence.

“…did it work?” Deep, voice of player. Buddy clasps onto his giant neck then glances down at his huge forearms and biceps.

“Fuck. Yes.” He shoves his hand into underwear. “Bro, it’s so fucking damp down here.” He rubs around a bit, then, like a kid in a candy store, pulls his hand out and gets a deep whiff of it.

“You wanna smell?” I started to wander over, but his roommate, who slept through the whole thing, started to wake up.

Still groggy, he muttered “who the fuck are you talking to?” He rubbed his eyes and then opened then big and wide as I stared straight into them. Before he had a chance to react, I went around him, pulled the back of his skin tight briefs, and hopped in. I squeezed in through his cheeks and started to expand my thin limbs into his thick ones. I pushed my head upward as his breathing and twitching intensified. My entire being adhered to his physical form, so when my buddy jumped at me in his bear body, I felt my mouth move and heard the words “what the fucking hell are yo—uurrrrrk.”

“Smells so good.” Felt my buddy rubbing his nose on my host’s crotch. He pins my guy down and starts to inhale the musk. At this point I man the cockpit and open my eyes to see bulging pecs, a valley of strong fat and abs, and my big buddy rubbing his bearded face over the front of my guy’s briefs.

“Dude this is fucking awesome.” Muffled, as his mouth is getting a load of the damp, overused fabric.

“Dont be selfish.” I pushed him off gently, his face slightly confused but pleasured. “I still owe ya this.” I plunged my guy’s head into my buddy’s crotch, getting a sweet load of the residue sweat left behind after At least three days of training and practice. He let out a growlish-moan. He grabbed my lower back, making sure his giant biceps and hairy pecs rubbed against my skin, and pulled me closer than I had already been. My guy’s beard started to collect the sweat on my buddy’s hairy torso as my face grinded the thick flesh.

This playing went on for a while until we heard our hosts’ phone alarms go off. Buddy grabbed both, which read “football practice – at 1:30.” He got off the my guy’s bed and walked over to the closet on the other side of the dorm room, then, after a bit of rummaging, pulled out gear after gear – all used and musky. Buddy looks at me. “Never thought I’d ever hold a football in my life.” He let out a cute, gruff giggle. “I have an idea.” He pulls off his guy’s jockstrap, brings it up to his nose to take a deep whiff, then throws it at my face. “Let’s wear each other’s underwear during practice. We can mix our jock musks .” As he said that he unknowingly scratched his exposed crotch and then his hairy armpit.

“Aw fuck yes.” I slipped off my briefs, gave it one last whiff on the day-old cum spot and shit stain, then threw it at my buddy. He went into my guy’s closet and grabbed his cup, then went over to his and tossed me over his guy’s cup. I placed it into the XL strap, then pulled it up to have it for snug-loose around my guy’s crotch and ass. I look over at my buddy as I settle in. “Having some trouble over there?”

“Just a little tight.” I watched as he stretched the fabric of the already wrinkled briefs before pulling it up and around his hairy ass and crotch, leaving a clear indication on the depth of his ass crevice and large package. He rubbed his taint, then took his hand up to his face. “Scent’s aleady starting to mesh together. He smiled a big, idiotic grin and started to gather his guy’s clothes and gear. I got up to start to pull my clothes on, but couldn’t help but watch my buddy’s ass jiggle with every step.

I grabbed a used stretch shirt out of my guy’s hamper, which reeked of his cologne, deoodorant, and body odor. “Shit man. My guy’s a fucking douche if he wears shit like this.” Threw it over at my buddy, who instantly rubs his nose on the stained armpit area. He gives me a dumb smile, then tosses it back. I pull it over my frame and feel the fabric cling on to first my forearms, upper arms, then my chest and abdominals and back.

“Oh man! Hand over that wifebeater!” Buddy motioned over to the used tank top in my guy’s dirty hamper. He grabs it out of my hand and slips it on, his pecs and upper back stretching out the already wrinkly fabric. “Lookie here! Cum stains! Guy must’ve splashed a bit in while wearing this.”

Buddy starts to pull on his host’s used leggings, which reeked of musk and ass just as bad as his jockstrap. He tosses me a pair from the week before. “How the hell do these end up fitting these guys!? They’re too fucking small” I pull up the size XL leggings over my guy’s larger-than-waist thighs, then up and over his huge rack of an ass.

My buddy waddles over and sticks a finger into the huge crevice formed by the fabric and my ass. “Looking a little tight there, eh? He giggles, almost sounding like his ghost self before pulling on his jersey. “Hey I got an idea. Let’s do a little role-playing.”

