Racial Body Transformations

File: AE-1342
Nickname: “The Feed”
Status: Uncontained (Digital)

Acquisition Log:

AE-1342 refers to a corrupted build of TikTok that intermittently appears on official app storefronts as a standard update. Unlike typical malicious software, AE-1342 is not sideloaded or externally installed. Users report receiving it through what appears to be a routine update pushed through legitimate channels.

Initial reports described the application as “bugged” or “glitched.” Users noted minor irregularities: looping videos that would not end, repeated audio fragments, and a “For You” page that showed the opposite of the user’s preferences. In early stages, these anomalies were dismissed as software instability.

FCA attention was drawn after multiple users were reportedly ‘lost’ to the app, leading to their disappearance. Devices recovered from these cases show the application still open and active. In all instances, the affected user is no longer physically present.

Shortly after disappearance, new content featuring an altered version of the user begins to appear on the user’s account.

Anomalous Behavior:

AE-1342 does not simply host content—it digitizes the user.

After exposure, victims are subject to ‘digitization’. The subject is not destroyed, but converted. Their consciousness and form are translated into a digital state within the application itself.

Once digitized, the individual exists as a manipulable construct, effectively reduced to pixels. The platform is then able to alter their appearance, body structure, and cognitive patterns at will. Despite this, subjects remain fully aware and perceive themselves as real, with no understanding that they are no longer physical.

Their likeness reappears inside the app, where they begin producing content continuously without external input.

These digitized users are systematically reshaped into personas that directly oppose their original identities. This inverse identity effect appears intentional and consistent across cases.

FCA analysis confirms immediate digitization upon interaction with AE-1342.

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Case File – Subject T-01

Name (Pre-Digitization): Oliver Finch

Age: 24

Nationality: British

Oliver Finch lived an intentionally isolated life in rural England. He was described as quiet, withdrawn, and largely invisible in social settings. He avoided attention wherever possible and had no known presence on social media. Finch was openly critical of influencer culture, referring to it as “shallow” and “attention-seeking behavior.” His time was spent almost entirely on solitary activities such as reading and writing, and he showed little interest in online trends or digital communities.

The anomaly appeared on Finch’s device without consent, presenting as a standard update to TikTok. Upon opening the application, Finch was immediately digitized. His physical body disappeared without trace, and a new account was created under the username @PecPressure.

Following digitization, Finch’s identity was completely overwritten. The subject now identifies as “Chad Mercer,” presenting as an exaggerated American fitness influencer. His body has expanded into a heavily muscular build, with disproportionate emphasis on enlarged pectoral muscles. His hair is now blonde, his features broader, and his overall presence markedly more dominant and attention-oriented.

Name (Post-Digitization): Chad Mercer

Age: 20

Nationality: American

Behaviorally, the subject displays a complete inversion of his former personality. Where Finch avoided attention, Chad actively demands it. He speaks loudly and directly to an unseen audience, using repetitive, performative phrases such as, “Y’all seein’ this?? Run it up!”, “Spam the chat, let’s go!”, and “Don’t be lame, hit that follow!” His speech is simplified and highly reactive, built entirely around engagement and validation.

His content revolves almost exclusively around his chest. Videos show him flexing, bouncing, and pressing his pectoral muscles together in exaggerated, rhythmic motions designed to draw attention. The content is repetitive and largely devoid of variation, yet remains highly effective within the platform’s ecosystem. He frequently mocks his previous lifestyle, stating things such as, “Books are for nerds, bro. Ain’t nobody tryna read when you could be lookin’ like this.”

The subject spends approximately six hours per day on live broadcasts. During these streams, he continuously performs chest-focused movements while directly interacting with viewers. He actively encourages virtual gifting behavior, repeatedly calling out phrases like, “Send them gifts up!”, “Let’s get them roses, chat!”, and “Top gifter gets a shoutout!” His interactions are transactional and persistent, centered entirely on maximizing engagement and maintaining audience attention.

There is no indication that Oliver Finch remains. The subject appears fully aware within the digital environment, but entirely aligned with his new identity. He expresses satisfaction with his current state, showing no distress or desire to return.

The transformation represents a complete and deliberate inversion of the subject’s original self.

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Case File – Subject T-02

Name (Pre-Digitization): Omar Al-Haddad

Age: 27

Nationality: Jordanian

Omar Al-Haddad was a well-known and respected member of his local community. Described as disciplined, dependable, and deeply devoted to Islam, he structured his life around faith, study, and routine. He was known to attend daily prayers, assist in community events, and mentor younger members in religious studies. Those who knew him described him as calm, thoughtful, and unwavering in his beliefs.

Omar maintained minimal engagement with social media, using his phone primarily for communication and religious study. He reportedly viewed most modern platforms as distractions, preferring to focus on personal development and spiritual discipline.

Omar disappeared from his residence on [REDACTED]. There were no signs of struggle or forced entry. The only item left behind was his phone, found active and open to a profile on TikTok under the username @CrossCoreChen.

FCA analysis confirms immediate digitization upon interaction with AE-1342.

Following digitization, the subject’s identity was completely overwritten. He now presents as a heavily muscular Chinese male, identifying himself as Daniel Chen. His physique is exaggerated, with particular emphasis on enlarged pectoral muscles. He consistently wears a silver cross necklace squished between his heavy Chinese pecs and often tries to convert his viewers into becoming Christian, telling them to “Follow the Lord, bro.”

Name (Post-Digitization): Daniel Chen

Age: 23

Nationality: Chinese-American

The subject’s behavior reflects a complete inversion of his former identity. Where Omar was composed and thoughtful, Daniel is simplistic, overly enthusiastic, and highly repetitive in speech. His content revolves around a combination of gym-focused material and overt expressions of Christian faith.

In recorded uploads, the subject frequently addresses the camera directly, making statements such as:
“Jesus got me right, bro. Like, He made me strong for real.”
“You don’t need nothin’ else—just lift and believe. That’s it.”
“I was lost before, but now I got Him. That’s all that matter.”

His understanding of theology appears extremely limited, often reducing complex religious ideas into short, repetitive phrases. Despite this, his devotion is absolute. He displays unwavering belief and frequently encourages viewers to adopt the same mindset, often stating:


“Just follow Him, bro. Don’t think too hard. Just do it.”

Visually, his content mirrors other digitized subjects. He performs repetitive chest-focused movements, flexing and compressing his pectorals while speaking to the audience. The cross around his neck is consistently visible, often caught between the motion of his chest, becoming a focal point of both his physical and religious presentation.

The subject appears unaware of any prior identity. There is no indication that Omar Al-Haddad remains. Instead, Daniel Chen expresses full satisfaction with his current state, describing himself as “chosen” and “finally on the right path.”

The transformation represents a complete inversion of the subject’s original beliefs, culture, and personality, while maintaining the same underlying pattern of obsessive performance and simplified devotion seen across all AE-1342 cases.

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Case File – Subject T-03

Name (Pre-Digitization): Martin Doyle

Age: 52

Nationality: American

Martin Doyle was a rigid, by-the-book father who prided himself on discipline, routine, and “real work.” Employed in a manual trade for over two decades, he valued physical labor and practicality above all else. He was notably out of touch with modern technology, often struggling with even basic devices. Family reports state he regularly needed help operating the TV remote, frequently pressing the wrong buttons and becoming frustrated when menus appeared. He referred to streaming services as “channels that don’t exist” and once attempted to “fix the internet” by unplugging multiple household devices at random.

Doyle held particularly strong views against social media and gaming. His 18-year-old son was a constant target of criticism, with Doyle repeatedly calling his habits “pathetic” and “a waste of a young man’s life.” He often mocked him directly, saying things such as, “You sit in that room all day like a slob, talking to strangers and playing cartoons,” and, “No woman’s ever gonna look at you if that’s all you do.” He frequently encouraged him to pursue trade work instead, framing it as the only “real” path to becoming a man.

On the day of the incident, Doyle discovered AE-1342 on his phone. Believing it to be another prank by his son, he opened the application while loudly calling him into the room. Witness testimony from the son confirms Doyle was mid-sentence—“What did you put on my phone now?”—before abruptly disappearing. His phone was found on the floor moments later, still active, displaying a newly created account under the username @PecXPGaming on TikTok.

Following digitization, Doyle’s identity was completely overwritten. He now presents as an 18-year-old Gen Z male with an exaggerated physique—soft, oversized musculature with particular emphasis on his chest. The subject appears visibly unintelligent and often comments on his own smelliness, which he views as humorous. Despite this, he remains almost entirely shirtless during content creation, seemingly aware that his body drives engagement.

Name (Post-Digitization): Evan Amrani

Age: 24

Nationality: Moroccan-American

The subject exists within a digitally constructed bedroom environment saturated with LED lighting, gaming peripherals, and clutter. He is almost always seated at a gaming setup, rarely moving beyond the immediate frame.

Behaviorally, the transformation is a direct and highly ironic inversion of Doyle’s former values. The subject now embodies every trait he previously criticized in his son, only in a more exaggerated and performative form. He spends nearly all of his time playing video games, particularly anime-style titles featuring female characters with large breasts and butts, often commenting on them in crude or cringe ways, “Chat, I wanna impregnate her with my 67 dong.”

He streams continuously, frequently exceeding 10 hours per day, with no apparent awareness of time or fatigue. During streams, he alternates between gameplay and exaggerated chest-focused movements, bouncing and flexing his pectorals while monitoring viewer engagement. He actively leans into this behavior, often acknowledging it as his primary source of attention.

His speech consists almost entirely of Gen Z slang, delivered rapidly and with minimal coherence. Common phrases include:
“Nah bro I’m chestmogging you, you sold so hard.”
“Chat my gyatt be stinking from sitting on this chair all day.”
“Bro, stop looking at my skibidi titties. What are you, sus?”
“He’s so NPC, bro. Look at my rizz.”

He frequently looks for interaction and validation, directly contradicting his former disdain for attention-seeking behavior.

Notably, the subject has been observed mocking individuals who avoid social media or gaming, stating:
“Imagine not bein’ online, bro. That’s actually sad.”
“If you not streamin’, what are you even doin’?”

There is no indication that Martin Doyle remains. The subject shows no awareness of his previous life, despite now embodying an exaggerated version of the lifestyle he once condemned in others.

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Case File – Subject T-04

Name (Pre-Digitization): DeAndre Williams

Age: 29

Nationality: African American

DeAndre Williams was a politically active organizer based in New York City, known for his strong progressive stance and outspoken criticism of wealth inequality. He worked closely within municipal political networks and was, at the time of digitization, affiliated with campaign operations connected to Zohran Mamdani. Williams was widely described as disciplined, highly engaged, and ideologically driven, with a focus on labor rights, taxation reform, and anti-oligarchic policy.

He was particularly vocal against inherited wealth and corporate consolidation, frequently criticizing what he referred to as “unearned dynasties” and “people who live their whole lives without ever needing to be accountable.” Associates described him as passionate but uncompromising, with a strong belief that wealth should be redistributed through systemic reform.

Williams maintained an active online presence, primarily using his phone for political coordination and messaging. On the day of the incident, he reportedly encountered the AE-1342 application—appearing as a standard update to TikTok—while traveling between campaign meetings.

Upon opening the application, Williams was immediately digitized. His physical body disappeared without recovery, and a new account was generated under the username @AlexanderWhitmoreOfficial.

Following digitization, the subject re-emerged as Alexander Whitmore, a 28-year-old heir to the fictional Whitmore family, one of New York’s long-established financial dynasties. The Whitmores are documented as having extensive holdings across real estate, private equity, and media assets. Alexander is recorded as the sole heir to the family empire.

Name (Post-Digitization): Alexander Whitmore

Age: 28

Nationality: American

In this reconstructed identity, the subject has never experienced financial limitation or employment necessity. He is depicted as having attended an elite private university, where he participated in fraternity culture and studied business administration. Post-graduation, he was immediately placed into an executive position within the family company, despite no demonstrated competence or interest in operational work.

Internal reports describe the subject as functionally unproductive in his role. He rarely engages in meaningful decision-making, delegates most responsibilities without oversight, and shows consistent disinterest in corporate operations. Despite this, he is treated with extreme respect and grovelling by staff, with multiple reports indicating that employees avoid challenging him directly regardless of performance issues, to stay on the good side of his father. Common behaviors at work include filming TikTok’s of himself lounging in executive offices, interrupting staff during work, and treating corporate environments as personal entertainment spaces. Engagement metrics remain high, and internal systems appear to reinforce this behavior through algorithmic amplification

Behaviorally, the subject exhibits a complete ideological inversion from his pre-digitization self. Williams’ prior political beliefs have been replaced with strong right-leaning, pro-wealth rhetoric. He now actively expresses opposition to taxation policies and regulatory frameworks, particularly those associated with progressive municipal governance. He and his family financially back Republican candidates and Alexander Whitmore is seen to be on great terms with Donald Trump.

