PrimmMarqious

Being a gay Asian guy who didn't look the part was something Jin was extremely familiar with. With beauty standards and stereotypes going around, the guy had a hard time finding a partner. Now, he wasn't bad looking, if anything he had that 'cuteness' to him. That's what every guy he was with told him. But being a top who was constantly undermined for his looks, such compliments felt like a slap in the face.

He wasn't particularly tall, standing at 5'8, but... He wasn't short. Or at least he didn't consider himself short. He was average... A bit below average but still-! Unfortunately for Jin it wasn't just his height that he had problems with. His round face, soft eyes, skinny body... And 4 inches member were all seemingly working against him. God knows how many times he heard the question "Are you really a top?" And similar. People assumed he was a bottom just because of how he looked and he hated it.

And today? He had the same experience again. After sending his selfie to a guy he met online through an app, the guy almost immediately cancelled on him just because Jin "didn't look the part". And the guy wasn't even shy about it. He told Jin everything in his face and poor guy was both speechless and fueled with anger. But just as he was about to block this guy he saw a new message from him.

lankylavander: Sorry dude, no offense, but you are like shorter than me. I could never date someone below 6ft lol

lankylavander: Here is how a top should be

After which he sent a link to some website. And in fit of rage, Jin just clicked it without thinking as he was brought to a page that showcased a bunch of absolutely jacked hung jocks. He hated to admit but they all looked great. But that didn't matter now, as he was about to close the site he saw a pop-up add. It was some kind of app called "Be The Part" promising to help people change into who they truly are meant to be.

Normally Jin would ignore such obvious scam but today for some reason he clicked it and downloaded the app, without even replying to the guy on the app. That jerk could fuck off.

Opening the app, Jin was met with a few questions asking him about what he wanted and what was his problem. Writing how he wishes he was more like a top. A stereotypical one. And how he had enough of people looking down at hom just because of his looks, Jin was disappointed to find the app just seemed to send you words of encouragement and support for you to achieve your goal. Pretty stupid. But what did he honestly expect from such thing...?

Closing the app, Jin sighed, tossing his phone to the side. He needed to take a break from everything and calm down. Stuck with his thoughts, he heard a notification from his phone. Weird, he was pretty sure it was on silent mode. Whatever. Taking a phone to see what it was, Jin saw it was the damn app. How lovely let's see what it had to say...

"A Good Top spends every day in the gym, working on his body to make sure he looks good for his bottom. And you big guy? You look great. Hunk like you loves the pump and sweat. You relish knowing others envy you and wish they looked more like you. And nothing comes close to the feeling of your clothes stretching over your body, trying their best to hold on and contain all that brawn you carry "

Suddenly Jin felt a warn sensition take over him. Something was wrong but he couldn't quite name it. The feeling spread though his entire body as it began to pulse and grow, both in muscle and height. It was like his entire body was on fire. Groaning in what was a mix of pain and pleasure Jin could feel his clothes stretching over his muscles, his skin feeling too tight. With every second he was bigger, as if someone was pumping air into him. He could feel his spine getting longer until he was 6'5, his limbs growing and lengthening to accommodate the needs of his new body. His legs grew first, feet growing to support the new height as his old size 8.5 quickly moved up a scale to 15, with his hands turning from smooth and small into big rough paws from all weight lifting. Suddenly, his shirt gave up, splitting to make room for his growing pecs, unable to hold them in any longer. Letting another moan as he felt air on his chest, his sensitive nipples exposed, hanging from the meaty muscles, Jin was in state of completely bliss for a moment.

Looking himself in the mirror, he couldn't help but flex. He looked good today. The pump from the gym still didn't wear off. Taking a few pictures, he admired his abs as he was rather proud of them. Fuck he was proud his entire body. All that training with the team and many hours spend in the gym paid off. Many people assumed he got academic scholarship because he was Asian, but the truth was - he was a total atlehete. Big, strong and proud.

Looking at his phone he saw a message from a twink he was talking with earlier.

lankylavander: We still up for tonight, big guy?

lankylavander: Can't wait to see you in person and touch your amazing body.

A smirk formed on Jin's face without him even realizing. Like it belonged there. The little shit was eager. And he couldn't help but wonder how will his pretty face would look after he breaks him down tonight. Honestly, all of this was too easy. The moment Jin downloaded any dating app, he found a bunch of matches in seconds. He could afford to be picky and this gut definitely had a nice ass he could fuck to release some tension before the game tomorrow.

rice&raw:Ye Im comin

rice&raw:dw bro

rice&raw:Here is smth while you wait

Jin knew what effect he had on people. He knew the little bitch will be watering from the moment he sees the pic. He could imagine his tight bussy clenching already. And he didn't have to wait long to confirm how effective his picture was.

lankylavander: Omg, you look soo hot! I can't wait to feel you deep inside me tonight

Immediately Jins dick twitched. The guy had a good ass. Round and smooth, he couldn't wait to play with it like a dought before fucking him. Feeling himself through the shorts, Jin felt a small dissatisfaction as his 4-inch member came to life. If only he were more well-endowed. Now, 4 inches wasn't exactly small... But the guy like him should be more hung. Many of his dates were disappointed when he took off his shorts. But it was something he couldn't change...

Suddenly, he got another notification from that stupid app.

"A Good Top needs a big dick to satisfy his bottom. And you have a pretty big dick. Your confidence doesn't come from nowhere, you know you are big all over. Is there anything better than being a new standard setter?"

The warm feeling returned, only this time it was localized in only one part of his body - his dick. Jin could feel it swelling larger as the front porch of his underwear started to swell. Feeling his joy and pride rise to life, there was an obvious imprint against the front of his underwear. Reaching down with his mitten of a hand to adjust it, Jin stopped for a moment, phone still in his hand as he took another picture, before readjusting his dick. The 9-inch shaft now stood proud, a big mushroom head above the underwear and next to his belly button, as Jin casually stroked it while texting, as he leaked a bit of pre over his abs

rice&raw: I hope you can handle me

The lil bitch knew exactly what he was doing with that pic. And Jin couldn't wait to come over and shove his entire dick into them. Probably more than anyone else gave them or will give them. The stereotype about Asian's not being hung? Well Jin certainly didn't fit the stereotype, if anything he went against it. He loved when they struggled to swallow him, chocking as they tried to deep throat him. He could already imagine this fucker on his knees as his tight throat with tears of his eyes, filled with pain and pleasure he never knew.

After a shower, Jin got himself ready, putting on some tank top and jeans as he headed towards little guy's flat. He didn't dress particularly well because... Why should he? Not like they would stay on for very long anyway. Knocking onto apartments door, a short guy, not more than 5'9 opened the door. "Lankylavander?" Jin said, deep baritone voice coming out of his mouth.

"You can call me Noah..." He replied leading the way in. After a confirmation, he got in, ready to enjoy himself before he got a notification. Stupid app-

"A Good Top is doesn't need to think too much. That's reserved for bottoms. A Good Top has that cocky attitude and carefree nature, going through life without thinking. The only thing you worry about it who will milk and drain your balls today since they needed to be emptied quite frequently. It's eat, lift and fuck bro"

Just as he read it, Jin could feel his intelligence draining away, any remaining part of his old self drifting away. The new emptiness felt nice. His head felt hollow but who needed smarts when he did thinking with his other head anyway. All that was left were things he needed the most - how to eat, lift, and fuck. And honestly, who needed more bro?

Turning towards little guy's whose name he didn't remember, Jin smirked. "So like, where is your bedroom bro?" He asked putting his phone away. The annoying appdidn't work at all. But then again, how could he becomes more perfect than he already was? Heh.

Now hopefully this bitch knew how to handle a real men.

"Oh, let's just take a pic for snap before we continue " Noah said with hunger in his eyes. He couldn't believe what a hunk he scored... Tonight was really his lucky day

"You want to show me off? Sure broski, here" he said standing in front of Noah, arms flexed. His dick was already getting hard from the size difference and as little guy took photos, Jin's body completely hid Noah as his dick brushed again smaller guys stomach. "You are like, so small" Jin added, moving his hands onto Noah's waist "I wouldn't want to break you tonight" that was a lie, he definitely would.