Buddy grabs his guy’s giant shoulder pads and heaves them over to me. “Hey man. Mind helping me put these on? Can never get them right the first time.” I smirked while putting on my guy’s jersey. “Sure man. Oh and hey. Have I told you how much I ‘ppreciate your shoulders? No homo man I just think you’ve been making some great gains.”

I place the pads over my buddy’s frame, seeing his already huge shoulder width expanding our even further. “Many thanks my man. You need any help?”

I grab my guy’s pads and hand them over. “Never opposed to getting some assistance from my best bud” I say, cockily, giving him a slap on the ass. He plops them over my shoulders, then, before I could say anything, shoves my guy’s helmet over my head.

“Fuck you’re sexy” he mutters, breaking character for a bit. I smirk. “What was that?”

Hans stands in the center of the quiet locker room, the air thick with the scent of floor wax and anticipation. He is 30 years old, his athletic frame already buzzing with the adrenaline of the upcoming match. He adjusts his golden soccer jersey, glancing in the mirror at the reflective "Hans-Gold" lettering across his back, ready to lead his team onto the pitch.

As he reaches for his cleats, he takes a firm step forward and feels a sudden, heavy resistance. His bare foot sinks into a pool of ink-black, pitch-like sludge that has seeped from beneath the lockers. The substance is chillingly cold and incredibly dense. When he tries to pull his foot away, the Non-Newtonian properties of the sludge take hold; it doesn't just stick—it fights back. Thick, tar-like ropes stretch elastically from the floor to his skin, creating a high-tension anchor that drags his foot back down with an irresistible, viscous weight.

A strange, rhythmic hum begins to vibrate through the floor, and Hans watches in a mixture of terror and fascination as the sludge begins to climb. It moves with a deliberate, pressurized flow, creeping up his calves and thighs. Wherever the pitch touches him, his skin undergoes a seamless material swap, hardening into mirror-finish shiny silicon rubber.

The sensation is overwhelming. As the rubberized coating ascends, Hans feels his physical limits being rewritten. His washboard abs swell and broaden, his shoulders expanding with a surge of artificial power as his physique morphs into that of a hyper-defined bodybuilder. The golden fabric of his jersey is slowly consumed, absorbed into the growing mass of reflective black latex that now defines his form.

He realizes then that he isn't just being covered; he is being integrated. The human athlete is being overwritten by the PDU drone architecture. The sludge reaches his neck, and a wave of cold, synthetic calm washes over his mind. The heavy pitch flows over his face, sealing into a seamless, high-gloss black silicon helmet. His vision shifts as a sleek visor engages, replacing the locker room's dim light with a sharp, HUD-enhanced tactical overlay.

The transformation is complete. The "Hans-Gold" persona is gone, replaced by a silent, powerful entity of chrome and rubber. Across his massive, newly forged chest, the gold text "PDU-069" begins to pulsate with a resonating glow, catching the ray-traced highlights of the room. He is no longer a player on a field; he is a drone, perfected and ready for a different kind of objective.

The clip-ons had a nice silver gleam to them, despite clearly being cheaply made. They were a joke purchase from a street vendor, that Leo, a man whose personal style leaned towards quiet, well-fitted neutrals, now held in his palm. They were absurd, quite frankly. Two rings meant to look real but failing miserably. He’d bought them on a whim, a tiny act of rebellion against his own sensible nature. Alone in his pristine apartment, he chuckled, lifting them towards his ears.

The moment the cold, flimsy metal clamped onto his virgin lobes, he yelped in pain. They didn’t clip to his ears, more punctured through them, a sharp pain coursing through his ears as they pierced them immediately.

And suddenly, agony was coursing through his head, both from the sudden stabbing and an immediate migraine pulsing through him as the waves of energy drove through him, practically stabbing his brain as well as just his ears. He tried to scream, but the sound was lost, strangled by his own mouth refusing to open.

As if the pain was a key unlocking the door to his mind, a strange energy and change crashed in through him. A deep, resonant hum in his limbs, causing them to pulse and expand with each shudder and gasp, expanding into strong, clearly defined muscles. He could recall working out at the gym, purposefully designating days to work on his arms, his legs, his chest. Speaking of his chest, it too was expanding, pecs jutting out like shelves, abs solidifying like cobblestone, back muscles pushing out and forming tight ridges and curves on his sculpted torso. All while that initial, excruciating pain in his ears morphed, spreading through his skull, and becoming a warm, pleasurable buzz that melted his thoughts into static. His eyes, wide with shock, glazed over, the pupils dilating into black pools of dazed, hypnotic arousal as his cock twitched.