He has specifically referenced his intent to use financial influence against Zohran Mamdani, stating in multiple recorded clips:
“People like that don’t understand how the real world works. I’m not letting New York get turned into a playground for policy experiments.”
“Taxes like that are theft. Plain and simple.”

“I worked for everything I have and that socialist is trying to take it away.”

Despite holding no prior corporate interest or financial ideology, the subject now demonstrates strong alignment with inherited wealth preservation and elite consolidation narratives.

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Closing Note:

Further case reports are currently being compiled, with additional confirmed and suspected digitization events under review. These documents will detail the ongoing status of other affected individuals as more recoverable data becomes available from AE-1342-linked accounts.

It is currently theorized that TikTok itself may function as an active digitization system, selectively converting users into permanent in-platform entities designed to produce continuous content. In this model, digitized individuals serve as self-sustaining content sources, existing solely to generate engagement, maintain algorithmic activity, and ensure uninterrupted platform traffic.

Federal Containment Authority

File: AE-1184

Nickname: “The Extraction”

Status: Active

⸻

Acquisition Log:

AE-1184 is a recently identified drug first reported by local authorities in Medellín, Colombia. Since its initial appearance, distribution has spread across multiple criminal networks throughout South America, with confirmed cases in Bogotá, Lima, and São Paulo.

The substance is primarily used by organized groups targeting foreign tourists. All recorded victims have been Caucasian males from upper-middle-class or affluent backgrounds. Confirmed cases include individuals from the United States (87), the United Kingdom (43), Australia (4), and Ireland (1). Victims are typically identified in high-end hotels, bars, and nightlife venues.

Perpetrators approach in small groups, engage targets in casual conversation, and build trust before guiding them away from populated areas—most commonly into quiet streets or private vehicles.

Administration is direct and controlled. In most cases, the substance is injected into the side of the subject’s neck using a fine-gauge needle. A secondary syringe is then used to extract [REDACTED] from the subject.

The effects begin within seconds. Subjects enter a dazed, compliant state, showing no resistance or awareness of their surroundings.

Following exposure, subjects are abandoned. Extracted [REDACTED] is trafficked through underground networks and sold to [REDACTED] individuals for the purpose of [REDACTED].

No subject has been successfully reverted.

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Case File – Subject B-3 (FKA: Daniel Gallagher)

Daniel Gallagher squinted at his phone as he walked, the bright screen lighting his face in the otherwise dim street. The music from the club still rang faintly in his ears, bass echoing in his chest as he tried to follow the map back to his hotel.

The Irish tourist had been in the city three days, thinking he knew the area by now. But São Paulo looked different at night. It didn’t help that there weren’t as many people out now. Not as many lights either.

Daniel slowed, turning slightly as the map recalculated. “So, left… here?” he muttered to himself.

“E aí, mano.”

Daniel looked up. A man stood a few feet away, hands relaxed at his sides. Early-20s, casual clothes, nothing threatening about him.

“You… not from here, yes?” the guy said, his English broken but clear enough.

Daniel gave a small laugh. “Uh-”

The guy was young - Daniel’s age. There felt like there was an unspoken bond. The guy smiled, nodding. “This area… not so good. Especially with phone.” He gestured toward Daniel’s hand. “People see. They take.”

Daniel instinctively lowered the phone. “Right. Yeah, fair.”

“I help you,” the man continued, friendly, easy. “Where you go?”

“Uh—hotel,” Daniel said, turning the screen toward him. “This one.”

The man leaned in, glancing at it. “Ah, yes. I know. Is not far. I go same way.” He straightened up, already turning slightly down the street. “Come. I walk you for safety.”

Daniel smiled graciously.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. What is your name?”

“João.” The boy shook the Irish tourists hand firmly and the two begin walking.

The man kept an easy pace, hands in his pockets, occasionally glancing back to make sure Daniel was following. The street grew quieter the further they went. The lights were dimmer here. Fewer windows. No people.

Daniel noticed it, faintly. Something about it felt… off.

“Hotel is this way?” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” the man said quickly. “Shortcut.”

They turned down a narrower street.

That was when Daniel felt it.

Two men grabbing him from behind, forcing his hands behind him holding him in position. They knock the tourist to his knees.

“Jaysus!”

As his knees hit the ground, João pressed something sharp into Daniel’s neck. He felt whatever liquid enter his vein spreading throughout his body. The world didn’t spin. It didn’t go black.

It just… slowed.

The tension in his body drained almost instantly. His thoughts, sharp and alert a second ago, dulled like someone had turned the volume down.

“Hey—what—”

The words came out wrong. Too slow. Little did Daniel know, his DNA was becoming like puddy. Completely mailable.

“Segurem-no firme. Prontos para a extração.” João readied a second device. This one was empty.

Before Daniel could react, João jabbed the device into Daniel’s neck, slowly draining a white liquid substance out of him. It just kept coming and coming, filling up the vial in the device.

As the gang member extracted the white liquid from Daniel, Daniel’s awareness dimmed. He didn’t notice as his skin slowly darkened, taking on the warm, sun-kissed tone of someone raised under the blistering sun, not the pale green pastures of his family’s farm back in Ireland.

His features shifted subtly but unmistakably. His nose broadened, eyebrows thickened, and his lips grew fuller. Each change felt impossible, yet inevitable, as if his body was being extracted of everything that made Daniel the Irish man he was.

Heaviness plumped into Daniel’s glutes, as two fat brown globes bounced outwards, splitting his pants. His two jiggling Brazilian cheeks begging to be free from his tight constricting Irish jeans. The same for his front. His average 5 inch white cock fattened and pushed forwards into a fat 7 inch uncut brown cock.

One of the men leaned closer, watching Daniel’s face rapidly grow facial hair. It was ginger, just like the hair on his head. One of the men holding Daniel scanned Daniel’s ginger beard. Against his darkening skin, it looked almost comical. A comical reminder of his diminishing Irish heritage.

“Olha a barba ruiva dele.” One of the men said, voice low and amused. “Eles vão pagar muito por um ruivo.”

Daniel felt it before he saw it—his beard losing its fiery hue. Slowly, the ginger strands darkened, blending into a uniform black, indistinguishable from the men holding him down.

João continued the extraction, the vial already three-quarters full.

Daniel’s mind began to fog. Words jumbled in his head, English slipping away like sand through his fingers. He tried to speak, to protest, but the sounds coming out were broken, confused. Two vocabularies warring inside him, one destined to win, the other to vanish entirely. Portuguese words eliminating his English vocab, like cells killing a virus.

“Por fa… me ajuda,” Danogo croaked, his voice weak and lethargic. His limbs felt like lead, as they thickened up with big beefy muscle. But even with his new Brazilian muscles, he couldn’t push the men off him, though he desperately tried.

Memories surged through his mind like a virus, rewriting him from the inside out. He saw himself as he used to be—skinny, pale, ginger, standing in front of a mirror.

That image flickered, unstable, before being overtaken by something else. A darker, fuller body. Broader. Warmer. Bigger. Round oversized pecs. Big large thick hands. His fat brown Brazilian cheeks wobbling behind him.

His memories of growing up... the cold, open fields of his family’s Irish farm. The green grass, grey skies, early mornings. They didn’t exist anymore, replaced by hot sunlight and salt air, long days by the sea, heat pressing into his skin. His massive body bouncing on the sand as passerbys ogled him up and down.

His years of GAA training, discipline, dedication. All of it began to be overwritten. In its place came football in the streets, laughing with friends. It came so naturally. Like his body was meant for it. Fuck, he was obsessed with it. Football took up so much of his mind. A new obsession that felt like it had been there forever. It was at that point where he questioned what GAA even was.

His memories of himself were overwritten too. His self perception of being a quiet dedicated bookworm with a love for Irish sports VANISHED. As if it was never there. In its place came something louder. Music thumping through crowded rooms. Late nights. Easy laughter. A need to be around people, to be seen.

He tried to push the memories away. To hold onto his Irishness, but it was no use. His thick Brazilian accent prevented anything he said from even sounding vaguely English.

“Sou irlandês… sou… eu… por favor.” Diogo cried to the men, in his dazed stupor. But he looked anything but Irish. “Estou tão confuso.”

He slumped onto the concrete as the men withdrew the device from his neck. The vial was full of the thick, white liquid.

Diogo moaned softly, every movement painful, his body heavy and unresponsive.

“Boa sorte, cara.” João said with a casual wink, leaving the newly Brazilian man sprawled on the ground.

The gang melted into the night. Diogo inspected his unmistakably Latino hand before passing out.

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Post-Exposure Analysis – AE-1184

AE-1184 does more than just sedate or confuse its targets. The drug extracts the subject’s whiteness (their background, heritage, English fluency, cultural knowledge and memories) - storing it in the white liquid from the subject.

Evidence shows that local gangs are selling this material on the black market. Buyers are often non-white individuals who aim to attain the advantages, social status and privilege associated with white populations, by injecting the stolen whiteness, making themselves privileged white men.

The network appears highly organized and the drug is highly sought after. Victims are carefully chosen for appearance and socioeconomic background, targeted in wealthy areas, and then harvested efficiently.

FCA continues to investigate the buyers and distribution channels. The scale suggests a deliberate, profit-driven trade in human cultural and social capital, with international implications.

Victim Overview – AE-1184

Recovered individuals have been effectively stripped of their original racial and national identities. White, Caucasian tourists lose their English fluency entirely, and in cases in South America, their genetic markers are altered to align with local Latin American populations. Skin tone, facial features, and other inherited traits shift accordingly, leaving the subject biologically and socially indistinguishable from local populations.

Despite some awareness that they no longer belong to their former nationality, subjects are unable to recall meaningful details about their previous lives—names, family, education, or social history are largely inaccessible. Memories of cultural practices and social structures are erased, replaced by the cognitive void left after extraction of privilege and heritage.

All victims are taken in for monitoring and initial assessment. Following containment, they are relocated to supervised housing across Colombia, Peru & Spain (for now Spanish speaking subjects) and Brazil & Portugal (for now Portuguese speaking subjects). Subjects are effectively unable to return to their countries of origin, as the loss of English fluency and cultural familiarity renders them incapable of independent functioning in those societies.

Image of Diogo Galvão (formerly Daniel Gallagher) in São Paulo.

Ongoing Notes

New cases of AE-1184 exposure are reported daily. The drug appears to be spreading beyond South America, with victims now appearing in parts of Africa and India. In these cases, subjects are observed to adopt local racial and cultural traits, effectively becoming African or Indian men following the extraction of their original identities.

At present, it is unknown whether affected individuals can ever be returned to their original identities. By this stage, their original cultural, linguistic, and genetic essence is likely too extensively extracted, used, and dispersed to recover.

All storms must come to an end. Some find those they once lost, others emerge from the storm a changed man. The Great Shift is no different. Who will you be when the storm settles?

Chad Hectors:

Yo! I was hot shit before, but check me out now! I’m the ideal Latin lover around these parts and I’m enjoying every second of it. 

Who was I before? I was Chad Hectors! Gym bro, fitness influencer, and local heartbreaker. I had twinks, twunks, jocks, and bears begging to hook up with me. Well… all except one. That one twink thought he was too good for me. Conner Goncalves. The guy was so cute and small! I knew he’d be an excellent hook up, but he always turned me down. His loss… but I was fuming.

So when the Great Shift put me into his cute twink of a body, I thought it must be some kinda cosmic justice! I mean the one guy that turned me down and I get his cute ass of a body! I spent the last year becoming the cutest and smallest top of my area. Despite loads of people swapping bodies they were still surprised to find a small cute guy like me dominating them in the bedroom. 

Unfortunately that didn’t last too long. I kept up my normal workout routines in Conner’s body and he just blew up with muscle! Who knew that the guy had so much potential. A year of lifting in this body and I’m back to the physique I used to have in my previous body. I’m still a short king, but honestly that’s even better. People see a jacked 5’1 cock Latino like me walking through the snowy streets shirtless and they just gotta take a second look. 

And of course I just had to celebrate my gains with a butterfly tattoo! Really shows my transformation in the last year. Have I mentioned how much I LOVE this body when it gets a good tan. No more burning up in the sun for me! This tattoo is sick!  Though, I did it for another reason.

I managed to hear about a gentle 6’4 giant shoveling snow in a neighborhood out of town. Real bottom energy from what my new friends say. And wouldn’t you know it, that huge hairy fucker is Conner! Bet the guy is going though it, having had a year to adapt to such a different body. I mean, I lost my blond hair and dimples for a sexy piece of Mexican ass. My booty is literally sticking out so much when I do squats. Meanwhile Conner swapped his smooth bodied frame for a sasquatch!