Noah’s breath hitched as Jin’s massive hand slid possessively across his waist, the heat of his palm searing through the thin cotton. His own fingers trembled not from fear, but from the sheer size difference pressing against his stomach. The tip of Jin’s cock stood up and next to his abs, already leaking, as it smeared pre onto his abs. Noah’s knees nearly buckled when Jin bent slightly, his forearm muscles bulging as he gripped the back of Noah’s neck, pulling him into a rough kiss. Jin's tongue found, or rather forced its way into the little guy's mouth, conquering it with ease as they kissed.

"Mmf- shit" Noah gasped against those lips, his own dick straining against his pants, as his hands played with Jin's nipples. Meanwhile Jin's free hand dropped lower, fingers digging into the waistband of his jeans, yanking them down just enough to free himself completely. "Fuck, bro. You are getting me all worked up" Jin growled, his voice rougher now, deeper. He didn’t wait for a response as he carried Noah into the bed and spun him around, shoving him onto the bed face-first. The impact sent a jolt of pain up Noah's ribs, but before he could react, Jin was on top of him, his weight pinning Noah down as his cock now fully hard stood there and demanded attention.

"Gonna make you so full of me." Jin rumbled, his mouth hot against Noah’s ear, his breath ragged. The bed creaked under Jin’s weight as he shifted. Jin’s hands, rough and calloused, gripped Noah’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of his ass. Noah could feel the thick, veiny length of Jin’s cock pressing against him, the heat of it searing through the thin fabric of his boxers. Jin’s breath was hot and heavy against the back of Noah’s neck, his voice a low growl.

"You’re gonna take it all, aren’t you? Otherwise I won't be very happy broski" Jin murmured, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Noah’s boxers and yanking them down in one swift motion. The cool air hit Noah’s exposed skin, making him shiver, but it was nothing compared to the way Jin’s cock twitched against his ass, the tip already slick with pre cum. Jin didn’t wait for an answer. He spat into his palm, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, and then his fingers were there, rubbing the saliva into Noah’s entrance, stretching him open with a rough, insistent pressure. "Look at your hole, already clenching. It's hungry."

Noah gasped, his fingers clawing at the sheets as Jin’s thick fingers pushed inside him, the burn sharp and sudden. "Fuck! This feels amazing- You are so good at this" Noah hissed, his body tensing, but Jin didn’t stop. He worked him open with brutal efficiency, his fingers scissoring, stretching, preparing him for what was to come. Noah could feel the way his own body was responding, his cock aching, his hole clenching around Jin’s fingers, desperate for more.

"That’s it "Jin growled, his voice thick with lust. "You are ready for the real thing." And then his fingers were gone, replaced by the blunt, massive head of his cock.

"God, you're taking it all so well," Jin grunted, his intellect completely replaced by a primal, driving hunger for sex. He gripped Noah’s hips and with one powerful, unthinking thrust, he buried his entire length inside. Noah’s world exploded into white light, the sensation was overwhelming, a total invasion that stretched him to his absolute limit.

Jin didn't hold back, his movements becoming rhythmic, heavy, and punishing. Every lunge sent a shockwave through both of them, Jin’s giant chest muscles slapping against Noah’s back with the force of a hammer. The motion went on for quite a while, and as Jin finally reached his peak, he unloaded a massive, hot torrent deep inside Noah, before pulling his dick out. "Ready for another round?" To Noah's surprise, Jin's dick didn't deflate, if anything it seemed more hard than it was before...

And so after an eventful night and many rounds, Jin was finally satisfied as his balls were finally drained. For now. Laying in bed for a bit to rest and catch his breath before leaving after that amazing fuck, Jin heard Noah talking. "You are the best. I don't think I'll be able to walk tomorrow... We need more tops like you. You are a really good one."

Fuck, he really was a Good Top.

Connor was a thorn in the Professor’s side, always disrupting class with annoying quips, crass comments, typical class clown behavior.

He was a lot more respectful when he visited my office, asking for extra credit. His fratty attitude was conveniently replaced with something more deferential.

“If I fail your class, I can’t play Lacrosse.” Connor batted his eyelashes at me. “And then I’d lose my scholarship.”

Lucky for Connor, the Professor was a gracious and patient man. He assigned Connor a generous extra credit project. Watch this video, write a report on what you learned.

Hey, everyone. Connor here! I’ve been getting a few messages from concerned friends and family about my whereabouts. If you haven’t seen me in a while, don’t worry! I’ve been on an extended honeymoon with Professor.

Obviously he’s not my professor anymore, since I dropped out and whatnot. But he still likes me to call him Professor…he’s so romantic. 🥰

So, yeah, this is my official announcement. I’m a happy little housewife now. I’ve never been happier…worshipping my man’s dick, sucking his toes, cooking his breakfast, cleaning his house, and doing whatever I can to keep him happy.

Thanks again for the concern, but I can assure you…I’m living my best life.

Connor Russo*

“Hey Rico, mind if we stop for a quick pic? The view is incredible.”

“Haha sure no problem. I’ll snap a pic of you.”

“No, my guy, I want you to be in the photo dummy. Let’s do a selfie.”

“Oh, my bad! Duh.” Rico looked pleasantly surprised that Vincent, his persona trainer, wanted to take a picture with him. “Where do ya want me?”

“Right here, Loverboy.” Vincent snapped his fingers. “Next to me…where you belong, Loverboy.”

“Oh, yes of course, Sir.” Rico tripped over his feet rushing to follow his alpha’s command, stumbling right into his man’s strong arms. Vincent chuckled fondly. He loved how the Loverboy Trigger worked so well on Rico. He considered making the transformation permanent.

“Thank you, Alpha. You’re so strong.” He squeezed his Master’s biceps, playfully, reverently. “I’m sorry I get so clumsy around you. You just make me feel so warm, but also so frazzled, b-but not like in a bad way-”

“Hush. It’s okay, baby boy.” He pressed a finger to Rico’s lips. “Don’t worry your pretty mind.” He kissed Nico on the nose. “I love when you ramble and get all discombobulated. It’s fucking adorable, babe. But I don’t want you stress about this thing between us. Just enjoy it.” Vincent pushed his stuff bulge against Rico for emphasis.

“Thank you, Master.” He blushed. “You’re so good to me.”

“I know, love.” Vince kissed his thrall on the nose. “You’re my love-slut. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Alpha.” His voice was breathy. “Thank you for making me this way.”

Here is my first story to celebrate Valentine's Day. This series of stories will be based on the 5 love languages. Hope you enjoy!

"Acts of service."

"What was that babe?"

Jack looked over at his boyfriend, "Here, take a look." He handed his phone to Peter, "Took an online quiz to figure out my love language."

"Acts of service?" Peter took his boyfriend's phone and looked closely, "Makes sense." He smiled, "You're always helping out wherever you can." He snuggled close to Jack, "I'm so lucky."

"The luckiest." Jack reminded him with a smile of his own.

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

"Babe? Can you grab me a water?"

Simple request. Jack put his game controller to the side and walked to the kitchen, filling up a glass, and handing it to Peter.

"Ah that's refreshing." Peter smiled, "Thanks, babe."

"You know, you were right there." Jack chuckled, "You could've just grabbed it yourself."

"But I wanted to see my hot boyfriend." Peter grinned, "And after all, acts of service."

"Right, how could I forget?" Jack rolled his eyes, "Love you babe."

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

"Babe? Could you rub my feet? They're sore from my jog."

Jack stared in the mirror, his hand rubbing against his smooth, cleanshaven cheek. His thoughts were racing- where did his beard go? He didn't shave it, did he? Did Peter do this? As a prank? God... his face was so smooth, it'd been years since... when was the last time he...?

"Babe?"

"Oh right, sorry babe." Jack stepped into their bedroom to find his boyfriend lounging comfortably, his feet raised on a pillow.

"Thanks babe, I really need this."

"Of course."

Jack went to work, rubbing his boyfriend's feet. His hands massaged them slowly, attentively. They were sweaty, a somewhat unpleasant smell invading his nostrils. But he kept going, rubbing each foot with a focused intensity.

"Lick 'em."