His whole body jerked as it did, snapping him straight, and he resettled into a lazy, cocky slouch. His shoulders were expanding outwards as his neck thickened, the adam's apple jutting out just like his pecs, his hand feeling the new growth on his neck as they too expanded, knuckles becoming more defined and the fingers growing thicker, stronger. He groaned as he groped that new adams apple, hearing a deep, guttural, pleasure-filled rumble vibrate through his chest, a sound that could only be described as pure, raw, dumb power. “Fuck… yeah…”

A fierce, prickling itch exploded across his scalp. His neat, brown hair seemed to thicken, erupting into a wild cascade of perfect yet chaotic curls. Simultaneously, ink began to bloom across his skin - less like tattoos being applied, and more like memories surfacing through flesh. Intricate patterns, with roses, latin script, all rising up from beneath the skin, bringing memories of a new life with them.

His face transformed, jaw squaring out into a block of granite, clean shaven and neat. His cheekbones sharpened. His lips, once thin, became fuller, settling into a permanent, smug smirk. His nose felt stronger as it realigned. His eyes changed, becoming a vacant, bright blue, and they held a constant, low-burning hunger. A need.

The hypnotic buzz in his mind shifted into a more banging sensation, it was a sledgehammer to his psyche. Leo’s intricate mind - his love of indie films, his nuanced understanding of art, his quiet identity - was being pulverized and erased. Replaced by a flood of sensations and impulses that were simpler, louder, and infinitely more compelling.

Vivid, visceral memories forced their way to the front of his mind, demanding to be recalled. The burn of a maxed-out bench press, the grunt of effort, the admiring glance from a girl in yoga pants. His domain. His home. The thumping of shitty rap music in a crowded locker room, as he rapped along, crude jokes with the lads. His lads. The sight of his own pumped biceps in the mirror, the feel of a tight shirt or tank stretching across his back. And a deep, needing ache. A constant, low-level, throbbing ache in his groin, the centre of his new universe. The need to look, to touch, to fuck. Women. Curvy, big-titted, adoring women. The thought of a man, any man, even the ghost of Leo, made him feel a confused, aggressive disgust. Gay? That was a weak, stupid thing to be. He was all man. All man.

A name echoed in his mind, Chad. Chad. That was him, wasn’t it? “Fuck… yeah…” He repeated, relishing in the deep grumble.

The transformation was almost complete. The hypnotic energy from the piercings, now permanently fused to his earlobes, synced with the throbbing, insistent heat in his groin. It was a demand. A command, even. This new body, Chad’s body, needed to christen itself, to expel the last remnants of a weaker, wrong identity.

His massive hand dropped to the insistent throbbing in his trousers. The fabric was impossibly tight, straining over a thick, heavy weight that hadn’t been there before. He didn't fumble. His movements were sure, confident. He ripped the remaining fabric away, and there it was. Thick, veined, and heavy, jutting proudly from a thatch of dark, coarse hair. It was his. The proof. His trophy. A low, animal growl rumbled in his chest, pure, uncomplicated need. His large, calloused hand, smelling of fresh sweat and iron, wrapped around his own cock. The touch was electric, a circuit of pure, dumb vanity and lust completing.

He began to stroke, not with shame, but with a narcissistic, possessive rhythm. His eyes were wide open, locked on his reflection, not on the face, but on the powerful arm working, the bicep bulging and swelling with each stroke, the thick veins snaking over his forearm, the tattoos rippling over the new, dense muscle. This was worship. Adoration of the magnificent, simple thing he had become.

"Yeah... fuckin' look at that…" he grunted, his voice a deep, stupid rasp. Each pump of his fist sent waves of pleasure crashing through him. With each stroke, another fragment of Leo’s past was annihilated, replaced by the solid, sensory reality of Chad.

The sounds of a gym echoed in his ears. The clang of weights. The shitty rap music. The memory of a hundred girls checking him out, their eyes wide with want. It was all his. It had always been his. He was the king. The alpha. The top fucking dog.

His rhythm became more urgent, his breath coming in ragged, powerful grunts. The muscles in his stomach clenched into a hard, rippled board. His powerful thighs trembled. The pleasure built, a terrifying, incredible peak of pure, mindless release. With a final, guttural roar that was pure, masculine rage, he came. Thick, hot, copious ropes shot across his own stomach and chest, splattering the new tattoos, the smell of it - musky and potent - mixing with the scent of his sweat to create the ultimate perfume of the dumb jock.