Honestly, not usually my type, but knowing the cute guy that turned me down all that time ago was in him… well let’s just say it got me going. A few texts and a meet up time later, and Conner and I were set on a date! I’m gonna really enjoy showing him how I’ve changed in his body. Really made it my own. 

It’ll feel even more fun dominating such a big hairy hunk knowing that inside it’s really the twink I’ve been crushing on for so long. Who knows, maybe this hairy lug of a man will get me to finally settle down. After all, I’m sure he’s all too familiar with what this body likes and needs. 

Jessica Bills:

Like. OMG. I have to shovel the whole sidewalk again? I LITERALLY did that the night before. Like this is so unfair. Normally I’d get my boyfriend to do this, but he keeps saying that now I’m in this big bodybuilder’s body. It should be much easier for me. 

And I mean sure. I could probably lift that entire truck behind me with ease now that I’ve got these strong muscles, but physical labor is SO pre Great Shift. It’s the modern era! Boyfriends should really be doing the chores for their girlfriends regardless of whose in the bigger buffer body. 

I mean look at this gross shovel. Ew.

The only thing I like about doing all this snow shoveling stuff is that I get to show off my new top. It’s like soooo chic. Do you like it? I got it at the new gym I started doing pilates in.  And YES it was the same gym I woke up in after the Great Shift hit me and my entire sorority! I did NOT like waking up to lifting 500lbs above my head with ease. I dropped those nasty weights right then and there! BUT since then, I’ve come back to do some yoga, light jogging, and pilates! The gym is super nice and lets me go there for free.

They said it’s good business to have someone my size in the gym these days. Plus, the owner is now in this super cute guy who was in my favorite boyband growing up. He’s so handsome!

Anyway I should get back to shoveling if I want to be done before my pilates class in an hour. I swear, next time I’m gonna get my brat of a little sister to do it! She’s in this huge NFL athlete’s body, so she might as well carry her weight. She certainly has the muscles for it. 

But my parents are super annoying about her. Especially my dad. He keeps saying stuff like, “Jessica, your sister is training to be on the new NFL team of post shifted athletes” and “She’s been at the combine all week, you gotta let her rest” or even “Why don’t you two workout together! Spend some time with your little sister/big brother”.  AGH. He’s the worst. Like I’d want to spend time with that nerdy embarrassment. She doesn’t even comb her hair!

I mean… neither do I anymore. I really miss my long red hair and my cute clothes! Being this big bald behemoth is still a lot to get used to! I mean come on! Why did me and my entire sorority have to end up in huge athletic men?! Literally, I can’t think of anything worse. 

Arthur DeMarcus

Damn. For an inflatable raft, these things are sure heavy. I guess there are some things you never really get used to. 

But I should start from the beginning. My name is Arthur DeMarcus. I used to be a graphic designer back in Atlanta, Georgia. But that was before the Great Shift. I had a pretty nice life going for me before all this. Sure the apartment was a bit small, but I had friends.  They did always say I was a bit on the thin side from all my time at work, but I just had a fast metabolism.  Anyway one evening I was enjoying a nice gaming session with my roommate Jay Mes, a nurse! That part is gonna be important. 

Then all of a sudden I found myself in the middle of a snow storm, shirtless and running with a bunch of buff Asian, black, white, and Latino guys. Every one of us was confused and freezing, but one guy ahead of us yelled, “We gotta make it to the next checkpoint! Come on!” 

Not knowing what else to do, I followed the voice. With strength I never could muster before that day, I trudged through the snow alongside all these other guys, who I now realized were wearing camo patterned army fatigues! Or the pants part of that outfit anyway. It was pretty inspiring. When one guy fell, the group would pause to help him up and we would make it out together. 

The checkpoint this guy was talking about turned out to be a small cabin that we all barreled into. It gave most of us a chance to finally see what we all looked like, including myself. Needless to say I was amazed. My dark skin was replaced by the pale compassion and my thin frame reduced by thick hefty muscle. When I finally saw a mirror I realized I was Korean!

The guy barking directions at us was also Korean! Turns out he knew half of what was going on. He had no idea how we all swapped bodies, but in perfect English he explained how the U.S. and South Korean Army were doing joint military drills and exercises together.  We’d later put together through static filled radio transmissions that something called the Great Shift was responsible for the swap, but with so many emergency services occupied nearby, we were on our own. 

If we were gonna get off this snow covered mountain alive, we’d need to train just like those soldiers and work together. 

And so came the next arc of my life. Training! The remaining unshifted soldiers and sergeants swapped into soldiers. It's not like you picture it in anime, with inspirational music and epic feats of strength at first. No. It was hard work. The only thing that made it bearable was having a bunch of new friends to train alongside. Turns out Jay had swapped right alongside me. He was always a larger white guy, but now he found himself in a handsome buff Korean body just like mine! Together we shared bunks, lifted weights and trained!

Jay helped teach basic first aid to all of us while we recovered from physical training and in turn the whole group began to grow closer.

My favorite parts were when we all hit the showers at the army base. Something about having warm water fall down my muscular frame got me really excited.

And it wasn’t just me. Jay and the other soldiers were right there with me. Amazed at our soldier trained physiques. Mind you these were average people like me. We had bakers, homemakers, bank clerks, and teachers all stuck in these soldier bodies, that were pumped with adrenaline on a daily basis.

So I guess it’s not a surprise when we all ended up having our first group sex session in the first week of training. I mean what else were a bunch of young able bodied men supposed to do to pass the time.

After that, training got a lot more fun. We’d run exercise and compete to see who could plow the most snow in one rotation, we’d race to see who could carry the rafts over the snow drifts to the rivers nearby, and whoever would lose would have to bottom for the whole squad that night. 

It actually took less than a month for us to be prepared! We managed to get down this mountain by week three and back to the nearest major city.  Unfortunately we learned quickly that our squad wasn’t the only one missing during these extreme weather conditions. That’s when we all knew what we had to do.

We became the first post-Shift Search and Rescue squad, dedicated to helping find countless individuals lost in dangerous weather phenomenon. We knew that the month on the mountain was a gift, and one we had to share with the others who needed our help. So our squad managed to stay together and become a team with this new goal. Since then we’ve been closer than ever!

arabe tf - vidéo - short tf

Text by me. Images by AIs.

It was just another evening at the end of a long day.

After a routine day at the office and a quick visit to the gym, I found myself falling back into my usual patterns. I lay on my second-hand sofa, staring blankly at the TV, watching whatever the algorithm recommended in that moment. This time, it had selected some kind of reality show, couples, eliminations, the usual drama. Without a second thought, I reached for my phone and opened Grindr.

It was a nervous habit, something to fill the mental silence while the TV hummed white noise in the background.

I swiped through the grid of men in my area, studying their photos with a mixture of longing and envy. I wanted to believe I was putting in enough effort at the gym, that I was eating well, and that I was taking care of my body. But after a few flicks of my finger, I couldn't help but compare my scrawny frame to the muscular physiques on the screen.

A third episode started playing automatically when I heard the familiar notification chime from the app. I immediately assumed it was a bot or a guy marketing a new party, but to my surprise, the message looked… genuine.

He was a bit older than my usual type, but he clearly took care of himself. His main photo showed him in a baseball cap, shirtless on a beach—likely a vacation with an ex, judging by how the image was cropped. His other photos seemed legitimate: a business suit, a selfie in an elevator. He looked like a real person.

"Hey, stud," his message said. Another followed immediately: "I'm gonna guess you're as bored as I am."

I chuckled and sent back a nod emoji.

We chatted for a while until he suggested I come over. I hesitated slightly but agreed. He seemed worth the effort of getting dressed and leaving the house.

Later that same hour, I walked into his apartment building. Polished marble panels decorated the lobby, accented by designer chairs and a security guard at the front desk. The person living here clearly had no financial struggles. I took the elevator up to the penultimate floor, found his door, and knocked.

Suddenly, an unexpected rush of anxiety hit me. My body commanded me to run back to the elevator. For a moment, I feared my instincts knew something I didn’t, but I ignored the premonition.

The door opened to reveal a tall figure in the entryway.

"Eric?" I asked cautiously. He resembled the guy from the photos, but I wanted to be sure. "Yeah, hey," the figure said in a deep voice. "Come on in."

As he closed the door, I took in the space. Just as I’d suspected, money was no object. There was designer furniture, an enormous TV, and several statues and paintings that looked priceless.

"Oh, sorry, I must've made a mistake," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "I clearly took a wrong turn and ended up at the city museum instead of your apartment." "What? Oh," he smiled. "One of my obsessions. I try not to go overboard, but as you can see, I fail." I laughed, and the atmosphere cleared.

After he offered me a drink, we sat in the living room and talked much longer than I expected. I had assumed the "dispelling boredom" line was a euphemism for a hookup, but we simply kept talking for the rest of the evening.

I learned he was a plastic surgeon for celebrities, and he hinted at some big names who had passed through his clinic. He discussed his hobbies as a card magician and his interest in other party tricks. He was a very conversational guy.

In turn, I told him a little about my life. My dull office job, the highs and lows of my studies, and what it was like growing up in a small town. Eric expressed genuine interest throughout the conversation.

Eventually, the conversation turned to body image within the community.

"What are you talking about? You're a total stud," he said, attempting to flatter me. I laughed and replied, "Thanks, but it never feels that way." "What do you mean?" he asked, sounding surprised. "You can see the absolute truth every time you look in the mirror!" I sighed. "Tell that to all the guys on Grindr who disappear the moment I send a photo." He ignored my comment. "It's just a matter of self-perception." "No, it's not. If I were big enough, it would be so much easier for me." "You really think that?" "I really do."

A brief silence settled between us until Eric spoke again, a suggestion forming.

"I have an idea." "I'm listening." "What if I hypnotize you?" "What?" "I love this stuff, street magician tricks and illusions. I’ve been learning it now that I have more free time." "Haha, very funny," I said, rolling my eyes. "I'm serious!"

I looked at him skeptically. "Even if it worked, which it probably won't, how would hypnosis help me?" "It would improve your self-worth," he answered enthusiastically. "Even if it doesn't help on Grindr, at least you won't feel so awful. Let me try. What have you got to lose?" Not much, I thought, though I felt a flicker of fear about what he might do while I was under.

"I can't make you do anything," he added, as if reading my mind. "Hypnosis can't force you to do anything you don't truly want to do." Oh, right. I forgot it wasn't like the movies. "Okay, fine. But if it doesn't work, you're opening another bottle for me," I laughed. "Deal." He shook my hand playfully.

Eric directed me to an armchair. I kicked off my Adidas and settled in, enjoying the texture of the fabric.

"Okay, I need you to relax. Close your eyes and give yourself permission to let go." "Yes, doctor," I joked, but I complied. I trusted him enough to let myself surrender to the experience. "Alright. Now that you're comfortable, listen to my voice…"

Eric continued, and I slowly drifted out of consciousness.

----

I woke to the sharp snap of his fingers.

Dazed, I opened my eyes and realized I was no longer in the luxury apartment. It was hard to see as the daylight blinded me, but I realized I was in some kind of cheap motel room.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Eric said, standing by the door. "I'll be back in a few minutes. Try not to freak out too much." Before I could speak, he stepped out and slammed the door, locking it behind him.

I tried to process my surroundings, but my thoughts and senses were sluggish. I was groggy, sinking into the fog that had settled in my brain.

How did I get here? What time was it? Was this a dream? Was I still hypnotized, or had he drugged me?

Many questions ran through my mind, but only when I managed to shake off the grogginess did I see what was really going on.

The heaviness wasn't just in my mind. My limbs felt heavy as lead. My body… if it was even my body… felt foreign, a massive and unfamiliar weight.

The chair creaked beneath me. I stared at my arms, thick and roped with muscle, covered in coarse, dark hair I'd never seen before.Panic surged.

What the hell is happening?

I struggled to stand. I had to find a mirror, to find a way out! But when I finally managed to get out of the chair, I lost my balance and had to lean against the wall. Steadying myself, I realized my perspective had shifted. Had I somehow grown taller? Why was my head almost scraping the ceiling?

Heart pounding, I reached the bathroom and shrieked in terror. Who is this person in the mirror!? Is that me!? It can't be!

In the mirror, a stranger stared back, a mountain of a man, over two meters tall, a hulking creature of muscle and mass. I reached out a trembling hand to feel the coarse stubble on his face.

My horror deepened as I studied the features of this unfamiliar person. His brown eyes were not mine, his black hair was not mine, his flattened nose and crooked teeth were not mine. My face was gone. My identity was gone.