It came out sounding like a command and Jack couldn't help himself. He lowered his face towards them, salivating at the sight of Peter's sweaty feet. He stuck his tongue out, getting ready to carry out the task.

"Am I really doing this?" He thought as he got closer, "Wh-why am I...?"

"Kidding! Babe, oh my god!" Peter laughed.

"Oh, right sorry!" Jack blushed and laughed nervously and pulled his face away.

"Thank you again, babe."

"I don't mind, cutie." Jack smiled awkwardly, "Happy to serve."

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

"Babe, I really need your help. Come here!"

Jack whimpered as he ran a hand across his bare chest and rubbed his muscular, smooth pecs. Slowly, his hand made it's way down his firm, toned stomach- the treasure trail he had since a teenager had similarly vanished. And as he pulled at his waistband and looked down, he found his pubes were similarly gone.

"What the fuck?"

Not just tamed or trimmed- gone. He was smooth- as smooth as the day he was born. He raised an arm to inspect his pit hair- gone. His arm hair- gone. Leg hair? Gone. He even gripped his asscheeks and realized that even his ass hairs were gone.

"No fucking..."

"Babe? What're you doing?"

"Coming." He said almost too quickly.

When he arrived in the room, Jack paused. Peter was in bed. Naked. His erect dick throbbing in his hand. In any other circumstance, Jack might've been turned on. But his thoughts centered on his physical changes- the feeling that something was wrong.

"I uh..." Jack bit his lip, "I need... help..." Why was he having such a hard time saying what he wanted to say?

"Same." Peter said, "I need you to suck my dick. Babe." The 'babe' felt added on, like Peter needed to remember to say it.

"B...but..." Jack bit his lip, "Of course."

Despite the voice in his head urging him to tell Peter about all the strange things that were happening, Jack did what he was told. He bobbed up and down on his boyfriend's throbbing cock. Ran his tongue along the shaft. Pleasured the head earnestly. Peter's hand grabbed at Jack's head and forced him further onto his cock.

"Swallow it."

And he did. Each drop as Peter came. Rope after rope down his throat. Jack finally rolled off Peter, gasping for air. He reached for his own cock, only to find it was still flaccid, no matter how much he tugged at it.

"Fuck, that was good." Peter looked down at Jack, "Good job."

Jack shuddered from the pleasure of hearing those words, "Thank you, sir. Service is pleasure."

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

Jack stared in the mirror, dark circles around his eyes from nights of restless sleep. He slowly ran a head along the smooth, bald surface of his head. His brunette locks, always styled, were gone. Even his eyebrows- all of his hair- just gone. He felt tears welling in his eyes, all from the frustration of being unable to verbalize any of this to Peter- or anyone for that matter. Frustration at the fact no one seemed to care or realize what was happening.

His eyes widened.

"What...?" He looked down at his forearm, "What the hell?" There was a spot on his arm, about the size of a quarter. Black, smooth, and cool to the touch. Latex.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Jack turned to see Peter in the doorway, "I need dinner. And a drink."

"Y-yes sir."

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

It was growing. Expanding. It was moving up his arm. Around his hand. This black latex. Tight, cool. Covering him. Erasing him. Jack pulled at it to no avail, and ultimately he just curled up in their bed, heart pounding. What the fuck was this? Why was this happening?

"What're you doing? I told you I wanted a protein shake and a shoulder rub when I got back."

"Yes, sir." Jack responded quickly. And while his cock remained flaccid, the pleasure he got from saying those words rivaled even his best orgasm.

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

He stood silently at the door. Staring ahead. Waiting. His reflection caught in a small decorative lamp. The inky blackness of the latex ribbons wrapping firmly around his torso and legs. His arms now completely covered. His cock, sealed away behind the latex, a small bulge the only proof it ever existed.

"Welcome home, sir." His voice wavered as Peter returned from his run, "How may I assist you?" He bit his lip, eyes still expressive, betraying his fear and confusion.

"I need a snack." Peter smirked, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "And my pits need some attention."

"Yes sir." Jack licked his lips.

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

"Drone, come here!"

Drone? That wasn't... he wasn't... Why did Pet... Sir call him that? He stood in the bathroom, staring blankly ahead now. His eyes were half-lidded, he looked tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of resisting whatever this was. The black latex left no inch of his body uncovered, save for his head. Shiny, cool, smooth... he whimpered as he felt it suddenly invade his ass. Deeper and deeper, massaging his prostate, sending waves of pleasure to his flaccid, useless cock. He could feel the latex taking form- his hole now just a ribbed entryway. No different from a toy.

"Drone!? I said get in here!"

"Dr-drone?" He whispered now, "But..."

He had a name, right? Something his friends and family would call him. So frustratingly on the tip of his tongue, but forevermore unspoken. He started breathing heavier as the latex suddenly began its ascent. Tendrils wrapping around his head and face. He didn't even move. Didn't even react as the last vestiges of who he was disappeared under the black latex. Erasing him, removing any features that made him a person, that made him him. He stood, entrapped entirely, staring ahead.

"Drone? Seriously, how many times?" Peter entered the bathroom.

"My apologies, sir." It said, "I am ready to serve."

Peter smirked, "Designation?"

"Drone Unit 352." The drone said quickly, as if spoken hundreds of times before, "I am ready to serve."

"Good." Peter came up from behind his drone, "I have a few friends coming over." He whispered, "And I want you to put that mouth and ass to work."

Here is my first story to celebrate Valentine's Day. This series of stories will be based on the 5 love languages. Hope you enjoy!

"Acts of service."

"What was that babe?"

Jack looked over at his boyfriend, "Here, take a look." He handed his phone to Peter, "Took an online quiz to figure out my love language."

"Acts of service?" Peter took his boyfriend's phone and looked closely, "Makes sense." He smiled, "You're always helping out wherever you can." He snuggled close to Jack, "I'm so lucky."

"The luckiest." Jack reminded him with a smile of his own.

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

"Babe? Can you grab me a water?"

Simple request. Jack put his game controller to the side and walked to the kitchen, filling up a glass, and handing it to Peter.

"Ah that's refreshing." Peter smiled, "Thanks, babe."

"You know, you were right there." Jack chuckled, "You could've just grabbed it yourself."

"But I wanted to see my hot boyfriend." Peter grinned, "And after all, acts of service."

"Right, how could I forget?" Jack rolled his eyes, "Love you babe."

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

"Babe? Could you rub my feet? They're sore from my jog."

Jack stared in the mirror, his hand rubbing against his smooth, cleanshaven cheek. His thoughts were racing- where did his beard go? He didn't shave it, did he? Did Peter do this? As a prank? God... his face was so smooth, it'd been years since... when was the last time he...?

"Babe?"

"Oh right, sorry babe." Jack stepped into their bedroom to find his boyfriend lounging comfortably, his feet raised on a pillow.

"Thanks babe, I really need this."

"Of course."

Jack went to work, rubbing his boyfriend's feet. His hands massaged them slowly, attentively. They were sweaty, a somewhat unpleasant smell invading his nostrils. But he kept going, rubbing each foot with a focused intensity.

"Lick 'em."

It came out sounding like a command and Jack couldn't help himself. He lowered his face towards them, salivating at the sight of Peter's sweaty feet. He stuck his tongue out, getting ready to carry out the task.

"Am I really doing this?" He thought as he got closer, "Wh-why am I...?"

"Kidding! Babe, oh my god!" Peter laughed.

"Oh, right sorry!" Jack blushed and laughed nervously and pulled his face away.

"Thank you again, babe."

"I don't mind, cutie." Jack smiled awkwardly, "Happy to serve."

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

"Babe, I really need your help. Come here!"

Jack whimpered as he ran a hand across his bare chest and rubbed his muscular, smooth pecs. Slowly, his hand made it's way down his firm, toned stomach- the treasure trail he had since a teenager had similarly vanished. And as he pulled at his waistband and looked down, he found his pubes were similarly gone.

"What the fuck?"

Not just tamed or trimmed- gone. He was smooth- as smooth as the day he was born. He raised an arm to inspect his pit hair- gone. His arm hair- gone. Leg hair? Gone. He even gripped his asscheeks and realized that even his ass hairs were gone.

"No fucking..."