He slumped back, breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat glistening on his incredible new physique. His own cum was warm on his skin. He looked down at the mess, then at his own hand, and let out a low, throaty, arrogant laugh. "Fuck yeah brah…”

He rose to his feet, the movement full of pure and arrogant grace. He stood to his full, imposing height. He didn't clean himself. The mess was a badge of honor. He was Chad. He was strong. He was horny. And he was so, so fucking dumb. The clip-ons were replaced by the real, steel in his ears, a permanent anchor to this new, perfect, simple reality. He needed to get to the gym. He needed to be seen. He needed to find some chick to fuck. The king was ready to hold court.

"You ever seen a man turn into something else?" The guy leaned across the sticky bar, gold chains clinking against his tank top. His breath smelled like coconut rum and something chemical.

Tommy hesitated—both at the question and at the twin grinning behind him, a mirror image except for the scar curling around his left eyebrow. The bar throbbed with bass, bodies swaying under neon that turned sweat into liquid glitter. He'd only come in for a beer after his shift, not whatever this was. Still, something about their matching grins made him nod.

The first twin—Marco or Marcus, he hadn't caught the name—pulled out a blunt rolled in glossy black paper. "Special blend," he said, thumbing the lighter. The flame cast shadows that made his teeth look sharper. Tommy inhaled before he could think twice, the smoke thick and sweet, like burning sugar cane dipped in motor oil. His tongue went numb instantly.

Behind him, the other twin laughed, low and rasping. "You feel it yet, hermano?" The bassline from the speakers seemed to pulse inside Tommy's ribs now, syncing with his heartbeat. His fingers tingled, then itched—he scratched at his wrist and came away with a tuft of coarse, golden hair stuck under his nails. The twins exchanged a glance Tommy didn't like. "Right on time," one muttered.

The bar's neon signs blurred into streaks of pink and green. Tommy's vision tunneled, the twins suddenly towering over him as his spine curled inward. A sharp pop made him gasp—his shoulders were widening, seams of his work shirt splitting with muffled tears. Someone whistled. "Damn, Tugger coming in hot." The name buzzed in his skull like it had always been there.

His jaw ached, then cracked, reshaping itself. The taste of copper flooded his mouth as new molars erupted—thick, flat things meant for grinding. He clutched the bar for balance, but his hands… Jesus, his hands. The fingers fused, knuckles bulging, nails darkening into curved talons. The twins slapped his back, their laughter drowned out by the blood roaring in his ears. One of them shoved a cracked mirror in front of him. The face staring back had golden stubble, a wider nose, and eyes that glinted like wet amber. A stranger. A brother.

The music faded into white noise as his hips snapped forward, pelvis realigning with a series of sickening clicks. His jeans split at the thighs, revealing skin darkening into a deep tan, veins surfacing like vines under warm earth. Somewhere distantly, he recognized the bartender gagging, dropping a glass. The twins just grinned wider, handing him a fresh tank top—their tank top, the fabric already stretched over his swelling pecs. "Tugger," they chorused, as if christening a ship.

His scalp burned. Hair follicles burst like tiny fireworks, strands thickening, curling into dense ropes that sprang up in the same high-top fade the twins sported. His fingers—no, his paws now—reached up, tracing the rigid lines of fresh cornrows along his crown. Gold flashed at the edges of his vision; one of the twins pressed a set of grillz into his palm, still warm from someone else’s mouth. Without hesitation, Tugger slid them over his expanding canines, the cold metal kissing his gums as it settled. The taste of cheap champagne and gunpowder flooded his tongue—his taste now. He flexed his jaw, relishing the weight.

"Yo, spit sum’n," the scarred twin goaded, tossing him the black-papered blunt. Tugger caught it midair, the motion fluid, instinctive. His lungs expanded greedily as he inhaled, smoke curling around the new grillz. Words bubbled up—not his old stutter, but something rhythmic, primal. "Money tall like my fade, gold teeth got me paid," he half-sang, half-growled, the syllables rough but right. The twins whooped, pounding the bar. The rhyme tasted like destiny.

His scalp prickled again, twists of hair tightening at the roots, follicles rewriting themselves into stiff, gelled peaks. He ran a hand through it—thick with product, smelling like coconut oil and arrogance. The mirror showed his reflection grinning back, gold-capped incisors glinting. His tongue darted out, tracing the metal, savoring the slickness. The twins’ patois slid into his ears, syncing with his pulse. "Bumbaclot, he natural," one laughed, slinging an arm around him. Tugger didn’t flinch. The contact fit.

The blunt burned between his fingers, ash flaking onto his new tank top. He sucked in, holding the smoke until his lungs ached. It tasted like stolen mangoes and gasoline. Exhaling, the words came unbidden—"Yuh see mi glow? Watch how mi move." His voice was deeper, rougher, the vowels round and lazy. The twins hooted, clinking their rum bottles against his grillz. The sound was right, like puzzle pieces snapping home.