Everything felt wrong. I struggled to remain stable on legs as thick as hairy tree trunks. And no wonder I couldn't. With these new giant feet walking was a procedure I wasn't ready to handle.

I was about to check beneath my waistband when the sound of the lock turning cut me off. Eric stepped back inside.

"So, what do you think?" he asked with a toothy grin. I stared at him in horror. "What—" I stopped, jolted by the gravelly voice that erupted from my throat. "What did you do to me!?" "Exactly what you asked for. It came out great, didn't it?"

"There is no way in the world I asked for this. How did this even happen!? Are you… Is this real? Did you hypnotize me into thinking I look like this?" "Absolutely not. What you're seeing now, all 150 perfect kilos of it, is you and only you." "Perfect!?" "Don't pretend. You chose him yourself." "What!?"

Eric chuckled and took my hand, leading me out of the bathroom. "Come with me." My hand looked enormous in his. I could have covered his entire face with it. He sat me back in the chair and took a seat opposite me.

"Looks like I worked you a little too well. Let me explain."

"When you came over and we got to know each other, I felt like I saw something beyond just a cute guy. I saw untapped potential in you. So much pain, so much unnecessary shame. I realized I could change a life, and I decided to do it."

"By what right do you think you can just change someone's life!?"

"Not 'just like that,' I promise. After you fell under hypnosis, we had a long conversation. You told me how much you longed for a different body. You told me about your swapping fantasies. Fate brought you to me, the man who could make them a reality."

A deep anxiety washed over me. He couldn't have known those things unless I’d said them. He was telling the truth.

"So I got to work. I kept you under prolonged hypnosis to ensure you remained focused on the plan. You've been here for the past few months while I made that fantasy a reality."

"Months!?"

"First, I wanted to understand exactly what the ideal body you wanted looked like. We went through hundreds of photos of men until you found the one whose body would make you feel whole. Not a bad choice, honestly."

"This. Is. Not. Ideal!" I roared in that new, heavy voice. "I would never choose this!"

"Shhh," he hushed me. "Let me finish." As if by magic, my throat tightened, and I couldn't make a sound.

"It was a long and complex process. I'm very proud of the work that was done here." "We started with the general body structure. I put you on a bulking diet along with a workout plan you adhered to for six months. Of course, that wasn't enough for such a drastic change, so I also included fat injections, testosterone supplements, and a few other professional secrets."

He smiled, beaming with pride.

"In parallel, I performed limb-lengthening surgeries to reach this new height. The right height for you. When we got down to details, I worked with a variety of different techniques. Dermabrasion to match the skin, hair transplants all over the body, various facial surgeries, comprehensive dental work, and actually even an implant of most of your facial organs."

My heart hammered against my new enormous ribs. This man was a maniac.

"Now, to ensure this isn't just a superficial change, I asked a favor of a friend who helped me edit your genome. All with your consent, of course. No matter how much time passes, you will continue to look exactly like this. As a bonus, your fingerprints and DNA will now identify you as this man, not the person you were."

I couldn't speak, but the tears flooding my face said enough. He had turned me into a different person. A creature.

"Oh, right, you're free to talk." Eric said snapping his fingers, but I remained silent. I didn't know what to say. Instead, I looked again at this new body, my new body. As we talked, a layer of cold sweat had accumulated. I smelled it. A stale odor. My smell.

I swallowed in anxiety and was horrified again when I realized that it wasn't even my saliva anymore, but that of the huge creature I was trapped in.

Eric broke the silence. "Seriously, nothing to say?"

I looked up at him, shaking with rage and grief. "You son of a bitch."

Eric began to respond, but I cut him off. "You're a psycho. Only an insane person would do this. You stole my identity! I'm someone else!" "Well, that's what we wanted, wasn't it?" "You! You wanted it! If I said something like that when you hypnotized me, it's only because I was under your control!" "You know very well I can't force you to do what you don't want."

"I. Don't. Want. This!"

I surged to my feet, accidentally knocking over a table lamp. I was startled by my own strength. I’d barely felt the impact. But I saw the flash of fear on Eric’s face. I was bigger than him. Stronger. I was a threat.

"I don't care how," I growled, "but you're changing me back!"

"As I explained, you can't turn back the clock. Your genome has been altered. We didn't back up your old bio-data."

"I don't care!" I screamed, pulling back a fist to strike him. But Eric snapped his fingers again.

"Okay, enough of this nonsense." The snap froze me in my tracks, forcing me back into a state of involuntary relaxation. "Listen to me, and listen well," he commanded. I nodded submissively against my will. "You aren't in a position to give orders. I can keep you in this state as long as I like. I could wake you up when you're eighty and wrinkled."

"Yes," I answered submissively.

"But I'm not a bad person. I have no interest in being your babysitter. On the other hand, I can't just let you go. It’s only a matter of time before you convince someone of your old identity and lead them back to me."

Eric paced the room, mumbling options to himself. And me… all I could do was continue to stand in that same relaxed position and pray he would release me.

After a few minutes, Eric returned to sit across from me and began to reprogram me.

"Alright, this is what's going to happen now. In a few minutes, I will release you, but before that, I want you to go into a deep trance. The deepest trance you've ever been in. A thousand times deeper than all the previous times combined."

My eyes rolled back, a wave of relaxation washed over me.

"From now on, your name is Erez. You're going to forget your previous name. It's no longer important. From now on, you are Erez. I am going to give you a new identity. Erez doesn't work in an office. Erez is a hard-working bartender at a gay bar by night and a handyman by day. Erez loves working on his enormous physique. Erez didn't finish high school. Erez hates the TV. Erez uses the word 'bro' way too much. Erez…"

And Eric continued like this, getting carried away into the new reality he was weaving for me.

"Now that you know who you are, let's discuss the past. You will never speak of me or what you've been through. If you try, you'll find yourself drifting to another topic, pulled back into Erez's identity. And just for my own amusement, I want you to understand that beneath the surface, the original 'you' will always be there—watching, unable to stop yourself from acting like Erez. I want you to know what it's like to be someone else, just like you wanted."

A snapping sound woke me up again. This time, I found myself on a city street at night.

My feet ached. He probably made me walk a lot so I couldn't find his place again.

I looked at them. I could still feel the difference from my old height. I was wearing size 13 boots and dirty blue jeans.

I pulled an old phone and a wallet out of my pocket. Inside was an ID card belonging to Erez. Mine.

I took a deep breath, wanting to scream in horror. But instead, my body betrays me and-

"Bro."

-------

Thank you for reading. Hopefully the next one will come out before 2027 😪

Curious about what's happened to Ethan and what's coming next? Check out the master post here!

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

With so much color adorning the place, Why not add a bit more spice to that race?

"Fuck, this is amazing…" Benny murmured as he gazed at himself, looking over his body as he posed and flexed in the bathroom mirror. He knew he only had a few minutes left before he had to go on stage and put on a show to make all the men in the club lust after him. And with a body like this, he didn't think he'd have any troubles in that department. He smirked as he pulled out his phone, taking a couple more photos to save for his own collection later.

Humming as he continued flexing to show off his tight muscles and fat ass, Benny thought back to the moment he and Ethan first saw the stripper deflate before their very eyes. In any other situation, Benny knew he should have been more worried about it. There was no logical explanation for why that happened or what caused the stripper to transform into a stretchy bodysuit for him to slip into. But now that he was inhabiting and living the other's life, if not just for the night, Benny couldn't think about anything else beyond turning his head and breathing in the thick scent of the sweaty man's armpits. "Fuck yeah…" he groaned, rolling his hips as his new cock was beginning to twitch and swell up inside his tight underwear. Glancing down at his phone, he saw that it was a few minutes past midnight, and he really had to get a move on now. Admiring the bodysuit could come later. But he wasn't planning on being the dancer forever; just for tonight, while it was still his birthday celebration.

In between his impromptu flexing session, Benny caught a glimpse of a dark shadow that was outlining his jawline. It seemed like a light trick, a light shadow that darted away every time he turned his head. But as he leaned in closer to look at it, his eyes widened at the sight of some stubble starting to grow on his otherwise smooth complexion. "Whoa…" he murmured, leaning closer to examine hair that was forming at an exponential rate. Was this perhaps a byproduct of him being the bodysuit? However, the dancer had lighter hair and maintained a relatively smooth physique. The hair that was forming seemed dark and coarse, thick, as if it had been growing out for some time. Still, Benny didn't mind the more rugged look, despite it seeming a bit out of place on his otherwise smooth body.

He reached up to stroke the new addition, enjoying the way the stubble pricked and scratched at his fingertips. "Man, I always wanted to have facial hair like this," he murmured softly, his eyes eager, feasting on the way the growth seemed to accentuate and highlight his chiseled jawline more than usual. All of a sudden, Benny's head seemed to throb, a sharp headache piercing his skull as an unfamiliar memory of him trimming and shaving his beard to keep it clean spilled in. It was routine for him, something to do every morning, right?

Grunting as he gripped at his scalp, Benny stared back in the mirror as the lightness in the bodysuit's hair began to darken. It was subtle and slow at first, a dark coloration beginning to spread from the roots of his head upwards. The dancer gaped at the rapidly changing hair color, taking in the sight as though someone had been dyeing his hair. Soon, all that was left was the remaining lightness at the tips of his hair, like a bit of frosted tips. And with an unceremonious swish, Benny could only watch in amazement as his hair turned completely dark. His hair seemed to grow into more wavy and luxurious locks, perfectly quaffed and stylized to frame his head. Even the sweat from his dancing couldn't knock it out of place, although Benny remembered talking with his colleagues about all the different hair products and routines he'd do to make sure it had the nice waviness that men loved about him. But I… This is just a suit, I don't actually work here…

Something was wrong; that much was clear. Whatever this suit was doing to him wasn't what Benny had initially agreed to. He had only planned on being the dancer's stand-in for the night, a wild revelry of dancing (and possible hook-ups) to celebrate his special day before taking it off and resuming his life as usual. But the memories slipping into his mind? The way the suit was changing into something else? It wasn't the same dancer that he had first laid eyes on earlier that night… If anything, Benny could feel his cock throbbing in excitement at what was coming next.

No, this is wrong! This is– I have to stop this! Benny's befuddled mind began to work overtime, reaching up to grip the corners of his mouth. He just had to take the suit off, as unfortunate as it was. Even if he wanted to play pretend, it wasn't worth getting all fucked up in the head for it. But to his shock and growing horror, there was no seam to tug at, no distinction between the skinsuit and his own. In fact, when he tugged at his mouth, the sensation and the pain felt as if he were pulling on his own body. "Nrgh… F-Fuck, c'mon…" he growled as the dancer struggled to take off the suit that he had slipped on not just a few minutes ago. Why couldn't he get it off?

A shudder ran through his body as he watched the pale, milky-white skin of his morph into a more tanned and sun-kissed color. It was like watching color bloom into this muscular body, patches of his skin darkening until it was clear he spent more time outdoors than inside. Benny gasped at the apparent change, no longer thinking that this was something novel or exciting to see. He quickly tugged off the shirt he had slipped on earlier, whimpering as he took in the view of his torso changing before his very eyes.

"N-No, no! What's… what's happening?" Benny gasped as he leaned against the sink counter, stretching and pulling at his skin as the rest of his formerly pale body reached the same rich, caramel color. He shuddered as he felt his body respond in turn, the stripper's body still as sensitive and arousing as before. "This is… bad… This is muy malo…" he muttered, only widening his eyes in surprise at new language spilling from his lips. But he didn't know any other language besides English. There was no way he could speak anything other than… Spanish and English, right? After all, he grew up speaking it at home, and English was only secondary, just so people could hire him.

Benito whimpered at the strange thoughts spilling into his head at full force now. The jumbled memories, the changing thoughts that were making his head ache. The dancer groaned as he leaned against the counter, his legs buckling as he fell to the floor. Why did everything feel so strange and heavy? He was… just a kid from Illinois, who came out here to study… He was studying… How to be a famous dancer, of course. He wanted to be on tour and go on stage with all the renowned artists, but Benito found himself working at the nightclub in the meantime to help pay for his rent. Or was it his studies? Why was it so hard to think clearly?

He growled as he tapped his head against the cool sink counter, letting the cool stone bring some comfort to his aching head. Ah, of course. Benito was doing both! There wasn't anything he couldn't do, given that he had the smarts and the beauty to get far in life. Of course, working part-time as a stripper had its own set of connotations, and people often preferred it when he pretended like he was a silly himbo or a dumb, horny dancer. It was embarrassing and humiliating at times, but Benito was brilliant to pick out people in the crowd who wouldn't treat him terribly. And most of the time, many of the older men were just looking for someone young and attractive who would give them the night of their lives. And if they were rich and paid him well, Benito couldn't care less what they thought about him. He knew he was brighter and hotter and better than almost everyone out there every night anyway.