"Babe? What're you doing?"

"Coming." He said almost too quickly.

When he arrived in the room, Jack paused. Peter was in bed. Naked. His erect dick throbbing in his hand. In any other circumstance, Jack might've been turned on. But his thoughts centered on his physical changes- the feeling that something was wrong.

"I uh..." Jack bit his lip, "I need... help..." Why was he having such a hard time saying what he wanted to say?

"Same." Peter said, "I need you to suck my dick. Babe." The 'babe' felt added on, like Peter needed to remember to say it.

"B...but..." Jack bit his lip, "Of course."

Despite the voice in his head urging him to tell Peter about all the strange things that were happening, Jack did what he was told. He bobbed up and down on his boyfriend's throbbing cock. Ran his tongue along the shaft. Pleasured the head earnestly. Peter's hand grabbed at Jack's head and forced him further onto his cock.

"Swallow it."

And he did. Each drop as Peter came. Rope after rope down his throat. Jack finally rolled off Peter, gasping for air. He reached for his own cock, only to find it was still flaccid, no matter how much he tugged at it.

"Fuck, that was good." Peter looked down at Jack, "Good job."

Jack shuddered from the pleasure of hearing those words, "Thank you, sir. Service is pleasure."

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

Jack stared in the mirror, dark circles around his eyes from nights of restless sleep. He slowly ran a head along the smooth, bald surface of his head. His brunette locks, always styled, were gone. Even his eyebrows- all of his hair- just gone. He felt tears welling in his eyes, all from the frustration of being unable to verbalize any of this to Peter- or anyone for that matter. Frustration at the fact no one seemed to care or realize what was happening.

His eyes widened.

"What...?" He looked down at his forearm, "What the hell?" There was a spot on his arm, about the size of a quarter. Black, smooth, and cool to the touch. Latex.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Jack turned to see Peter in the doorway, "I need dinner. And a drink."

"Y-yes sir."

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

It was growing. Expanding. It was moving up his arm. Around his hand. This black latex. Tight, cool. Covering him. Erasing him. Jack pulled at it to no avail, and ultimately he just curled up in their bed, heart pounding. What the fuck was this? Why was this happening?

"What're you doing? I told you I wanted a protein shake and a shoulder rub when I got back."

"Yes, sir." Jack responded quickly. And while his cock remained flaccid, the pleasure he got from saying those words rivaled even his best orgasm.

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

He stood silently at the door. Staring ahead. Waiting. His reflection caught in a small decorative lamp. The inky blackness of the latex ribbons wrapping firmly around his torso and legs. His arms now completely covered. His cock, sealed away behind the latex, a small bulge the only proof it ever existed.

"Welcome home, sir." His voice wavered as Peter returned from his run, "How may I assist you?" He bit his lip, eyes still expressive, betraying his fear and confusion.

"I need a snack." Peter smirked, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "And my pits need some attention."

"Yes sir." Jack licked his lips.

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

"Drone, come here!"

Drone? That wasn't... he wasn't... Why did Pet... Sir call him that? He stood in the bathroom, staring blankly ahead now. His eyes were half-lidded, he looked tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of resisting whatever this was. The black latex left no inch of his body uncovered, save for his head. Shiny, cool, smooth... he whimpered as he felt it suddenly invade his ass. Deeper and deeper, massaging his prostate, sending waves of pleasure to his flaccid, useless cock. He could feel the latex taking form- his hole now just a ribbed entryway. No different from a toy.

"Drone!? I said get in here!"

"Dr-drone?" He whispered now, "But..."

He had a name, right? Something his friends and family would call him. So frustratingly on the tip of his tongue, but forevermore unspoken. He started breathing heavier as the latex suddenly began its ascent. Tendrils wrapping around his head and face. He didn't even move. Didn't even react as the last vestiges of who he was disappeared under the black latex. Erasing him, removing any features that made him a person, that made him him. He stood, entrapped entirely, staring ahead.

"Drone? Seriously, how many times?" Peter entered the bathroom.

"My apologies, sir." It said, "I am ready to serve."

Peter smirked, "Designation?"

"Drone Unit 352." The drone said quickly, as if spoken hundreds of times before, "I am ready to serve."

"Good." Peter came up from behind his drone, "I have a few friends coming over." He whispered, "And I want you to put that mouth and ass to work."

Here is my first story to celebrate Valentine's Day. This series of stories will be based on the 5 love languages. Hope you enjoy!

"Acts of service."

"What was that babe?"

Jack looked over at his boyfriend, "Here, take a look." He handed his phone to Peter, "Took an online quiz to figure out my love language."

"Acts of service?" Peter took his boyfriend's phone and looked closely, "Makes sense." He smiled, "You're always helping out wherever you can." He snuggled close to Jack, "I'm so lucky."

"The luckiest." Jack reminded him with a smile of his own.

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

"Babe? Can you grab me a water?"

Simple request. Jack put his game controller to the side and walked to the kitchen, filling up a glass, and handing it to Peter.

"Ah that's refreshing." Peter smiled, "Thanks, babe."

"You know, you were right there." Jack chuckled, "You could've just grabbed it yourself."

"But I wanted to see my hot boyfriend." Peter grinned, "And after all, acts of service."

"Right, how could I forget?" Jack rolled his eyes, "Love you babe."

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

"Babe? Could you rub my feet? They're sore from my jog."

Jack stared in the mirror, his hand rubbing against his smooth, cleanshaven cheek. His thoughts were racing- where did his beard go? He didn't shave it, did he? Did Peter do this? As a prank? God... his face was so smooth, it'd been years since... when was the last time he...?

"Babe?"

"Oh right, sorry babe." Jack stepped into their bedroom to find his boyfriend lounging comfortably, his feet raised on a pillow.

"Thanks babe, I really need this."

"Of course."

Jack went to work, rubbing his boyfriend's feet. His hands massaged them slowly, attentively. They were sweaty, a somewhat unpleasant smell invading his nostrils. But he kept going, rubbing each foot with a focused intensity.

"Lick 'em."

It came out sounding like a command and Jack couldn't help himself. He lowered his face towards them, salivating at the sight of Peter's sweaty feet. He stuck his tongue out, getting ready to carry out the task.

"Am I really doing this?" He thought as he got closer, "Wh-why am I...?"

"Kidding! Babe, oh my god!" Peter laughed.

"Oh, right sorry!" Jack blushed and laughed nervously and pulled his face away.

"Thank you again, babe."

"I don't mind, cutie." Jack smiled awkwardly, "Happy to serve."

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

"Babe, I really need your help. Come here!"

Jack whimpered as he ran a hand across his bare chest and rubbed his muscular, smooth pecs. Slowly, his hand made it's way down his firm, toned stomach- the treasure trail he had since a teenager had similarly vanished. And as he pulled at his waistband and looked down, he found his pubes were similarly gone.

"What the fuck?"

Not just tamed or trimmed- gone. He was smooth- as smooth as the day he was born. He raised an arm to inspect his pit hair- gone. His arm hair- gone. Leg hair? Gone. He even gripped his asscheeks and realized that even his ass hairs were gone.

"No fucking..."

"Babe? What're you doing?"

"Coming." He said almost too quickly.

When he arrived in the room, Jack paused. Peter was in bed. Naked. His erect dick throbbing in his hand. In any other circumstance, Jack might've been turned on. But his thoughts centered on his physical changes- the feeling that something was wrong.

"I uh..." Jack bit his lip, "I need... help..." Why was he having such a hard time saying what he wanted to say?

"Same." Peter said, "I need you to suck my dick. Babe." The 'babe' felt added on, like Peter needed to remember to say it.

"B...but..." Jack bit his lip, "Of course."

Despite the voice in his head urging him to tell Peter about all the strange things that were happening, Jack did what he was told. He bobbed up and down on his boyfriend's throbbing cock. Ran his tongue along the shaft. Pleasured the head earnestly. Peter's hand grabbed at Jack's head and forced him further onto his cock.

"Swallow it."

And he did. Each drop as Peter came. Rope after rope down his throat. Jack finally rolled off Peter, gasping for air. He reached for his own cock, only to find it was still flaccid, no matter how much he tugged at it.