His tongue felt too big for his mouth now, pressing against the gold caps. The twins chattered in patois, rapid-fire, and somehow he understood, nodding along. His old vocabulary dissolved like sugar in hot rum. Sentences broke into fragments, half-sung. "Buss a tun up—nah, wait—buss a—" He growled, frustrated, then grinned as the rhythm clicked. "Buss a tun up, make dem run up, money cummin in hot." The twins roared approval, slamming their palms on the bar. The bartender flinched.

His scalp itched—not pain, but urgency, like his hair was alive. He clawed at it, fingers snagging in coils that hadn’t been there ten minutes ago. Grease smeared his palm, coconut-scented. The scarred twin shoved a jar at him. "Fix up yuhself." Tugger scooped out a glob of shea butter, working it into his roots. The strands twisted tighter under his touch, springing into fat ropes that gleamed under the neon. His fade sharpened at the temples, lines crisp enough to cut glass. The twins nodded. "Proper."

The blunt dangled from his lips, smoke curling around the gold caps. He sucked hard, relishing the burn—not just in his lungs, but in his teeth. The grillz pulsed with heat, like they’d been forged in his mouth. Ash dusted his new tank top, the fabric straining over pecs that hadn’t existed an hour ago. His reflection in the bar’s foggy mirror showed a stranger: jaw squared, nose broadened, skin sun-kissed deep. The twins’ gold chains clinked against his own when he moved. "Say sum’n," the other twin goaded, elbow nudging him.

Tugger grinned—then froze. A sharp pressure bloomed low in his gut, hot and insistent. His thighs tensed, denim seams groaning. The twins exchanged knowing looks. "Ah. Dere it go." The scarred one chuckled, nodding toward Tugger’s crotch. His old jeans, already split at the thighs, strained further as something shifted inside. Fabric stretched obscenely around a thickening outline. Tugger hissed through his teeth, fingers clawing at his belt. "The fuck—" His voice cracked mid-curse, deepening further as his cock swelled, veins surfacing like vines under sun-baked earth.

The transformation burned—not pain, but purpose. His shaft darkened unevenly, patches of pale skin melting into deep bronze, the head flaring wider. Precum soaked through the denim, warm and slick. The twins whooped, slapping the bar. "Bumbaclot, dat’s a tree trunk!" Tugger barely heard them; his pulse roared in his ears, blood rushing downward, leaving his thoughts gauzy. His grip on the blunt faltered. The world tilted—less blood upstairs meant more room for the twins’ slang to slither into his synapses, reshaping syntax.

His jeans split with a sound like tearing flesh. The scarred twin whistled. "Homie dick don’t play." Tugger—no, Tugger now—looked down. His cock jutted thick and uncut, veins mapping a hybrid geography: milk-chocolate shaft, pinkish base, the head a dusky rose. It twitched, dripping onto the barstool. The scent hit him—musk and saltwater, like the docks at dawn. His hips jerked involuntarily, grinding against air. Thoughts dissolved. Only rhythm remained, thumping behind his brow like a second heartbeat.

The twins chanted in time with his pulse. "Buss it open, buss it wide—" Tugger groaned, his voice guttural now, vowels stretching like taffy. His fingers—thick, gold-ringed—wrapped around his shaft. The contrast stunned him: dark knuckles against biracial flesh. Stroking sent sparks up his spine, each tug syncing with the twins’ patois. His free hand fumbled for the blunt; his lips remembered the motion before his brain did. Inhaling seared his throat—good pain, earned pain. Smoke curled from his nostrils as his hips pistoned. The bartender dropped another glass. Nobody looked.

Newport menthols appeared between his fingers like magic. He lit one off the blunt’s cherry, sucking hard. The icy burn carved pathways in his lungs, frost meeting fire. His skin crawled. Ink bloomed across his biceps: crude stick-and-poke tats—a dollar sign, a skull with cornrows—needled into existence by an invisible hand. His earlobes itched, then split with a wet pop. Twin hoops swung into place, 24k, catching the neon. The twins nodded approval. "Yuh see it," one murmured, blowing smoke in his face. Tugger coughed—then laughed, the sound deeper, rougher. His larynx had reshaped too.