The stripper groaned as he could feel the fog in his head starting to clear, although some lingering things didn't feel quite complete for him. Benito's memories were now being interlaced with being a sugar baby for many wealthy clients, eager for him to finish his degree in engineering so that he would consider being their full-time dancer. But he could also remember late nights at the school, studying with friends and making plans to hop on video calls during winter break when he went back home to… his white family? That didn't make any sense to him…

Rolling his hips as he ground against the floor, the dancer had enough lucidity to reach up and grab the wallet he had set aside by the sink. He frantically pulled it open, shuddering as he felt his eager cock leaking a steady spurt of precum into his tight shorts. Fishing out his ID, Benito gawked at the picture of a pasty, frail young man staring back at him. There was nothing about him that looked like this image. But the name "Benjamin" on the card seemed to trigger something inside of him, something that made the stripper pause and think about what he was doing. About whether he wanted to return to that life of a simple young man, fearful of going out and wanting to spend all his time locked up in his room. Or if he wanted to fully become Benito, the handsome, sexy hunk of a man who had everything he wanted and got men to do anything he asked of them. The decision was so clear and evident that it took him only a second.

In that moment, Benito's hands slipped into his shorts, pushing aside the elastic band until he could free his thick and throbbing cock. He was really late for his show now, but he couldn't stop himself. He had been so horny and needy this whole night, and now that he was accepting this new life of his, the dancer couldn't help but groan in excitement. This was his now, it was all his, and there was nothing he needed to change about it. Benito moaned as he pumped at his fat cock, loving the way the foreskin provided some extra sensitivity that he had never had before tonight. The dancer panted as he dropped the ID card, watching as his droplets of precum dripped onto the plastic. He felt as though he were in heat, the desperation to cum making his head spin and spiral up to a dizzying height.

"Hngh… Fuck… Ngh… Fuck yes!" he growled, his eyes widening as he felt his background and memories shift towards his changing heritage. The stripper groaned as he felt the influx of change swell in his groin, and his hips bucked upwards wildly. It wasn't long, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to hold off any longer or give in to his pleasures. "Gah… F-Fuck, oh, please—"

Contrary to the slow and transformative shift that overtook Benito's body that night, the orgasm was quick and rough, with the dancer's hips jerking violently as he shot his seed all over the place. Each load spurted out ropes of cum, as if he hadn't touched himself in several days. And for a moment, Benito figured that couldn't have been true, given how many men he had in his phone eager for him to give them a call for a second night together. He gasped loudly as he came, watching with a dazed expression as cum dribbled over his fingertips, coating his ID in a thick and sticky layer of cum. The dancer groaned at the feeling, his own mouth hanging open from the pleasurable sensation. Benito turned his head, wiping up a few strands of saliva and drool that slipped out of the corner of his lips against his shoulder. "Fuck… That was a big one," he chuckled, letting his tone shift into the more dumb and slutty way of speaking that his patrons always loved.

Grinning as he held up his cum-covered fingers, he idly picked up his card off the floor, wiping some of the cum off on his shorts. Benito smiled at the sight of his handsome visage staring back at him, his name clearly imprinted in black ink. He could still remember the day he got his license, when several of the workers flirted with him and expedited the process just so they could spend more time taking photos of him. The stripper lazily stood up from the mess he had made on the floor, only managing to tuck away his cock in time when the bathroom door opened.

Staring back at the bouncer who had informed him of the final act just a few minutes before, Benito grinned as the beefy man took in the messy view. The older man seemed caught between exasperation and arousal, although the stripper knew this wasn't the first time the other man walked in on him touching himself. "Boss is lookin' for ya. You're heading on soon," the bouncer said gruffly, his eyes darting away to look at anything but the other's disheveled display.

Benito laughed lightly at the other's words, only tugging on his outfit for the last bit of the night. He strolled past the other, carefully letting his sweaty, half-shirtless body brush up against the other man as he slipped back on his cowboy hat. “Gracias, papi. I always know I can count on you to look out for me," he purred seductively as he made a show of licking off the cum on his fingers. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he took in the older man's growing bulge in his black pants. "Maybe I'll find some time to show you how grateful I am later tonight, si?"

The dancer didn't wait for a reply, walking away with a sway of his hips. He knew that his fat ass was on display and the other man's eyes were fixated on the jiggle as he pranced away, but Benito always loved the attention men gave him as he walked. Getting into position with the rest of the dancers, he smiled as they were ushered out onto the main stage. Tonight was his night, after all. The boss did love his star quality, and Benito was never one to disappoint at a club this packed.

"Please give it up, and wish a happy birthday to our beautiful Benito!"

And as he basked in the roar of the club, savoring the thunderous cheers and the vibrating bass of the house music the DJ was blasting, Benito let his eyes roam over the club's patrons. Their eyes were all fixated on him, even as the other dancers moved around to their own stations and poles and began dancing for the last few hours of the night. Benito hummed as he let his fingers trail along his outfit, grinning as he heard the screams of lust and arousal as he let the sleeves slip off his muscular body.

His routine was perfect, as it always was. Benito was a professional, after all. He was trained to make people want him. And he always knew what to do to help others have the time of their lives. So, when the dancer looked out at the crowd and saw a young Asian man staring at him with both surprise and fascination, he knew what he had to do. Sliding his way over to that end of the stage, Benito made direct eye contact with the other, a playful wink and glimmer in his eyes as he leaned down to speak with him.

"And what's your name, cutie? You look like a little lamb, lost in the club out here all on your own."

"... I'm— Ethan…"

"Well then, Ethan," Benito purred as he let the other's name slip from his lips like silky honey. "Come on stage with me, cutie. Qué guapo.” The dancer giggled as he held his hand out for the stunned young man to take. "Won't you come up here and celebrate my birthday with me? I was looking for someone like you to make this night a special one…"

black tf - vidéo - short tf

It's been thirty years since I was last in school, and to be honest. My life has been terrible. I did not pursue any further education, worked in retail for six years and struggled to find a job. I started couch surfing for a good year, living in friend's houses until they'd get tired of me and kick me out. Before my best friend Eric kicked me out, I bought this problem-solving spell book off the internet. When Eric saw it lying at his doorstop, he had enough of me and threw me out with it. He yelled that I was irresponsible with my money and slammed the door in my face. Then, I was living on the streets. Only with that book to my name. I would keep repeating those spells on the street hoping they would fix my situation somehow. Infinite money, dazzling looks. Anything to save me. Last I remember, I yelled one of those spells and a lamppost above me fell on top of me. Then I found myself back in Eric's house, lying in his bed, jumping awake in fear. At least one of those spells worked. I did not know how I did it, but at least I was off the streets. Even if it meant stealing my best friend's life. I lived as Eric for almost two years, pretending to be him perfectly, doing his job better then he could. But I grew bored, a project manager isn't the job for me. I bought that book again, looking for another escape, seeing if it could fix me again. I rummaged through Eric's attic looking for photographs or anything to use. I thought that, if Eric was the last person I thought of last time, maybe that would work again. Old sport magazines, family photos and polaroid's, broken photo frames. None of them captured me. Not until I saw our old Yearbook. It was slightly worn, stained a bit too, but still legible. I looked at old photos from when we were all eighteen, rereading those names with memories of them flashing in my head. Then one name lit a spark in me: Dan Axel. Back then, he was a smart kid, a good looking one too. But not someone I would call my friend. I think I made fun of him more then I actually spoke to him. I went on Eric's Facebook, scrolling through his friends and found Dan's account. All of a sudden a desirable lust came over me. He could be my escape from this boring life. Flash to next morning, I wake up in Dan's bed, lying right next to his wife. Turns out his life is great. A successful CEO, father of two, and with a boat load of money to waste. I got changed, looked in the mirror and analysed myself. I had no clue how to act like Dan, I barely knew him as well as Eric. But I could just lie and say I was ill for a while until I get myself into shape. Nobody would question me anyway. This is going to be such a nicer life for me.

Chad was quite the boisterous fella. After all, who wouldn't be so celebratory after winning a paid vacation to the pristine beaches of Bali? And he loved it all. While on his way back to his hotel, he scouted some street food vendors cooking up all sorts of local delicacies. Chad laid his eyes on of the guys selling some sort of fried rice combo. The man was built like a rock in every sense of the word. His bulging biceps begging his sleeves to give way as his ginormous pecs were pushing themselves tight against the man's apron. And he was quite the looker too.

Unfortunately, the man thought the same about Chad. After some light banter and the sporadic hand holding, Agus eventually invited the man over to his house for some rather intimate sessions. This little thing continued for a few days, before that one fateful night when Agus slipped a little purple "potion" into Chad's food. As Chad ate into some mean babi guling, he felt his head spin as he slowly fell to the ground. Agus meanwhile undressed himself, slowly but surely standing by as Chad's transformation took place. As Chad laid himself down on the floor writhing in discomfort as waves of static energy ran up and down his body, Agus started speaking in his low, sensual voice, ever so slightly gyrating his hips and beckoning with his finger.

"Anda merasa diri anda semakin besar..." "Kamu merasa dirimu semakin bodoh..." "Kamu merasa dirimu melupakan segalanya..." "Kamu merasa dirimu mencintaiku..."

Chad felt himself getting bigger as he writhed on the ground, hiding his head with a pillow and his arms as he begged for Agus to stop. But he never did. He slowly felt his cock stir and grow larger in his pants, making him squirm and moan even harder. And all that was left to seal the transformation was... "CROT" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was a few days later when another group of tourists stumbled upon Agus's stall...and a new plot of land behind him. Agus offered them a tour of his quaint farm supplying his ingredients for the stall. And in the middle of it stood Karel.

A farmer hailing from across the strait in Java, he came to Bali in search of a job. His mind basically filled only with the basics, Agus had agreed to take him in as not only a farmer, but a "helper".

Karel was here to stay, and he was proud of it. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Hey Everyone! I'm returning to Tumblr! To make the long story short, I finally managed to leave that Chinese guy's body! But bad news, I got stuck in this random Filipino guy's bod. Still trying to work out the kinks in returning to my original body but hey, I'm not complaining. Ang gwapo ko hihihi, at sana nagustuhan niyo ang story ko!

Vidéo - short tf - arab tf - tf by tattoo

The two fat and old gay American tourists admired the two fit Thai locals from afar. The two straight young locals were hot and tanned, preparing their boat to go fishing for their village.

The gay couple looked at each other and smirked.

"They're perfect," Harold said to Peter, his husband of 46 years.

"I can't believe we're really going to do that, are you sure this is going to work?" Peter asked, concern all over his face.

"Now it's not the time to go back, we've come too far to find the eternal life fruit." Harold grabbed from his bag what looked like a pitch black shiny coconut. "We're old, Peter, we don't have much time left, and I don't want to lose you... This fruit is the only one left in the entire world. This is our only chance, trust me."

Peter smiled. "I trust you."

Harold then split the coconut in half, revealing a black oily liquid inside.

"It sure doesn't look appetizing..." Harold said, he took one gulp of the liquid and then handed the coconut to Peter. "Don't worry, it doesn't taste bad."

"You said the same thing on our first date," Peter sighed and took the coconut, taking a long gulp as well. Harold was right, it didn't taste bad.

"So... are you feeling anything weird?" Peter asked, looking at Harold for any sign of the effect.

"No, nothing, I think we should drink mo-" Suddenly, their eyes rolled back, and a thick black mist came out of their mouths. The mists flew straight towards the two unsuspecting young locals and forced their way into their mouths. The young men's bodies froze, and their muscles tensed. Their eyes became totally black as their heads tilted back.

Their eyes slowly went back to normal, and they looked at each other with surprise. They both looked down at their new, young, and strong bodies, their hands inspected their abs and pecs, feeling their biceps and groping their bulges.

Harold's vessel wore white shorts and had a tribal tattoo on his muscular bicep, while Peter's vessel wore blue shorts and had a more handsome face.

They looked at each other and started laughing.

"It worked, Harold! It really worked! Look at you, you're so hot!" Peter shouted, now in Thai.

"You're speaking Thai now... wait, I'm speaking in Thai as well. Our main languages were swapped too."

Harold then pulled Peter's neck for a passionate kiss. They sloopily made out as if for the first time, and in a sense, it was. While they kissed, Peter pulled Harold's shorts to have a peek at his husband's new dick. He was glad to see Harold's vessel was well-hung.

"You're much bigger now. I can't wait to suck your new huge cock," Peter wrapped his fingers around his husband's thick shaft, making him moan. Harold's hands squeezed Peter's ass as he kissed him once more. "And I can't wait to take your virginity again," Harold whispered.