"Fuck, that was good." Peter looked down at Jack, "Good job."

Jack shuddered from the pleasure of hearing those words, "Thank you, sir. Service is pleasure."

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

Jack stared in the mirror, dark circles around his eyes from nights of restless sleep. He slowly ran a head along the smooth, bald surface of his head. His brunette locks, always styled, were gone. Even his eyebrows- all of his hair- just gone. He felt tears welling in his eyes, all from the frustration of being unable to verbalize any of this to Peter- or anyone for that matter. Frustration at the fact no one seemed to care or realize what was happening.

His eyes widened.

"What...?" He looked down at his forearm, "What the hell?" There was a spot on his arm, about the size of a quarter. Black, smooth, and cool to the touch. Latex.

"Hey, what're you doing?" Jack turned to see Peter in the doorway, "I need dinner. And a drink."

"Y-yes sir."

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

It was growing. Expanding. It was moving up his arm. Around his hand. This black latex. Tight, cool. Covering him. Erasing him. Jack pulled at it to no avail, and ultimately he just curled up in their bed, heart pounding. What the fuck was this? Why was this happening?

"What're you doing? I told you I wanted a protein shake and a shoulder rub when I got back."

"Yes, sir." Jack responded quickly. And while his cock remained flaccid, the pleasure he got from saying those words rivaled even his best orgasm.

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

He stood silently at the door. Staring ahead. Waiting. His reflection caught in a small decorative lamp. The inky blackness of the latex ribbons wrapping firmly around his torso and legs. His arms now completely covered. His cock, sealed away behind the latex, a small bulge the only proof it ever existed.

"Welcome home, sir." His voice wavered as Peter returned from his run, "How may I assist you?" He bit his lip, eyes still expressive, betraying his fear and confusion.

"I need a snack." Peter smirked, wiping the sweat from his forehead, "And my pits need some attention."

"Yes sir." Jack licked his lips.

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

"Drone, come here!"

Drone? That wasn't... he wasn't... Why did Pet... Sir call him that? He stood in the bathroom, staring blankly ahead now. His eyes were half-lidded, he looked tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of resisting whatever this was. The black latex left no inch of his body uncovered, save for his head. Shiny, cool, smooth... he whimpered as he felt it suddenly invade his ass. Deeper and deeper, massaging his prostate, sending waves of pleasure to his flaccid, useless cock. He could feel the latex taking form- his hole now just a ribbed entryway. No different from a toy.

"Drone!? I said get in here!"

"Dr-drone?" He whispered now, "But..."

He had a name, right? Something his friends and family would call him. So frustratingly on the tip of his tongue, but forevermore unspoken. He started breathing heavier as the latex suddenly began its ascent. Tendrils wrapping around his head and face. He didn't even move. Didn't even react as the last vestiges of who he was disappeared under the black latex. Erasing him, removing any features that made him a person, that made him him. He stood, entrapped entirely, staring ahead.

"Drone? Seriously, how many times?" Peter entered the bathroom.

"My apologies, sir." It said, "I am ready to serve."

Peter smirked, "Designation?"

"Drone Unit 352." The drone said quickly, as if spoken hundreds of times before, "I am ready to serve."

"Good." Peter came up from behind his drone, "I have a few friends coming over." He whispered, "And I want you to put that mouth and ass to work."

6 foot 6, 300 pounds. Do you wanna know how tall he used to be? 5'5". Charlie took my rejection to heart and I hadn't seen him in weeks, I like a dominant man. One who can throw me around, and Charlie was sweet- yes- but he couldnt give that to me. Now he looks like he stepped straight out of a gamestop porno. He keeps sending me selfies and pictures, and I'd by lying if I said it didnt turn me on. It's like he took the blueprint of my deepest fantasies.

*ding*

Fuck it's him.

"Hey cunt, flying back from the states rn. You better get that perky little ass of yours ready for me- you aren't ready for the size of my new cock hahaha. didn't know u were such a size queen."

“Sam, stop.” Michael laughed as his best friend Sam fondled the hunk’s breasts.

“I can’t believe it! I can’t believe the spell worked!” Sam yelled in disbelief. “Who would have thought it! Grandad’s old spell book…”

“Yeah Sam. With a body like this, no one is gonna mess with us now!” Michael celebrated.

Sammy continued to knead his friend’s perky breasts. Michael’s chest looked so big and soft, the exact opposite as it had looked 20 minutes ago. Just half an hour ago, Michael was just your average skinny twink. But now… now he was this muscular jock. Well, a jock with the mind of a nerd.

“When does the spell wear off…. bro?” Michael asks absentmindedly, admiring his new flexed bicep.

Sam looked at Michael in confusion. Was he joking? ‘Bro’. Michael would never say such a thing. At least, not in a serious manner like he just did. It just wasn’t in his vernacular. Nor was it in Sam’s. Sam hoped Michael was mocking the jock stereotype. I mean, he wouldn’t put it past Michael to play a joke like this. But it was just the way he said it… it just slipped out of his lips with ease. As if it was a common occurrence.

“Bro?” Sam laughed nervously. “Is everything alright, Michael?”

Michael, who was still admiring his new sexy body, scoffs and laughs. “Dude, who are you, my mother? It’s Mikey. When have you ever called me by my full name, man?”

Sam’s heart dropped into his stomach. Something was wrong. Sam had never called Michael ‘Mikey’ in his life. It had always felt so… so weird. While the two were the closest of friends, they never called each other by anything other than their proper names. Michael and Sam. Sam and Michael. That’s how it had always been. Not Sam and ‘Mikey’.

“I’m getting worried, Michael. I think we should just refer the spell. We can try again later-” Sam panicked, grasping at his grandfather’s spell book. He frantically flicked through the pages before Mikey’s thick hands snatched it away from him.

“I said, DON’T call me that!” Mikey grunts, carelessly swinging the spell book around. “I’m not some fuckin nerd like you, bro!”

Sam flinches, almost cowering before his best friend. This wasn’t part of the plan. The spell book said nothing about mental changes. Only physical. Sam’s hands shake and sweat begins to glisten his skin.

“Calm down, Micha- I mean, Mikey… you’re scaring me-” Sam stutters.

“SCARING YOU? YOU FUCKIN PUSSY, BRO?” Mikey pushes Sam against the wall, his pecs pressing against the twink’s face. “YOU WANNA ACT LIKE A PUSSY? THEN I’M GONNA TREAT YOU LIKE ONE… ISN’T THAT RIGHT, FUCKTOY?”

“No… no please. Don’t-” Before Sam can finish his sentence, Mikey grabs Sam’s head and forces his lips onto his massive pecs. Mikey’s nipples slip their way into Sam’s mouth, forcing him to nurse on his friend’s tits. “SUCK LIKE THE GOOD BITCH YOU ARE!”

Sam, still pressed against the wall, could feel Mikey’s cock pressing against his stomach. Michael, whose cock was around 5 inches on a good day, now had a fat 11 inch cock. A cock big enough to force any slut into submission. Sam didn’t think the spell would affect Michael this much. It was only supposed to turn him into “the man he desired to be”. But Michael didn’t mention that he wanted to be anything like this.

Mikey took a step back, letting Sam fall to his knees. Sam felt dazed from sucking his friend-turned-bully’s tit. He sat back against the wall and noticed something lying on the ground. On the floor, behind the jock, lay Sam’s one chance at escape: the spell book. Maybe there was a way at reversing all this. Changing the hot-headed horny jock Mikey back to sweet caring Michael. Sam had no other choice.

As soon as Sam saw the big hunk admiring his biceps, he made a break for it. He threw himself across the room and onto the book. He clawed at it, scrambling to find the reverse spell. Just as Sam opens the correct page, he feels a force tug him from behind.

Mikey flips Sam on his back and sits on him. The jock’s weight making it impossible for Sam to move. The jock rips the book from Sam’s small hands and stared at it. Mikey squinted at the front cover, struggling to pronounce the words taped onto the book.

“Gran…. grand-fath-er’s spell-book…. Grandfather’s Spellbook!” he yelled triumphantly as drool trickled down the side of his mouth.

“This is what you wanted, lil bro? Wanted to change me? As if…” the jock smiled deviously. “How about I change you, bro. Anything is better than being a nerd, man.”