The bar’s air thickened with every exhale. His sentences collapsed into patois-soaked fragments. "Gimme di—nah—hand mi di—" He growled, frustrated, then snapped his fingers. The scarred twin passed him another blunt without looking. Tugger ripped it with his canines, spitting the filter. His teeth lengthened with each drag, canines pressing against the grillz like they wanted out. A fresh piercing—a gold stud—punched through his tongue mid-sentence. "Bumbaclot—" he hissed, blood and smoke on his lips. The twins howled. His vocabulary burned away, replaced by their lexicon. Feds became babylon. Money turned to scrilla. His old accent? Ash in the wind.

Newport smoke curled around fresh ink creeping up his neck—a barbed wire tattoo appeared, winding toward his jaw. His earlobes stretched themselves, cartilage splitting with wet pops to accommodate fat hoops that hadn’t been there five minutes ago. The blunt’s cherry glowed brighter as he inhaled, embers reflected in his now-hooded eyes. His pupils swallowed the light, irises darkening to match the twins’. His thoughts came slower, syrup-thick, words forming in time with the reggaeton thumping through the bar’s speakers. "Mi head heavy," he mumbled, tapping his temple. The twins nodded sagely. "Jamaican gravity," the scarred one grinned, flicking ash into Tugger’s palm like a sacrament.

His ass cheeks clenched involuntarily—then expanded, denim ripping at the seams as his backside plumped into twin moons, round and high like overproof rum barrels. The barstool creaked under the new weight. "Bumbaclot," the unscarred twin whistled, smacking Tugger’s left cheek hard enough to send a jiggle through the meat. The slap echoed. Tugger’s cock twitched in response, thickening against his thigh as if the nicotine hit his bloodstream and rerouted straight to his dick. Precum beaded at the tip, cloudy white against his new complexion. He didn’t bother wiping it; the twins’ tank top was already stained with sweat and spilled Henny. What was one more sin?

The Newport dangled from his lips, filter damp with spit. He sucked hard, the menthol burn slithering down his throat and coiling low in his gut—then lower still, pooling heat in his balls. His cock jumped, veins rising like braided rope under skin. Tugger groaned, the sound garbled around the cigarette. His fingers—inked now with crude prison-style tats—twitched toward his fly. The twins chuckled, passing him another black-papered blunt. "Pussy boy can’t handle di pressure?" the scarred one taunted, blowing smoke in his face. Tugger inhaled both—Newport first, blunt second—and felt the double punch of nicotine and THC rewrite his synapses. His tongue lengthened, words melting into patois slurry: "Mi cock a fiya man, buss di—" He cut off with a grunt as his dick swelled again, the head purpling. The barbed wire tattoo on his neck grew another inch, thorned coils digging into his jugular.

Ash rained onto his lap as he fumbled with his belt. His jeans—shredded from thighs to calves—split further, seams surrendering to the sheer girth of his ass. The twins whooped when he stood, the denim falling away to reveal twin globes that jiggled with each breath. Tugger palmed one cheek experimentally; the flesh bounced back like overproofed dough. "Bumbaclot," he marveled, voice gravel-deep. The unscarred twin smacked his other cheek hard enough to leave a red handprint. Tugger’s dick leaked in response, precum glazing his inner thigh. His brain fuzzed—was it the weed or the way his prostate pulsed now, hungry and hollow? The blunt burned his fingers. He didn’t drop it. Couldn’t.

A Burberry tracksuit materialized around him—not fabric, but second skin. The jacket clung to his pecs like liquid plaid, sleeves straining around biceps inked with fresh tats: dollar signs, skulls with cornrows. The pants sagged just right, waistband dipping low enough to show the waistband of his Ethika boxers—bright orange, stretched obscenely around his hips. His cock bulged against the fabric, an obscene tent pitching toward his navel. The twins whistled in unison. "Swag teleport," the scarred one grinned, flicking ash onto Tugger’s fresh Balenciagas. He didn’t flinch. The heat felt right.

His ass jiggled when he turned—cheeks round and high, splitting the tracksuit seams with every step. The twins’ eyes tracked the motion like sharks scenting blood. Tugger rolled his shoulders, the Burberry rustling like a flag claiming territory. Gold chains clinked against his collarbones, heavier now, his now. The unscarred twin reached out, thumbing the waistband of his boxers. "Dis a violation," he murmured, hooking a finger under the elastic. The fabric snapped back with a wet pop against Tugger’s dripping cockhead. Precum soaked through, a dark spot spreading like ink on parchment. The scent—musk and saltwater, cheap cologne and cheaper weed—thickened the air.

"Man built," the scarred twin breathed, stepping closer, his own bulge straining against neon-pink basketball shorts. Tugger grinned, gold teeth catching the light. His tongue dragged over the grillz, tasting metal and anticipation. The first touch was electric—the twin’s calloused palm sliding up his shaft, thumb swiping over the leaking slit. Tugger hissed, hips jerking forward. His cock twitched, veins rising like vines on a trellis. The other twin crowded in behind him, hands kneading his ass cheeks, fingers digging into the plush flesh. "Bumbaclot," he groaned, breath hot on Tugger’s neck. "Dis yuh first time?"