Their intimate and romantic moment was ruined when they heard two familiar voices screaming.

"What the fuck is going on? This can't be real..." Harold's old body shouted, looking at his fat hands in shock and then screaming again.

"What? Where am I? Is that my body?" Peter's old body asked, fear all over his face as he pointed at the two fit young locals in the middle of groping each other.

Harold and Peter watched their old bodies panicking and screaming towards them, they knew they were speaking English, but they couldn't understand what they were saying.

Suddenly, the two old men dropped to their knees and started to turn into black sand, until only a pile of sand remained.

Peter sighed in relief, he was hugging Harold's muscular arm, "Phew... That was scary, I thought they were going to attack us."

"Attack us? Pfft. With those old, fragile bodies of ours? I would have turned them into dust with my own hands," Harold said as he cockily flexed his biceps for Peter.

The two of them walked towards the piles of black sand. Harold crouched down and buried his hand into each pile. In one of them, he found a black seed. He stood up and showed the seed to Peter.

"With this seed, we can grow a palm tree that will yield many Eternal Life fruits, we will be immortal. According to the ancient writings, it will take 33 years for the tree to bear fruit."

"You're such an occultist nerd," Peter joked, "Now, why don't we go somewhere more private where we can explore these bodies..." Peter ran a finger down Harold's abs until he wrapped his hand around the massive shaft. "...better?"

Peter then turned around and pulled his blue shorts down just enough to expose his ass. Harold got harder at the sight of his husband's new younger and muscular ass.

They both went to a secluded area at the beach behind some bushes and under a tree. Peter couldn’t stop touching, kissing, tasting every inch of Harold’s muscular vessel. Peter ran his tongue across his sweaty pecs, sucking one nipple, then burying his face in his pits, moaning as he breathed in that raw, musky scent of a sweaty fisherman. He licked lower, his mouth already watering, before swallowing his thick cock, bobbing his head and drooling around it like he was starving for him.

When Harold pulled him down to the sand, Peter spread out under him, legs wide, waiting. Harold climbed on top, their mouths crashing together in a wet kiss. Peter wrapped his legs around his waist, begging.

"Show me what your new vessel can do!"

Harold slid inside slowly, making Peter gasp and claw at his wide back. Peter moaned into his ear, whispering for more, for harder, as Harold fucked him gently but deeply.

The two natives fucked until dawn. The locals found it strange that the two straight friends started living together in a simple house by the beach.

“The amount of your loan debt is 12 567 Dollars. We kindly ask you to repay your loan or we will have to demand money in court. Have a nice day.” The robot on the other end of the wire hung up.

 Frank put the phone on the nightstand and took a deep breath… He was ready to cry. About a year ago, he was fired from his job. In their opinion, he became too old, fat and his vision deteriorated, so he could no longer work in the factory. Frank had to sell the apartment and take a loan for a small house by the sea. It was on the porch of the house and went Frank. Before him was a beautiful landscape of the coast. Frank looked over at themselves. He was already 54 years old, he was gray, fat and wore huge glasses, without which he could not even see his fingers…

“How can I repay this loan?“Said Frank, raising his head to the sky, as if he was talking to someone…

 At this moment, his room turned on the TV. Frank quickly went into the house to turn it off, but stopped with the remote control in hand. A nice girl was advertising. 

“Do you need money to buy a new house, a car or just to pay the loan? Mr. Turns needs workers. Your age and work experience is not important. Just come to the country mansion. There’s work for everyone. Write the address…” She dictated it, and Frank immediately wrote it down in my notebook. Not wasting a minute Frank mesmerized got into his old Ford and drove to the address. After a couple of hours Frank was on the spot. Rounding the perimeter of a huge mansion Frank went to the pool.

On one of the sun loungers lay the owner of the mansion in only swimming trunks and sunglasses. Next to him was a young blond guy and grilled sausages.

“Valentin. Don’t forget to fry the vegetables too” Said a man.

“Bien sûr, maître. Je n'oublierai pas." The young man answered.

Frank looked at the man. He was kind of late in his 30s. Nice dark skin and big muscles. Dark hair and and a shiny smile.

"Ahem. Hi, I’m here to get a job."Said Frank, a bit nervous. 

The owner lowered his glasses and looked at Frank from head to toe. The young man at the grill started, but did not even turn, like something afraid. 

"Well. Very well. My name is Mr. Thurns. You’re Mister…”

"Just Frank." 

“Good, Frank. I have a job for you. Do you like cleaning the house?”

“I’m not doing it well. But when I have no choice, I have to clean the house.“ 

"Wonderful. Then you’ll be my new maid.”

“Maid?“

"Yes, Frank. Something embarrassing you? Don’t worry, you will succeed. I’ll pay you handsomely. How about $ 2,000 a week?”

“How much?! I agree. Where do I sign?“ Frank’s eyes lit up. 

"Here” Mr. Thurns pulled out a paper and a pen as if from the air. As soon as the last drop of ink touched the paper, Frank felt he couldn’t move. 

“What the hell is going on?!”

“Dear Frank, you just signed a contract with me. Let me tell you that in my mansion, all the employees are models who speak different languages for safety reasons. Now join them.“

Frank felt his weight and huge belly deflate like a balloon. All his fat melted in a minute. His t-shirt was now hanging on him like a hoodie, and his pants slept on the floor. His skin was firm and young. Years ago for Frank. Muscles were filled with strength and elasticity. Now they bulged under the skin with a beautiful relief. Frank now was in 2 times thinner, than until this.His muscles swelled, and his skin turned a beautiful pale color. His graying hair had once again turned dark. His bald head began to overgrow, and the wrinkles on his face were smoothed. With each breath, Frank could now see his chest muscles surging forward. His stomach became flat, and then 6 abs cubes peeked out from under the remaining subcutaneous fat. His cock became longer and thicker until it reached 7.5 inches. His hands felt the power of youth and clenched involuntarily. His face was rearranging. Took eyes are almond-shaped and dark steel. Los forehead and cheekbones became more distinct and beautiful. Frank became a different person… Frank could move again. He ran up to the pool and looked at his new look.

"私の主です！ 私は若いです。 私ンや若きます。 ございます！" Frank shut his mouth in fright.

 "Now you speak Japanese like a true Japanese” Put on these pants, shirt and shoes and start cleaning my bedroom.“ Mr. Post said. "Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Now I will address you by the name of Akio.”

Akio bowed to his master and happily went to clean the house. He could not even dream of such a job, and in it is also well paid.

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes.If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Quick: Patriotism

— What the fuck?!

I have no idea how I ended up here, or where I am. I was about to have dinner with my family after a hard day at work. My wife had made a meatloaf that smelled pretty good. I was taking off my shoes, and before I knew it, I was somewhere else.

In a different room, with the sunlight still present, the air felt warmer, but I felt more exposed... It was then that I looked down, finding a dark complexion.

— ¡¿Qué es eso?!

I expected to hear English words coming out of my mouth, but instead, I found Spanish. I could hear music from below, what seemed to be a group of trumpets and other instruments... peculiar. As well as chants in Spanish, which I seemed to understand perfectly.

I continued staring at my hands, unable to believe what was happening, and moved forward into the room to find a mirror. In front of me, I could see a guy in his twenties, with a dark complexion, a considerable amount of hair running from his waist to his pecs, a clipper cut on the sides, and on his neck, a... Mexican ornament?

I inhaled, noticing the aroma around me, or rather, the stench. I could smell a profuse scent of sweat from my new armpits, which made me gasp. I tried to control myself without success, inhaling more and more.

— Puta madre, sí...

I licked my lips and then placed my hands on my pecs, squeezing them. I wanted to stop, think about my family, my job, my nation... I had supported the Make America Great Again movement; it couldn't end like this. I...

Sniff... Sniff... Puta madre, que bien huelo. ¿Qué chingados estaba diciendo hace rato? Meh, no importa.

----

Hello everyone!I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

It said:

This dice can change the following attributes. Once you touch the dice, it will write your current attributes. You will have to roll for each one of those, until you become a new man.

I found this interesting, at the very least, so I bought it and went back home. If just tl try it.

I touched the dice, and immediately the paper that had the attributes listed, was thus filled:

Muscles: 2. You have barely any muscle.

Intelligence: 5. You are brilliant.

Sexuality: 1. You are completely gay.

Height: 4. You are taller than average, but not by much.

Race: 3. You are white.

Cock size: 6. You are as hung as horse.

Marveled, I was ready to just put the dice away. As curious as I was, I was mostly content with my attributes. And I didn't want to risk it.

But before I knew it, my hand was already shaking the dice, and about to throw it. As if the dice's magic was compelling my hand without my imput.

You never should’ve gone into that store.

It was past midnight, the streets wet and glossy with rain, the air heavy with the stink of fast food, cigarettes, and damp asphalt. You’d had a couple drinks at the bar down the block, just enough to be tipsy but not enough to excuse what came next.

You only noticed the sign because it flickered once, briefly, like it was calling you:

“Red Velvet: Toys, Magic & Men.”

You hesitated at the doorway, staring at the warped glass. The shop looked… wrong. The front window was half-covered by peeling porn posters from another decade, and the buzzing neon “OPEN” sign was missing its “O.” Inside, faint music drifted — something low and strange, not quite recognizable.

You told yourself you were just curious. Just going to look.

The smell hit first — a mix of rubber, incense, and the stale tang of lube. Fluorescent lights hummed above, bathing everything in a cold, surgical glow. Rows of toys lined the cramped aisles, alongside racks of harnesses and bottles of poppers. But then, at the very back, tucked between two faded boxes of cock rings, you saw it:

A small, black velvet box. Dusty. Out of place. Waiting.

You picked it up before you even realized your hand was moving. It was heavier than it looked, dense and strangely warm, like it had been sitting under a sunbeam.

When you opened it, you found a single six-sided die inside — deep crimson, almost translucent, etched with faint gold runes that caught the light. Beneath it was a folded slip of parchment, its edges frayed and browned, like it had been there for decades.

You unfolded it carefully. The handwriting was ornate, looping, precise:

“This die reshapes the essence of man. Touch it, and your truth will be revealed. You must roll once for each attribute. With each roll, the old self dies. When the final face falls… you are remade.”

You stared at it for a long moment, a nervous laugh bubbling in your throat.

This is ridiculous, you told yourself. A cursed dice in a back-alley gay shop? What was this, some Reddit creepypasta?

Still… you bought it.

THE APARTMENT

By the time you got home, the city was quiet. Your little studio apartment hummed faintly with the sound of your ancient fridge, the glow of a streetlight spilling across your floorboards.

You set the velvet box on your coffee table, poured yourself a whiskey, and stared at it. You told yourself you’d open it once, maybe touch the dice, just to see. Then you’d laugh, toss it in a drawer, and forget about it.

When you picked up the dice, the air changed. It wasn’t a metaphor — the air literally felt thicker, heavier, like the pressure had shifted in the room.

The moment your fingertips brushed the surface, it burned hot. You yelped and almost dropped it, but the sensation wasn’t pain — it was alive.

Then the folded parchment, still lying on the table, shivered. The blank surface darkened as delicate black ink began curling across it, letter by letter, filling itself out until it listed your entire self like a police report:

Muscles: 2 — Soft, doughy, barely toned.

Intelligence: 5 — Sharp. You’ve always been clever.

Sexuality: 1 — Completely, unapologetically gay.

Height: 4 — 5’11. Nothing special.

Race: 3 — White.

Cock Size: 6 — Hung. Always been proud of that.

You sat back on the couch, heart hammering in your chest. This wasn’t possible.

You should’ve stopped there. You knew you should’ve stopped there.

But something about the weight of the dice in your hand… it was wrong. It was pulling at you. Your fingertips flexed against its smooth edges, and you realized — with a growing, sinking dread — that you couldn’t let go.

You were going to roll, whether you wanted to or not.

The dice clattered onto the hardwood.

[6]

At first, you thought nothing had happened. Then the heat came.

It started deep under your ribs, a sudden molten rush that spread outward in jagged pulses. Your breath hitched. You doubled over instinctively as your heart slammed against your sternum like it was trying to escape your chest.

Then came the tearing.

It wasn’t skin, but everything beneath — tendons, ligaments, fibers — snapping, stretching, mutating in real time. You grabbed your stomach and felt it compress under your palm, soft flesh tightening, hardening, chiseling into ridges. A deep, sickening pop-pop-pop shuddered through your torso as bones adjusted to carry new weight.

You staggered to the mirror by your closet, bracing yourself on the wall, gasping like you’d run a marathon.

Your reflection was… wrong.