“How about turning you into my submissive pet or an inflatable sexdoll… or maybe a jock like me…?” Mikey grinned as Sam began pleading to the huge jock.

“Huhuhuhu bro. Oh no bro. You’re fucked huhuhu. This one is perfect.” He dumbly chuckles.

“Don’t worry, brah. You’re gonna love being my happy, air-headed submissive boiwife” the jock smiled and recited the wish.

Sam began growing beneath him. More fuckable. More bouncy. More slutty. His brain emptying of all thoughts and worries. Leaving him as nothing more than a big assed fuckable himbo.

Mikey looked down at his creation beneath him, smirking at the wedding ring trapped on former Sam’s finger.

“Oh fuck man… you’re perfect.”

It's been already a year when i got knocked out and woke up like this somewhere i still do not actually know where it is.

I did resist in the beginning, but that guy, again i still do not even know his name, unable to speak ever since it is irrelevant though, used the tens in the shock collar, plug and chastity cage at fullest setting every time until i started giving in and obey.

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.

He’d never tried weed before - but as the mask was held on his face, the smell that he breathed in was instantly familiar - dry, sharp, and unmistakably fratty. “Dude,” he said, pulling back, but the mask was attached to his face. “I’m not sure about this,” he said, hesitantly pulling against his restraints.

“It’s fine,” said his Dominant. “In a few moments, you won’t be sure about anything at all.”

His reassuring voice was coming through the headphones. He wondered how that could be, and his mind slid sideways and out of itself, down the back of the couch of awareness. He blinked behind the blindfold, moving from one shade of darkness to a deeper one.

Shit, he thought. I’m getting high.

The rest of the evening (night? Day?) was a haze of cock and muscle. Every now and then, his awareness would snap back into itself , but this would only be the herald of a new spike, climbing stronger and pushing all conscious thought from his mind.

Later, he would try to remember his transcendant trip and try to recall specifics - but all he would be able to remember was the mantra drilled into his weed-addled mind.

Hi all! Thank you so much for 500 followers! Here's a little style switch up to celebrate, got a lotta refs in this one and I quite leaned into the diary entries so I hope it's not too much! Hope y'all enjoy this stereotype reversal and as always, best! -Occam

Monday March 21st-

Andy:

I am beyond sick of Steve. Moving in together was a mistake, I don’t care how cheap the rent is, he is a narcissistic slob and I am eager to never see him again. Well no, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Our R.A. had this idea to try and walk in each other's shoes, which I don’t know? It might not be the worst thing? My big idea was switching diets actually- honestly I’m just hoping if he ate more like me he’ll stop stinking up the dorm. I can dream at least. Literally though he just can’t go to the gym as often if he eats like me. If I'm lucky at the very least his deodorant will last longer, I cannot take another day of his b.o. seeping through the walls, ugh! Anyway, wish me luck! I’m sure this will be a breeze for me, he usually just eats junk anyway, hope he enjoys my salads~

Steve:

Andy that little fucker. He was being such a little bitch to James and now I’ve gotta eat his rabbit food for a week or lose this bet or whatever. Steve don’t lose tho. Lil twink’s gotta eat whatever I make him too and you can bet your ass I’m gonna make him match my macros if I’ve gotta starve myself like he wants. Fuck! This shit is going to absolutely tank my routine! I’ve gotta make Andy give up. I’m gonna go so hard on him he’ll have to hit weights if he doesn't want to blow up like a pig. Maybe then he’ll stop bitching any time I don’t fucking shower every time I get back home. 

Star-Lord's Christmas Poppers Hypno Carol

The PMV Virus is here and no port is safe, all it takes is a stray thought and contact with a man and you'll join him in the thoughtless new world. Here are a few vignettes of men's lives in this changing world.

Four shorter selections on a theme. If you're interested in another pec-centric pandemic check out PurgatoryTF's Sick bro! Anyway hope you enjoy these stories, don't get too riled up ;) -Occam

It was a real stress test of the post-COVID pandemic response, one that has proven how faulty these new systems are. To be fair, truly no one could have predicted just how totally the Pectoralis Mentia Virus would wreak havoc upon society at every level. No one would have even thought the disease possible. First spotted in body building gyms and nightclubs, PMV-25 found its tinderbox with ease and rapidly blew beyond any hope of containment. The predominately female pathologists and virologists have yet to ascertain how the virus mutated into existence or spread with such absoluteness, but they have determined the trigger to its transformative side effects.

Surely rooted in some pheromonal or hormonal stimulation beyond man’s current understanding, when a man infected with PMV experiences biological attraction to another man- boom. His mind atrophies and his body grows into quite the top-heavy specimen. Some change in personality and form far more than others, but after the change all are adamant that they do not want to change back.

This makes research for a cure difficult. In lieu of continuing their research on the matter, many infected and transformed doctors and scientists are happy to offer their bodies up for further understanding of the contagion, but given the reluctance whenever the idea of a cure is presented researchers worry if they’re not angling to learn more of the virus themselves. 

At any rate, to combat misinformation running rampant, here are a few stories of Pectoralis Mentia Virus victims.

The group gaming lobby had no time to react when their team leader finally joined- not in his usual stained Marvel T-shirt covering his pudgy build- but shirtless, showing off a ripped torso, and undeniably hot.

“Dudes, fuck gaming. Look at what I can do”

....

Eddie's hands trembled badly when he heard his team leader's deep rumbling voices, the growth already started in him too. His hands instantly wrapped around his growing dick, the 4 inches meat grew substantially, 7...8...9...9.5....10 inches long, the veins intimidating and showing signs of near-exploding. Eventually, as his muscle growth almost reached its peak, Eddie couldn't hold it anymore......

.....

He sensed danger and quickly ditched the headphone right when that rumbling, dumb-sounding bro voice appeared instead in his team leader ends, but it was too late as the growth also reached the shaggy-haired and very shy Cole. It wasn't long before he witnessed his legs elongated and turned into runner-like legs. Copious amount of hair appeared all across his legs, all the way to the cleanly-shaven (or maybe even hairless) pubic and balls. Then, the dick growth hit him and he tried his best to contain it or did anything to his insanely threatening-looking dick that looked far different from his 3 inches pecker. But that hands also turned muscular, packed with some lean muscle that never existed before and somehow just felt natural to gripped his now 8 inches thick dick. It wasn't long before Cole messed the entire room with his load, at least his loud moaned covered by the soundproof wall....

....

Eyes closed, lean and athletic body spread naked in bed while cum leaking like a faucet from his dick. Elliott then experienced the ultimate phase of the transformation as he felt all his knowledge left his body as the cum dripping out from his now-uncut dick.

Devious smile then appeared on his face as he grabbed his phone because one of them seemingly managed to avoid this transformation

"Hey bro, you witnessed what happened to us?"

"Oh my God Elliot, not you too bro!" Louis instantly closed his mouth, he never said bro before!

"Well, let it grow bro, don't you hear how good I sounded now? How my voice sounded like I'm the most laid back dude you ever know? You could be like me and the others bro,"

Elliot could hear the exasperated voice from the other hand, he knew Louis woud catch up soon

"Oh fuck bro, fuck, I'm going to unghh...ungghhh......"

It all happened so suddenly. All it took was one second of inattention. You were just walking down the street, not even paying attention to the young woman that stopped right in front of you. She reached her hand forward and grabbed at your chest. You didn't even have time to react, as a feeling of pure horror descended upon you.

You had heard of the virus, everybody had. Myovirus holomutans, that was how the people on tv called it, but everyone else had given it the nickname Moronavirus. Kind of a grim joke in retrospect, not that you had any reason to question it until this very moment. Everyone carried the virus in a dormant state and the scientists didn't know how yet. Neither did they know why men were the only ones in which the virus could activate... and neither did they know why the virus activated in this odd way...

"Precise manipulation of the pectoralis major", or simply put : a chest massage. That was all that men were told to stay away from if you didn't want to become a brainless meathead. That was it. Just don't get your pecs fondled and you'll be fine, it was so easy to avoid. Not to mention that with your flat chest, you didn't even think there was enough there to rub for the virus to even be problem for you. Yet there you were, unable to react as this woman kneaded your inflating pecs right beneath your eyes.