Tugger’s answer dissolved into a growl as the scarred twin—Flyysoulja, his name surfaced like a bubble in rum—dropped to his knees. The tracksuit pants pooled around Tugger’s ankles, Ethika boxers stretched transparent with precum. Flyysoulja didn’t tease; he devoured, throat opening wide around Tugger’s girth. The heat was obscene, wet suction pulling a ragged moan from Tugger’s chest. Behind him, the other twin’s hands slid under his waistband, palms cupping his ass, thumbs spreading him wide. Something cold and slick pressed against his hole—lube or liquor, Tugger couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. His world narrowed to the twin rhythms: Flyysoulja’s throat working his cock, the other twin’s thick fingers breaching him, stretching.

The Burberry jacket clung to Tugger’s sweat-slicked back as his hips bucked forward, driving his cock deeper down Flyysoulja’s throat. Gold chains clinked against his collarbones with each thrust. The other twin spat curses in patois, fingers twisting inside Tugger, scissoring him open. "Him tight still," he muttered, breath hot on Tugger’s neck. Flyysoulja pulled off with a wet pop, lips glistening. "Nah," he rasped, standing. "Him ready." His basketball shorts hit the floor, revealing a monstrous 13" cock, veins like braided rope. Tugger’s mouth watered.

Flyysoulja grabbed Tugger by the hips, flipping him like he weighed nothing. The barstool groaned under their combined weight as Tugger’s ass hit the vinyl, legs splayed wide. Ratsoulja’s fingers left him aching, the ghost stretch lingering. Flyysoulja’s dick slapped against his hole, pre-cum mixing with spit-slick lube. "Breathe," he warned—then split him open in one brutal shove. Tugger howled, nails carving trenches in the bar’s wood. The twins laughed, gold teeth flashing. "Now him sound like us," Ratsoulja grinned, palming Tugger’s leaking cock.

Flyysoulja’s thrusts came slow at first, letting Tugger feel every ridge, every pulse of his monster cock rearranging his insides. Then the rhythm changed—harder, faster, hips snapping like a whip. Tugger’s cock jumped, thickening under Ratsoulja’s calloused grip. "Yuh see?" Ratsoulja murmured, thumbing his slit. "Dis real island boy dick now." The words sent heat coiling low in Tugger’s gut. His balls drew up, heavy and tight. Flyysoulja’s pace turned savage, the wet smack of skin-on-skin drowning out the reggaeton. The barstool screeched across the floor. Someone’s drink tipped over. Nobody stopped.

Ratsoulja spat into his palm, slicking his own fat length—thicker than Flyysoulja’s, if that was possible. The head bulged, purpling under the neon. Tugger’s hole ached around Flyysoulja’s cock, but when Ratsoulja pressed against him—over him, the blunt tip nudging against his stretched rim—his body opened like it had been waiting. The pop as Ratsoulja’s crown breached him tore a ragged shout from Tugger’s throat. Gold chains clattered against his heaving chest. Flyysoulja chuckled, hips never stopping. "Bumbaclot," he rasped, sweat dripping onto Tugger’s back. "Him built fi dis."

Tugger’s cock pulsed between them, veins swelling under the strain. Every thrust from Ratsoulja’s hips sent him deeper onto Flyysoulja’s dick, his prostate flattened between them. His balls tightened, sac drawing up high and tight against his taint. The scent of sweat, sex, and spilled Henny clogged his nostrils. His grillz clicked against his teeth—no, his fangs now, lengthened and sharp. Something shifted in his pelvis with a wet crunch, hips widening to take both twins deeper. The barstool groaned, screws straining.

Flyysoulja’s throat worked around him, swallowing around his swollen head like it was made for this. Tugger’s fingers—now tipped with blackened nails—dug into Flyysoulja’s cornrows, forcing him down until his nose pressed into coarse golden curls. His cock was growing still, thickening impossibly, the head flaring against Flyysoulja’s uvula. Precum flooded the twin’s throat in thick ropes. Flyysoulja gagged, tears glistening, but didn’t pull off. His gold chains clinked against Tugger’s thighs like applause.