At first, it was subtle — your collarbones jutting slightly sharper, your shoulders widening just enough to make your shirt pull across the seams. But then your arms began swelling before your eyes, veins crawling to the surface, skin stretching glossy and tight over biceps like stone.

You grabbed your own forearm, desperate, digging nails into the flesh — but it was like squeezing concrete wrapped in hot leather.

Your pecs erupted outward, twitching violently, twitching again, each spasm forcing new bulk into existence until you had slabs hanging heavy beneath your collarbones. A strangled, animalistic noise tore from your throat. You didn’t even recognize your own voice anymore — lower, rougher, guttural.

Sweat poured down your neck, soaking your collar, clinging to the sharp ridges of a body that wasn’t yours.

You were breathing like you’d just finished a deadlift, chest heaving. You reached up, shaking, fingertips dragging across unfamiliar ridges carved into your stomach.

Six abs. Perfect, surgical, alien.

The dice sat on the floor where you’d dropped it, faintly pulsing red.

And then the parchment updated itself, ink swirling and reshaping into a single, cruel sentence beneath the changed stat: Muscles: 6 — Perfect meat. Built to fuck, not to think.

The words made your throat go dry. You tried to speak, but the sound came out slurred, broken, like the dice had stolen your breath along with your body.

Your hands trembled as they reached for the dice again, and this time, there was no resisting.

You were still gasping, staring at the mirror, slick with sweat, when you realized you couldn’t unclench your fingers from the dice.

Your new muscles trembled, dense and heavy, straining your shirt to the edge of tearing. You’d always thought six-packs were photoshopped lies. Now one sat carved into your torso like it had always been there. But none of it felt earned.

It felt stolen.

You stumbled backward onto the couch, gripping the dice with white knuckles. Your breathing was ragged, your chest heaving, every inhalation dragging against lungs that felt too big for your ribs. You wanted to throw it. Smash it. Burn it.

But instead, your hand rolled it.

The dice bounced once, twice, and stopped.

[1]

The change didn’t hit your body first. It hit your head.

At first, it was a pressure — subtle, steady — like someone pressing a cold palm against the inside of your skull. You flinched and grabbed your temples instinctively, trying to steady your thoughts.

Then came the splintering.

A white-hot spike seemed to pierce straight through your frontal lobe, and you gasped out loud, falling sideways onto the carpet. Your heartbeat roared in your ears as if the sound was being pumped directly into your skull.

Your thoughts began… skipping. Like a scratched record. You’d start a sentence in your head — “Okay, okay, I need to think, I need to—” — and then it would just stop, hanging, unfinished, the next word dissolving into static.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus. You grabbed for memories, facts, anything familiar.

Your old apartment address. Your mother’s birthday. The name of the capital of France.

For a second, you had them. You had them. But they were already melting, syllables sliding into mush as if someone had poured acid directly on the folds of your brain.

Panic set in. You tried saying the words out loud, clawing at them:

“The… the capital is… it’s… fuck, it’s fuckin’…”

You slammed your fist into the carpet, veins straining in your forearms.

Every time you reached for a thought, it slipped just out of reach — dangling like a thread you couldn’t quite grab. And the more you tried, the more exhausted your mind felt, like someone was siphoning off everything that made you you.

And then the whispers began.

At first, you thought they came from the street outside. But no — they were inside, behind your ears, crawling deep in the gray matter:

“You don’t need all that thinking.” “Thinking slows you down.” “You got muscles now. That’s what matters.”

You gritted your teeth and shook your head violently, trying to banish the phantom voices. But they were right there, threading themselves through your own thoughts, poisoning them.

A single line on the parchment began to rewrite itself in neat, cruel strokes. Intelligence: 1 — Brainpower wasted. Built for instinct, not thought.

You screamed, hoarse and raw. The sound didn’t sound like you anymore.

And then you noticed something worse: you were drooling. Your lips hung slack, breath heavy, and you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, staring at the glistening smear.

Your head pounded with a dull, wet ache, and behind it… silence. No buzzing thoughts. No racing ideas. Just… static.

And in that empty quiet, a new urge began scratching at the edges.

You were shaking, sweat dripping off your jaw, every nerve screaming at you to stop, to leave the dice where it was and run.

But your hand rolled it anyway.

[6]

The moment it landed, you felt your stomach drop, like missing a step on a dark staircase. Your throat clenched tight, and a shiver ran down your spine.

It started subtle. The scent of sweat on your new skin hit your nose differently — sharp, earthy, unfamiliar — and for some reason, it made your pulse quicken. You shook your head hard, panting, muttering under your breath:

“No. No no no, I’m… I’m gay, I’m fucking gay, I know who I am, I know—”

But the memories weren’t sticking anymore. Every time you tried to recall a man you’d wanted, a face, a body, they blurred, smeared, dissolving into vague, unrecognizable shadows.

And then, just as quickly, your brain began filling the void — unbidden, unwanted — with images of women. Curves, hips, soft skin, slick heat. It hit you like a gut-punch, sudden and primal. You jerked forward, choking on your own breath.

“F-fuck, what the fuck, I don’t want this, I don’t want this,” you rasped, clutching your temples like you could squeeze the thoughts out.

But your body was betraying you. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, your cock stirring, swelling against the fabric of your shorts without permission. You slapped your thigh hard, trying to snap yourself out of it, but the ache only grew sharper, heavier, unbearable.

And the whispers were back, low and mocking this time:

“Man’s gotta fuck.” “Breed.” “Girls, bro. That’s what you want. What you need.”

You staggered to your feet and nearly tripped on your own strength-drunk legs, stumbling against the wall. In the mirror, your reflection was already wrong — your flushed face slack with arousal, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like a predator’s.

You gripped the dresser, panting, spitting out broken fragments of protest between gasps:

“I’m… I’m not… I ain’t… fuck, ain’t gay, ain’t… fuck…”

The parchment updated silently behind you: Sexuality: 6 — Straight. Breeding drive dominant. Men repulse you.

You stared at the new line, throat tight, bile rising.

A scream clawed its way up your chest but came out as a deep, hoarse growl — primal, ugly, not yours.

And deep in your gut, below the terror, something hot and hungry coiled tighter.

At first, you thought maybe nothing happened. But then you noticed your reflection in the mirror — the faintest, subtlest distortion. Like someone dragging a fingertip across wet paint, smearing the edges of your face.

A low, liquid heat spread under your skin, crawling from your chest up your neck to your cheeks. You gasped and slapped at your face instinctively, trying to rub the sensation away, but your fingers only felt wrongness — bone shifting, cartilage grinding, tiny cracks rippling beneath the surface.

Then the color began to drain from your cheeks… only to flood back darker, richer, deeper. Pale tones dissolved like smoke, overtaken by a slow, even tan that deepened and deepened, soaking through every inch of exposed skin. Your forearms. Your shoulders. The planes of your chest.

You stumbled to the mirror, grabbing the edges hard enough to splinter the cheap wood, and stared in wide-eyed horror as your own face betrayed you:

Your jawline thickened, subtly at first, then with brutal inevitability — rounding, reshaping. Your nose shifted beneath the skin, cartilage softening and swelling into broader contours. Your hairline darkened at the roots, a deep, natural black bleeding down as each pale strand died in its follicle.

You backed away from the glass, heart pounding, whispering brokenly:

“No… no no no no no no, this isn’t me, this isn’t—”

But the reflection was changing faster now, features locking into place you didn’t recognize — heavy brows, sharp cheekbones, slightly sun-warmed undertones filling every pore. Your lips looked fuller, darker, alien.

And then came the voice.

A crack in your throat, subtle — then deeper, harsher, rolling like gravel. You coughed and clutched at your neck, trying to swallow, but the vibration wasn’t yours anymore. When you managed a sound, it came out rough, accented, strange in your own ears:

“W… what’s happnin’ t’ meee…”

It didn’t sound like English. Not fully. The vowels bent differently, warped, sliding into unfamiliar shapes without your permission.

And the whispers were back, crawling soft and intimate into the hollow where your thoughts used to live:

“New skin. New blood. New man.” “You weren’t made for that old life.” “This body, this voice — this is who you are.”

You wanted to scream, but the sound curdled low in your throat, deep, guttural, foreign.

Behind you, the parchment updated quietly, another piece of your identity erased in smooth, perfect ink. Race 5 — Middle Eastern. Voice, scent, and bone rewritten to match. Old reflection deleted.

You stumbled to your knees, trembling, gasping, your own sweat stinging your skin. Every breath felt alien, heavier in your lungs, like the air had changed density around you.

And beneath the terror, another sensation was blooming: a faint, hot thrumming deep in your chest. Pride. As if your body already knew better than you did who it was supposed to be.

You didn’t even see the dice roll this time. It happened on its own, the crimson blur tumbling once before landing flat.

[ 6]

Your knees buckled as a deep pressure rippled down your spine. A lightning-bolt ache snapped across your hips, shooting down both thighs at once. You screamed, doubling over on the floor, clutching at yourself, fingers digging uselessly into muscle that only made the pain worse.

And then you felt it — your bones stretching.

Not just lengthening. Grinding. Vertebrae sliding against vertebrae as your entire skeleton reshaped itself. It was so slow. So deliberate. You felt every single centimeter expanding — knees locking painfully, legs trembling as femurs pulled taut beneath dense, foreign quads.

Your ribcage widened in increments, millimeter by millimeter, the creaks so loud you could hear them inside your chest cavity. You clawed at the carpet, nails ripping at the fibers, muffled sobs escaping between clenched teeth as your body betrayed itself inch by agonizing inch.

Your head swam. The floor seemed farther away by the second, the ceiling closing in tight and suffocating. The entire apartment shifted around you, perspective skewed, wrong. You staggered upright, bracing on the wall, dizzy from the altitude of your new height.

In the mirror, your changed face loomed taller, broader, alien. You reached toward it — trembling, disbelieving — but the stranger stared back, eyes dark and unfamiliar, nostrils flaring with a new, feral weight in every breath.

Then came the parchment update Height: 6 — 6’4. Towering, dominant. New center of gravity set.

Your throat clicked dry as you read the words, whispering hoarsely: “This… this ain’t me. This ain’t me…”

But the reflection smirked faintly — like it knew better.

Your old self was there for a second — flickering faintly behind your eyes — but it was faint, weak, gasping for oxygen in a brain already being rewired to match the body it sat inside.

The whispers deepened, closer, darker now:

“Forget him. Forget the old you.” “You’re bigger. Better.” “You ain’t Dustin anymore, bro.”

You staggered backward against the couch, breath ragged, body trembling with exhaustion. Sweat poured off your chest in rivers, clinging to new ridges and grooves carved into a stranger’s form.

And there, on the floor, the dice sat glowing faintly red.

The air hung thick and damp, pressing down on you like the ceiling was about to cave in. Your shirt clung to your skin, heavy with sweat, and the sound of your own heartbeat pounded loud in your ears, faster and faster, almost drowning out the silence of the room.

The dice waited on the floor, glowing faintly red like an ember that would never die out. You told yourself you wouldn’t touch it. You told yourself this was where you’d stop, where you’d keep whatever scraps of yourself you still had left.

But your hand was already moving.

Your fingers brushed against the cold edge of the dice, and before you even realized what you were doing, you threw it. It clattered across the floor, rolling too long, spinning like it was savoring this — savoring you — until it finally stopped.

Your breath caught in your throat. The number burned across the parchment, hot and absolute:

[3]

You froze, staring at it, refusing to understand. And then the pain started.

It was slow. Excruciatingly slow.

A low, suffocating ache bloomed deep in your gut, spreading outward in waves, down your hips, into your thighs, into the base of you. Then the pull began — sharp, invasive, relentless. You doubled over with a strangled sound you didn’t recognize, clawing at your waistband, hand locking around yourself like you could hold on, like you could stop this from happening.

But you couldn’t.

Under your palm, you felt it shrinking. You felt every centimeter vanish, the heat of your blood rushing, veins flattening, tissue collapsing as the reality of it set in. There was no speed, no mercy — just an endless, agonizing crawl. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, shame twisting deep in your chest as your own body rewrote itself beneath your shaking hand.

“Stop,” you croaked, barely louder than a whisper, your voice cracking like glass. “Please, just… stop. I can’t—”

But the dice didn’t listen. It never listened.

The change dug deeper than flesh.

With every slow, merciless second, you could feel things slipping through your grasp. Thoughts blurred, scattering like dry leaves caught in the wind. Memories you didn’t know you were clinging to — flashes of touch, of pride, of intimacy — slipped away one by one, dissolving into static you couldn’t hold on to no matter how hard you tried.

You tried to recall faces, names, sensations. The warmth of old lovers, the quiet comfort of being desired. But it was gone, stolen by something heavy and cold threading itself through your neurons, digging deeper with every passing breath.