The list of symptoms flashed in your mind, but you knew what it boiled down to; your brain cells would be melted down into fuel for your swelling muscles. You didn't want any of this, but there was no way to stop the viral activation once the process was kickstarted.

Sweat rolled down your forehead as you witnessed your thin frame blow up with hefty meatiness all over. Of course it all started at the stimulation point, your nonexistent pecs suddenly blooming into existence. Your shoulders, neck and back muscles all followed through, thickening and forcing you to straighten your posture. Your arms ballooned with nice round muscles. Your straining shirt stood no chance, quickly shredding and falling into tatters around you and exposing your brand-new jock physique for all to see.

Your head felt dizzy, it was like you could feel your brains drain down into your expanding body. You were a smart man, not the kind of braindead himbo that this virus turned guys into, good for nothing except working out, partying and having sex. Even the smartest men effectively became useless to society once the virus took effect, their brilliant minds ruined by the mutation.

How could this be happening to you ? Your eyes met those of the woman who inflicted this fate on you. To your shock, she was smiling at you. What kind of sick enjoyment could she take out of doing this to you ? You felt nothing but panic, rage and heartbreak but as you stared into her eyes, her glittering hazel eyes, the only reaction you could conjure was an innocent smile and a moronic laugh.

All your questions about her intentions, your worries about your future, everything quieted down. Sure you could ask all these questions and worry about this stupid stuff ... but did it really matter ? Your mind, your intellect, your personhood was getting disintegrated. You could feel all of it, yourself becoming dimmer. You wanted to feel grief for the person you were supposed to be, but instead all you felt was ... peace.

You didn't want to give in but fuuuuuuck it felt so good. You realized all that stuff that you always had in your brain was superfluous, you didn't need any of it to be happy. In fact, you felt better finally letting go of it. You could just focus on the simple things that truly made you happy.

You could finally stop worrying about your studies and your future job. Instead you could live in the moment, go to parties, make friends, get drunk, have fun. You could shed your anxieties that held you back for so long and finally focus on pumping iron at the gym and growing your muscles. It was suddenly all so simple ... so easy ...

The virus had worked its magic. Your brains had dissolved and fueled the growth of a freshly converted gymbro. A metamorphosis from a promising student with a bright future ahead of him into a dim-witted muscular jock.

With a broish smile plastered in your face, a relaxed confident demeanor, your brain's higher functions turned off for good and gave way to your base instincts. The shine in your eyes vanished as a dull look took over.

Something different lol. No gay to straight or lib to con to this but its the corruption of a hero to villain so still fits the theme of my blog. Bad guys win, after all! ;)

The air in the transformation chamber was heavy, saturated with the acrid tang of ozone and the faint, sickly sweet scent of Sith alchemy. Crimson light pulsed from the walls, casting long shadows that danced like specters across the durasteel floor. Obi-Wan Kenobi, once a beacon of Jedi resilience, lay sprawled across a frigid, unyielding table. His wrists and ankles were bound by restraints that hummed with a low, menacing energy, their warmth pressing into his skin in a way that was both confining and disturbingly intimate. His capture had been swift—a trap sprung on a desolate Outer Rim moon, where Imperial forces overwhelmed him with numbers and treachery. Now, stripped of his robes and dignity, he was little more than a specimen, his body bruised and trembling from exhaustion.

Above him loomed Emperor Palpatine, his hooded silhouette a monument to malevolence. His yellow eyes glinted with a predatory lust—not merely for power, but for the act of breaking a soul so pure. "You were a fine instrument, Kenobi," he rasped, his voice a serpentine whisper that coiled around Obi-Wan’s senses. "But even the finest tools can be reshaped, refined… perfected."

With a flick of his gnarled hand, Palpatine summoned the machine to life. It was a grotesque fusion of Imperial technology and ancient Sith sorcery, a hulking apparatus of gleaming metal and dark energy. Needles, long and slender, their tips glistening with a faint phosphorescent sheen, descended from the machine’s underbelly. They hovered momentarily above Obi-Wan’s flesh—his temples, his chest, the tender insides of his thighs—before plunging deep. A raw, guttural scream ripped from his throat as the needles pierced him, their entry a violation that sent fire racing through his veins.

The pain was immediate, a searing inferno that consumed every nerve. Yet, woven into this agony was a thread of something else—something perverse and inescapable. The serums flooding his bloodstream were laced with potent aphrodisiacs, engineered to awaken his senses and meld suffering with ecstasy. As the needles vibrated, their rhythm a cruel mimicry of a lover’s touch, Obi-Wan’s body betrayed him. His muscles clenched and released in waves, a shuddering dance of torment and pleasure. Heat bloomed where the needles kissed his skin, radiating outward until his entire being thrummed with an unwanted, intoxicating sensation.

Palpatine’s voice slithered into his mind, a constant presence amidst the chaos. "Feel it, Kenobi. The pain, the pleasure—they are one. Resist, and you prolong your suffering. Surrender, and you will be reborn."

The machine’s dark tendrils unfurled, their energy crackling as they coiled around him. They were invasive, their touch both punishing and seductive, sliding across his chest, teasing the edges of his scars, and dipping lower to graze the sensitive hollows of his body. Each contact sent jolts of sensation through him, blurring the boundaries between agony and arousal. His mind, already fracturing under the assault, was probed by Palpatine’s sorcery. Memories—of Anakin’s bright smile, the quiet halls of the Jedi Temple, the weight of his lightsaber—flickered and faded, dissolving into a haze of static and forgotten echoes.

In their place, new images surged forth, vivid and intoxicating. He saw himself clad in sleek, black Stormtrooper armor, his form commanding and statuesque, leading legions with an iron will. Each vision was accompanied by a rush of narcotic bliss, his body arching against the restraints as a moan escaped his lips. The machine amplified this, its tendrils tightening around him, their warmth pressing harder, coaxing his surrender. Palpatine’s words burrowed deeper: "You are no longer a relic of a dead order. You are TK-1138, a commander forged in the Emperor’s will."

The conditioning was relentless. Obi-Wan’s humility, once a cornerstone of his being, was burned away, replaced by a swelling narcissism. He was the Empire’s masterpiece, a being of unparalleled strength and beauty. The machine rewarded this acceptance, stimulating neural pathways tied to pleasure whenever he embraced his new identity. His screams softened into gasps, his resistance crumbling as the lines between self and creation blurred.

But Palpatine’s artistry was not content with mere loyalty. The serums and sorcery wove a darker thread into his psyche—a perverse craving for submission and humiliation. "You will find ecstasy in serving," the Emperor purred, his voice a velvet lash. "In offering yourself to those greater than you, you will know your purpose."

The machine reinforced this with imagined scenarios, vivid and relentless. In his mind’s eye, he knelt before Darth Vader, his armor discarded, his body bare and trembling as the Dark Lord’s gloved hand seized his throat. He saw himself prostrate before Grand Moff Tarkin, pleading for commands, his skin flushed with desire. Most intoxicating of all was Palpatine himself, his withered fingers tracing Obi-Wan’s flesh, each touch a promise of degradation and bliss. The tendrils mirrored these fantasies, their caresses growing bolder, stroking and teasing until his body responded with a fervor he could no longer deny.

Physically, the transformation was a sensual reconstruction. The serums sculpted his body, erasing the lean austerity of a Jedi for the chiseled power of a warrior. His chest broadened, muscles rippling beneath taut, sweat-slicked skin. His abs tightened into a grid of strength, each breath accentuating their definition. His once-auburn hair was shorn to a severe military crop, framing a face now sharp and predatory, his eyes glinting with a hunger that was both commanding and submissive. The scars from the needles—faint lines across his temples, chest, and thighs—were a map of his rebirth, their faint pain a constant aphrodisiac.

The restraints were instruments of conditioning, their heat pulsing against his wrists and thighs, tightening in a rhythm that mimicked a lover’s grip. Palpatine’s withered hands would linger on these scars during the process, tracing them with a grotesque tenderness that sent shudders of pleasure through Obi-Wan’s body. The serums heightened his libido, his erection throbbing even through the pain, his body betraying him as it responded to the machine’s invasive caresses. By the end, TK-1138 was a physical ideal—beautiful, powerful, and hypersensitive, his body a canvas for conquest and submission.