Behind him, Ratsoulja spat into his palm, slicking his own monstrous length—veins like twisted vines, the head bulging purple under the neon. He pressed forward, the blunt tip nestling against Tugger’s stretched rim. "Dis a violation," Ratsoulja grinned, breath hot on Tugger’s neck—then shoved in, sheathing himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. Tugger arched, his scream strangled by the way Flyysoulja’s throat milked him, the twin’s Adam’s apple bobbing around his shaft. His hole burned, Ratsoulja’s dick pulsing inside him, rearranging his guts. The barstool creaked, screws protesting under their combined weight.

Something snapped low in Tugger’s pelvis—a wet pop like a cork leaving a bottle. His hips widened, bones grinding, reshaping to accommodate the twins’ monstrous girth. His cock jumped, thickening impossibly further, veins rising like vines on sun-baked earth. His balls tightened, sac drawing up high and tight against his taint. The pressure built—not just in his cock, but in his skin, his bones, his blood. Gold chains clinked against his collarbones, heavier now, hotter now. His grillz clicked, fusing with his lengthening canines. The twins’ thrusts synced, pistoning into him like twin engines, hammering his prostate into submission. "Mi cummin," Flyysoulja garbled around his cock, throat convulsing. Ratsoulja growled in patois, fingers digging into Tugger’s jiggling ass cheeks.

The first spurt ripped through him—not just cum, but transformation. His skin darkened unevenly, patches of pale melting into deep bronze, his cock pulsing thick ropes of cream across Flyysoulja’s face. Ratsoulja roared, hips stuttering as he pumped Tugger full of scalding cum, the heat searing his insides. Tugger’s vision whited out—no, golded out—as his name shifted in his skull like tectonic plates. Tugger slid away like a shed skin; Taursoulja clicked into place, solid as a bullet in a chamber. His hair tightened at the roots, cornrows rewriting themselves into intricate patterns his fingers remembered braiding. His tongue lengthened, patois pooling in his mouth like molasses. Memories of Tommy—pale, skinny, weak—flickered like a dying lightbulb before shattering. The twins collapsed against him, sweat-slick and grinning. "Taursoulja," they chorused, slapping his new pecs. "Bumbaclot, finally."

Taursoulja flexed, gold chains clinking against his expanded chest. His ass ached gloriously, twin loads leaking down his thighs. His cock—still half-hard—twitched at the scent of sex and spilled Henny. The bartender vomited into a bucket. The twins laughed, tossing Taursoulja a fresh durag—his durag now, black and gold like his soul. He tied it slow, fingers moving with muscle memory he shouldn’t have. The mirror behind the bar reflected a stranger: jaw squared, nose broadened, hooded eyes glinting with island arrogance. His grillz sparkled, canines sharpened to points. A third gold chain materialized around his neck, heavier than the others, claiming him.

The polo drones marched silently into the exercise hall, one by one. Black rubber glistened under the sterile glow of the fluorescent lights, every step rhythmic, every movement precisely calculated. The rubber uniforms were tight around the body, designed for full body control and functional aesthetics. Across the chest: their identity reduced to three numbers—the PDU number. Not names. Not personality. Only function.

They all had different equipment. Some wore rubber masks with built-in filters, perfect for sports drone exercises in extreme environments. Others wore heavy gas masks, tubes connected to backpacks filled with oxygen or control stimuli. Some wore black latex gymnastics suits, marked with gold lines along the muscles. A few drones wore rubber pilot uniforms with helmets, visors darkened. For the feet: military lace-up boots for missions, rubber sneakers for sports training, depending on their function in the collective.

During the drone exercise, they changed into their specialized training uniforms. One drone bent down to fasten its belt, which carried extras: oxygen hose clips, data chips, slim tools. Another pulled up its throat tube and secured it under the brim of its mask, a move mirrored by four others. No one spoke. No one asked questions. There was only routine and obedience.

Instructions The rubber allowed no escape. Sweat was collected and recycled. The markings on the uniforms did not mark status—only function. The black surface of the polo reflected the neon light like a liquid shell. Gloves gripped tools, gathered equipment, bent at precise angles. Nothing was left to chance. Only programming.

Sensory feedback intensified in the advanced rubber uniforms. Skin contact with the fabrics submission. The breathing of the mask became a rhythm, repeating silent mantras: “Drone. Uniform. Function.” Every time a drone saw its own reflection, there was no 'ham'. Just a unit in the system. A function in the structure of the Hive.

The sport-functional rubber drones trained separately. Football uniforms in shiny latex, the back of the suit decorated with the PDU number and Hive symbol. Gold socks stretched up over the lower leg, rubber stripes highlighting the musculature. One drone made a pass, the body swaying in perfect balance as the rubber tightened around the thighs. Another plunged into a save, the gloves cutting through the air. All movement was functional. Nothing was free.