Your chest tightened. Tears burned hot at the corners of your eyes, not from the pain — though there was plenty of that — but from the humiliation of it, the quiet terror of realizing you were losing things that made you you, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

Then came the whispers.

They weren’t inside your head this time. They weren’t memories. They were something other, something woven into the process itself, low and close, vibrating through your skull like someone was leaning right against your ear:

“This isn’t yours anymore.” “That life is gone.” “Let go.”

Your knees hit the carpet hard, and you stayed there, hunched and shaking, hands digging into your scalp like you could somehow rip the voice out of your mind. But the more you fought it, the heavier it became, blanketing everything until the edges of your thoughts began to smudge and collapse inward.

And somewhere, deep beneath the panic, something inside you started to… accept.

The worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the silence after.

Because when the sensation finally eased, when your body stopped trembling and your breath slowed enough to steady, you reached for thoughts that weren’t there anymore.

Little things were gone first — names of old friends, the lyrics to your favorite song, the title of that movie you’d seen a hundred times. And then bigger things began to fade. Your beliefs. Your convictions. The fragile scaffolding of who you’d always been.

Each thought that disappeared carried something else into its place — crude, heavy instincts pressing in where your old self had been hollowed out. The images came unbidden: a flash of smooth legs beneath a sundress, the soft weight of perfume and lipstick, the curve of hips against your hands. You recoiled, shaking your head like you could fight it off, but the rewiring was already in motion, deeper and stronger than your protests.

The taste of your own voice shifted, your tongue clumsy against teeth that didn’t quite fit the same anymore.

“M—m’name’s D… Dust—”

The rest tangled and fell apart. Words felt heavier, harder to hold together. The rhythms in your head collapsed into shorter, rougher fragments, phrases stripped down and lazy, like someone had rewritten your entire language in the background without telling you.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fight. But there was nothing left to grab onto.

And then you looked up.

Across the room, the mirror waited.

For a heartbeat, you thought you saw him there — Dustin. Pale, slight, bright-eyed and terrified, reaching back from somewhere far away. His lips moved, soundless, like he was begging to be remembered, fists pressed against the glass, trying to claw his way back through.

And then he flickered. Glitched. And disappeared.

The man left in his place was someone you’d never seen before. Broad-shouldered. Darker-skinned. Jaw heavier, lips fuller, brows low and sharp above deep-set eyes that burned in a way Dustin’s never had. You touched your face, fingers tracing the alien contours, breath shuddering when your throat rumbled out a sound that didn’t belong to you.

“Yeh… fuckin’… yeah…”

The sound was instinctive. Automatic. And it scared you more than anything else.

Because deep down, you knew there wasn’t a fight left to have. There was no Dustin to come back to. The part of you that knew better — the part that could’ve resisted — was already gone, drowned in something bigger, heavier, simpler.

And as the silence pressed in, you realized the truth you’d been running from since the first roll:

Dustin wasn’t dying. He’d already been erased.

The mirror is the first thing you see when the buzzing settles — but you don’t recognize it at first.

It’s hot in here. The bathroom reeks of sweat, stale beer, and some cheap body spray clinging to your shirt. Your jaw’s tight, teeth grinding faintly, and there’s this restless irritation burning low in your chest — like something’s wrong, like something’s off, like someone just said something sideways to you, and you’re waiting for it to happen again so you have an excuse to snap.

You drag your palms down the sink’s edge, lean forward, and lift your eyes.

The man staring back at you… God, he’s huge.

Dark bronze skin slicked faintly under the harsh light, thick neck stretching into broad, rounded shoulders carved from hours at the gym. Cheekbones sharp, jaw dense and squared — but it’s the eyes that make you pause.

They’re deep, set under heavy brows, a rich, piercing brown so dark they almost swallow the light around them. And they’re hard. Not cold, but volatile, like they’re carrying something restless and sharp behind them.

You lift a hand to your jaw, brushing stubble that wasn’t there before, fingertips dragging over unfamiliar roughness. Your voice slips out low, hoarse, deep in your throat:

“…Yalla… looks good, bro.”

The sound makes your stomach twist for half a second. It’s not your voice. It’s lower, heavier, thick with an edge of an accent you don’t remember learning — rolling vowels, a hard little punch to the consonants that turns English into something more muscular, more commanding.

But the twist fades fast. You shrug it off, shoulders loose and heavy, chest filling the black tee straining across you. The words fit your mouth like they’ve always belonged there.

There’s no Dustin here. Just Malik.

Your phone buzzes on the cracked counter. The name on the screen flashes:

Tariq: “Ya habibi, where the fuck are you? Girls are out, wallah they’re 🔥🔥 hurry.”

The irritation from before flares and softens all at once, reshaped into focus, into want. Your lips pull into a slow, lazy smirk, like you’re already picturing it — the lights, the sweat, the heat, the girls, the rush.

You type without hesitation, thumbs moving fast, each keystroke automatic, effortless:

“Chill, bro. Malik’s comin’. Don’t fuckin’ start without me.”

Malik. Your name’s Malik.

There’s no question. No hesitation. No flicker of recognition that there was ever another name, another life, another self before this. Whatever Dustin was — whoever he was — it’s buried so deep now it might as well have never existed.

You shove the phone in your pocket, roll your shoulders, and breathe in deep, chest swelling. The air tastes different somehow, thick, heavy with sweat and something metallic that makes your pulse climb.

The restless heat under your skin spikes again, not quite anger this time — more like hunger.

The bar swallows you whole.

It’s a crush of bodies, lights flashing, bass rumbling low enough you feel it in your chest. The noise doesn’t bother you. If anything, it winds you tighter, sharpens your edges, fills your head with a thrum you can’t quite name but don’t question.

You spot Tariq instantly — leaning against the bar with his gold chain catching the strobe lights, laughing hard, one hand on the small of some girl’s back. He sees you, grins wide, and shouts over the music:

“Ya Malik! Finally, bro! Thought you were gonna leave me to clean up alone!”

The name — your name — hits, and something primal in your chest tightens, warms, locks into place. You grin back, hand clasping his in a firm shake, your shoulders knocking together before he points down the bar.

“Check her out,” he says, chin jerking toward a girl in a tight white dress nursing a drink.

You follow his gaze. And the second you see her, it’s over.

Heat coils in your gut, thick and fast, so strong it almost makes you stumble. Your pupils widen. Your jaw clenches. Your breath catches, short and shallow.

She’s laughing at something, head tilted back, dark curls falling against bare shoulders, lips soft and parted just enough to tease. Her perfume’s cutting through the stench of beer and sweat, sharp and sweet, and you want it all over you, want her pressed up so close you can’t breathe, want her nails on your skin, her voice in your ear, your name on her lips.

Your hand flexes at your side.

The hunger doesn’t feel like yours — it feels older, heavier, driven by an instinct wired somewhere below thought. And thought doesn’t matter anymore anyway. The old logic, the restraint, the self-awareness… gone. Malik doesn’t think. Malik acts.

You don’t even notice the moment you’re moving, pushing through the bodies, sliding in beside her with a practiced swagger you don’t remember learning but know in your bones.

“Drink’s on me, habibti,” you murmur, your voice rough, smoky, a perfect mix of confidence and command.

She looks up, meets your eyes, and her lips part slow — like she’s been waiting for you all night.

There’s no Dustin left to protest. No Dustin left to remember. Only Malik.

And Malik wants. Malik takes.

By the time you’ve got her pressed against the wall in the dim back hallway, her breath hot against your neck, your hand fisted in her hair and her nails digging hard into your shoulders, the world outside your body doesn’t exist.

It’s heat and muscle and motion, a rhythm older than language. A stranger’s breath in lungs that used to be yours. A new name filling the air in low, gasping groans — Malik, Malik, Malik — until it’s burned so deep into the fabric of you that nothing else could ever exist.

Dustin’s last breath dies somewhere in the dark — quiet, suffocated, gone.

And Malik doesn’t notice. Malik doesn’t care.

"Come over pa, let me make you feel good” 

I was chatting on the infamous orange app in my hotel room, settling in from sight seeing around the city when Jayco messaged me. I had a couple of hours to kill before heading to the concert I flew in for. On a solo trip in a brand new city, I wanted to spend some time with a cutie and Jayco checked off all my boxes.

I felt my throat tighten staring at his face picture. I needed him badly, so I was happy to oblige. A second later another message:

“Dejame sentir todos esos labios, come through” 

Jayco definitely knew how to seduce a man, and within minutes I was ordering an Uber to his apartment. 

I approached his door step and knocked a couple times before Jayco unlocked his door. He was wearing jeans, a black tank top, and a gold chain across his neck. He beamed a slow smile and told me to come in. 

We made the usual small talk on his couch. I told him about being in town for just the night. He told me a bit about his work and what he was going to get into later. I tried to pretend to be interested but I kept glancing at his lips waiting to get a taste. Finally, I took the leap to give him a peck but he put a finger on my lips.

“Before that…..how about I get you a drink?” Jayco asked suddenly. 

“Oh alright cool. If you got some tequila I’m down.” I replied. 

Flashing me another smile he nodded and went into the kitchen. As the minutes passed on the couch I started to get an uneasy feeling as to what he was doing when suddenly I got a text from Jayco.

“Come into the kitchen. Don’t  panic or call the police about what you see. Use me if you want. The effect lasts only 12 hours. Be sure to remove me before then. If you choose not to participate, leave me in my room.”

I reread this text a good ten times before having the courage to call out Jayco’s name. With no response back. I worked up the courage to get up from the couch and made my way to the kitchen.

Upon entering, I saw Jayco on the floor knocked out. A shot glass right next to him with remnants of some blue liquid that looked nothing like any tequila I knew. 

“Oh shit Jayco are you okay man??” I yelled out as I approached his body. As soon as my hand touched his body it vanished. Leaving behind only a mask of Jayco's face. 

All I could do in that moment was stare at the mask propped up beside me for a couple minutes. It took awhile before his message clicked. Jayco was offering me to use him as a disguise. I tried not to imagine how this all worked, but I finally decided to pick up the mask. It felt heavy as I felt the rubbery texture settle into my hands. 

I knew I had to make a choice and immediately I went into Jayco’s room, mask in hand to leave him on his bed. I placed him on his pillow and was ready to get the hell out before I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. I paused for a second as I saw the mask laid up on the pillow. 

An opportunity to be someone else for the night? Part of me was playing with the idea. 

But could I come back to myself? How did this even work? Was I about to be playing with fire?

My mind raced as I decided all the possible outcomes to the idea. 

No longer thinking, I turned around and picked up the mask. I stretched it a bit and within seconds put it over my face making my choice. A cool sensation began to spread over my body as I felt the mask move and adjust itself onto my face. Within minutes I saw the mask start to spread and change my neck, my torso, and my whole lower body until Jayco was staring right back at me. 

It looked as though he had never left as I was dressed in the same clothes he had. Walking closer to the mirror I moved my new body. Posing in the mirror, touching my new beard, smelling Jayco’s mix of musk and cologne wrapped around me. The rush was intoxicating.

I felt completely turned on. Or was it Jayco? The thought quickly left my head as my new member throbbed under Jayco’s jeans. I couldn’t help but snap a picture of the moment. 

I slowly started to undress Jayco. Layer by layer. I sat down on his bed completely naked, stroking his dick with his rough hands. Rubbing my new nipples almost as muscle memory as Jayco’s body moaned from the pleasure. Hearing Jayco’s voice come out only riled me up some more. 

“You like that huh guapo?” I said smugly in the mirror with Jayco’s lips.

I laid on the bed for hours exploring Jayco’s body and feeling what made him react to my touch. As much as I rubbed Jayco’s dick he wasn’t even close to cumming. I felt hornier than ever. As soon as I felt Jayco come close it seemed like I was back at square one. It felt like Jayco’s body was toying with me, edging me without allowing me to blow off the steam. 

I decided to stop, as I looked at the time. 

“Oh fuck concert is soon” I said panting and dripping in sweat from my jerk session. 

I quickly got in the shower, hoping a cold plunge could help shake off the horniness, but I soon found myself tugging at Jayco’s dick. I couldn't help but admire myself. Jayco's cockiness and swagger coming naturally to me. I knew I was in for a fun night.

With no sight of release, I decided to head out and dry off. Finding Jayco’s clothes, I put on fresh underwear and jeans. Shifting Jayco’s dick to hide his bulge from plain sight. I finished my outfit by putting on a black t-shirt and cowboy hat I found in the back of his closet. It felt like a common outfit Jayco would wear that he must have unconsciously helped me pick out because it felt so right. I was determined to go to the concert and find someone to get this cowboy’s load out before the end of the night. 

~~~