Ideologically, TK-1138 was reborn as a zealot of the Empire. The machine implanted a doctrine of supremacy, each session reinforcing his belief that the galaxy belonged to the strong, and he was their instrument. “The Empire is order, purpose, perfection,” he would murmur, his voice fervent as the machine rewarded his loyalty with waves of pleasure. His Jedi principles of compassion were replaced with a ruthless devotion to control, his narcissism a cornerstone of his new ideology. He saw himself as the Empire’s chosen, a commander destined to crush rebellion and enforce the Emperor’s will. Yet, Palpatine’s sorcery wove a darker thread: true loyalty was proven through submission, his greatness measured by his willingness to serve his masters in every way. This duality—dominance over the galaxy, submission to his superiors—became his core, each act of cruelty mirrored by his private hunger for degradation.

When TK-1138 emerged, clad in sleek black Stormtrooper commander armor, he was a stranger to himself, unaware of the Jedi he once was. His reflection in the polished durasteel was a shrine to his narcissism, his chiseled jaw and piercing gaze a testament to his perfection. “I am the Empire’s blade,” he declared, his voice rich with conviction, “born to serve its glory.” Beneath this arrogance burned a secret fire—a need to kneel, to be used, to be defiled by the Empire’s elite, his body and mind a perfect vessel for their desires.

On the scorched plains of Dathomir, TK-1138 stood as a dark deity, his black armor gleaming under the blood-red sky. His battalion of Stormtroopers, a thousand white-armored drones, knelt in reverence, their loyalty feeding his narcissistic pride. The Nightsister clans had defied the Empire, and he was their executioner. “Burn their groves,” he commanded, his voice a cold lash. Turbolasers obliterated sacred sites, the screams of Nightsisters a perverse music to his ears. He strode through the carnage, his blaster cutting down warriors with lethal grace. 

His cruelty was a calculated art, designed to shatter spirits and cement terror. On Kashyyyk, he enslaved Wookiee clans, his laughter a blade as he watched families torn apart, their roars of anguish a testament to his dominance. “The Empire brings order to chaos,” he proclaimed to his troops, his voice fervent. “We are its strength, its destiny.” On Ryloth, he orchestrated public executions, their screams broadcast to break resistance. “To serve the Empire is to live with purpose,” he declared, his eyes glinting with zeal. His Stormtroopers worshipped him, their adoration fueling his narcissism, his campaigns a relentless march of Imperial terror across the galaxy.

Aboard the Executor, TK-1138 was summoned to Vader’s private chamber, a cavern of shadow and steel where the air thrummed with the rhythm of the dark lord’s mechanical breathing. Vader stood by the viewport, his imposing frame a monolith against the stars. The sound of his respirator quickened TK-1138’s pulse, each exhale a command that tugged at his core.

“You have served competently, Commander,” Vader rumbled, his voice a seismic force that vibrated through the floor. “But competence is a low bar.”

TK-1138 advanced, his boots clicking with purpose. He sank to one knee, his posture a blend of military precision and unspoken invitation. “My lord,” he said, his tone low and thick with yearning, “I live to serve the Empire… and you.”

Vader turned, his mask an impenetrable void. “Is that so?” he replied, a thread of dark amusement weaving through his words. “Then demonstrate your devotion.”

TK-1138’s breath caught, his hands moving to the clasps of his armor with deliberate slowness. Plate by plate, he shed his shell, revealing a body honed by war and marked by the chamber’s cruel artistry. His erection stood proud, a testament to his need. He knelt again, his gaze fixed on Vader’s mask. “Command me, my lord. Shape me to your will.”

Vader’s gloved hand seized his chin, forcing his head upward with bruising strength. “You are nothing,” he growled, his grip tightening. “A tool to be wielded and cast aside.”

The words were a lash that thrilled him, his body trembling with delight. “Yes, my lord,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Wield me. Shatter me.”

Vader released him, stepping back. “Strip fully,” he ordered.

TK-1138 obeyed, peeling away the last of his garments until he stood bare, his skin prickling under the weight of Vader’s unseen stare. “Kneel,” Vader commanded, and the loyal Empire soldier dropped to his knees, his head bowed in reverence. Vader circled him, a predator savoring its prey. “You were once more than this,” he mused, his tone a cryptic taunt. “Now, you are mine.”

The vague allusion stirred something in TK-1138, a flicker he couldn’t grasp, but it only deepened his arousal. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to Vader’s boots, his tongue tracing the leather in worship. Vader’s hand tangled in his hair, yanking him up to his knees. “Look at me,” he demanded.

TK-1138 met the mask’s gaze, his eyes alight with lust and adoration. Vader’s fingers brushed his lips, then pressed inside, the leather cool against his tongue. He sucked eagerly, his own arousal pulsing as he surrendered to the act.

“You are a fine creation,” Vader said, his voice a low growl. “And I will use you as I please.”

Vader withdrew, positioning himself behind TK-1138. He forced the commander onto all fours, his hands roaming with possessive intent. Slick fingers teased his entrance, drawing a whimper from his throat. “Beg,” Vader commanded.

“Please, Lord Vader,” TK-1138 gasped, his voice breaking with desperate need. “Take me. Claim me.”

Vader entered him with a single, brutal thrust, the fusion of pain and pleasure wrenching a cry from TK-1138’s lips. The dark lord’s rhythm was merciless, each movement driving him deeper into submission. It wasn’t long before his climax tore through him, his body shuddering as he spilled onto the deck, left as nothing more than a slave to Vader’s will.

TK-1138’s transformation (and the ultimate destruction of the man who had once been Obi-Wan Kenobi, a respected Jedi Master and member of the Jedi High Council) was complete, his former self left as nothing more than a forgotten shadow. He stood at the forefront of the Empire’s crusade, a relentless hunter of the Rebellion and the scattered Jedi who dared to defy the new order. He led a purge of rebel cells, his blaster cutting down insurgents with merciless precision. 

“The Rebellion is a cancer,” he spat, his voice thick with hatred as he complied with Darth Vader’s order to execute a captured Jedi. “The Jedi are relics, unworthy of the Empire’s vision. I am its enforcer, its truth.” The stormtroopers under TK-1138’s command cheered, their adoration a balm to his narcissistic soul, but his true ecstasy lay in the shadows of power.

In private, TK-1138 offered himself to the Empire’s elite, his body a willing sacrifice to their desires. Aboard the Executor, he knelt before Darth Vader, his naked form trembling with anticipation. “My lord,” he whispered, his voice thick with lust, “use me. The Empire is my purpose, and serving you is my joy.” Vader used the Force to choke TK-1138, a reminder of his place, until the Stormtrooper commander reached climax. In Tarkin’s office, he crawled, begging to be broken, his moans echoing as the Grand Moff took him with cold precision. “The Empire is order,” he gasped, his body shuddering in release.

Even lesser officers—admirals, generals—found him pliant, his submission a testament to his devotion. “Any man of the Empire may claim me,” he murmured, his eyes alight with fervor, “for serving you is my life’s meaning.”

In the throne room, Palpatine’s touch was his ultimate reward. “The Rebellion will fall, the Jedi will burn,” TK-1138 vowed, his body arching under the Emperor’s cruel ministrations. “I am yours, Master, forever.” His climax was a prayer, his submission absolute.

TK-1138’s hatred for the Rebellion and Jedi was a fire that burned brighter with each victory. He hunted them with a zealot’s fervor, each kill a tribute to the Empire’s glory. “They are nothing,” he sneered, standing over a fallen rebel, his blaster still smoking. “The Empire is all.” In his quarters, he bound himself, imagining Vader’s grip, Tarkin’s commands, Palpatine’s lightning, his body shuddering in ecstasy as he whispered, “Serving the Empire is my purpose, my salvation.” 

Unaware of the Jedi he once was, TK-1138 was wholly the Empire’s creation—a blade of cruelty and desire, his every act a testament to Palpatine’s unholy artistry, his submission to Vader and the Empire’s elite the truest expression of his eternal devotion.