#age reduction

"Hey, boy. Would love to know more about you. 1m80, 72kg, very masc, shaved head, hairy bod."

And an accompanying picture showing a fitting-shaped man. The only apparent things in his look that he did not mention are the short beard, the sunglasses and the leather get-up ‒ though one can assume he does not wear that at all time.

What a DM to receive right when I contemplate going to bed. Who the hell present themselves with physical stats right off the bat to one who is basically a complete stranger ? Especially someone who is as built and attractive to a huge portion of submissive-inclined gays ? In which world would someone like that have to send his profile around to complete strangers outside a dating app ?

It is laughable. The catfishing is so obvious, yet this is not a dating app ! And to add insult to injury, he ticks off all my turn-offs ! The nerves of some…

But then an idea crosses my mind.

I am very horny after that climbing session, and I haven’t had the opportunity to expunge it from my system yet.

So… why not entertain him ?

"Hey, woow, such an attractive guy talking to me is that real ???"

I laugh.

"Yes, boy… you like people like me, right ? ^^ ‒ Absolutely !!! I looooove clean-shaven people like you !!!"

I imagine his beard receding down under his skin, soon enough all the pores they grew out of close back up, safe for a few ones around his mouth that are religiously shaved. I think about him putting his hand on his face, and instead of finding his nice beard ‒ or rather neckbeard ‒ he finds clear skin and is shocked… but decides to roll with it.

"Hahah, I’m glad, boy ! That pic I sent was quite old, I still had my beard, but I’m glad you have a good eye ;​P ‒ I loooove guys like you, so I knew you’d be clean-shaven, now ! You all are sooo good at keeping track of the trends ! ‒ Indeed ! Well, boy, what do you like else on me ? ‒ I love your body hair ! Especially how it is placed only on hot locations, like the treasure trail, the pubes and the armpits ^^"

I hope by now he’s getting afraid, and starting to reconsider bothering me with a catfish as he sees his wild body hair ‒ likely his only "hot attribute", even if fully abandonned ‒ receding down. Nothing remains on his arms, nothing remains on his legs, only a big bush in his pubes and armpits, as well as a tasty treasure trail. Yummy.

"Yeah" I smile. He is getting second thoughts ! But don’t worry, random guy, it’s only the beginning !

"Oh and I loooove your build ! I like people with an athletic swimmer’s build, who go to the gym regularly but don’t try to bulk up ! Don’t get me wrong, bulk builds are hot… but toned is where it’s at !"

I smile as I imagine his body deflating, his muscles ‒ or rather belly ‒ falling closer to the bones and firming up. I’d love to see his shoulders pop out with his pecs as abs carve themselves around his navel and his biceps and triceps swell a bit. God, I should be with him watching him freak the fuck out and being half grateful half pleading for everything to stop ! I do not usually have that dominant streak to me, but I like having fun from time to time…

"Dude what are you doing to me !"

Ah, "dude". I’m sure he’s noticing his change of speech patterns just as he sent that message. A nice side-effect.

"what the hell bro i don’t talk like that !" He continues, before again sending another message. "fckin hell bruh, i didnt mean to write it lik that man !"

Hah, his writing quality is degrading so fast ! I’m pretty sure he’s soon going to be dropping some Gen Z slang to sound cool ! And I’m not even doing anything to encourage that, I guess the jockish affirmations have been enough for him to transform himself ! I don’t know how old he was, but I’m sure by the end of it he’ll be around my age, heheheh !

"Nothing ! I’m just admiring you ! :​P" I troll him before going for the killing blow. "I especially love your hair, I love that cap hairstyle, it’s so popular on Tiktok !!!!"

He doesn’t answer immediately, I assume as his scalp first starts itching, and then tufts of blonde hair sprout in a fluffy mess. I prefer imagining it coming out from the bald cranium of the guy whose picture he sent me, but I must admit it likely filled up his heavily receding hairline ‒ menkind’s worst curse by far. The hair however quickly starts behaving itself as the strands arrange one another towards the front, where they hang above his eyes, when suddenly… WOOSH ! The hair flies upwards to create a straight band of fluffy mess, like the stiff bill of a baseball cap.

The perfect cringy haircut, fit for a cringy guy who tried to catfish me and somehow ended up looking like what I assume is a hottie.

"bro wth did u do i look so fckn good no cap" Fuck that’s too hot ! "dude can u make me write normally tho its bad for my rizz fr"

Hilarious ! Unfortunately I can’t do anything for him, it’s what I wanted ! But let me just make a few final adjustments…

"Don’t worry, you might not like it but it flatters the smart guys and the nice guys you’re so into ! You love how they’re smarter than you, and they love to get the attention of a hot guy like you !"

I can feel the neurons pouring out of his brain as I wait for his answer. This way, he can reverse catfish !

"fck dude ur so smart ! like bruh im kinda dumb but ur like at another level broski ! ‒ Haha thanks ! By the way, do you have another pic ? I don’t want you to be catfishing me ! ‒ sure !"

He turned out perfect. God I’ve outdone myself, his hair is poking out just right in front of the backwards cap that likely materialized on his head ! I didn’t expect the rest of his stuff to shift accordingly. However, I’m fully taken by the chain that wrapped around his neck and the fancy iPhone he took this picture with. I guess, now, he’s become my type !

"Wow you look sooooo hot !" This time I’m not even sarcastic. ‒ thx bro ! u look good too !" I didn’t send him my pic. "wanna swing by mine and suck my dick ?"

Oh, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.

"Uh… I’m actually a top… what do you feel about sucking my dick ? ‒ fck dude id love that !"

If that were-jock transformation hits you on a Friday afternoon while you’re workin’ from home, bro… you better pray the cleaning lady shows up on Monday.

’Cause until then? There’s gonna be more sweat and testosterone in the air than in a high-school locker room right after football practice.

Floor? Covered in busted-up Kleenex, all glued to the carpet like sad little trophies.

He'll lose all memories of his old life. He won't mind that though, he'll be too busy jerking off all day in his room. He might be a nerd but he's one hell of a gooner!

Martin was a typical insurance claims processor in his mid-forties. His daily routine consisted of mountains of files, endless phone calls, and the constant battle against bureaucratic hurdles. He always wore the same gray suit, had a receding hairline, and glasses that hid his tired eyes. His life was orderly but boring—a small apartment in the suburbs, evenings in front of the TV, and weekend walks in the park to clear his head.

On a rainy afternoon in February 2026, as Martin hurried through the park to get home after work, his gaze fell on something shiny on the ground. It was a plastic card, half-buried in the mud. Curious, he bent down and picked it up. It was an employee ID from the "Iron Temple Gym." The photo showed a young man with a mullet-like hairstyle and a confident grin. Name: Kevin Podolski. Born: Feb. 21, 2007. ID: 20070221KP. Position: Junior Trainer.

Martin wiped off the dirt and examined the photo more closely. The guy looked fit, athletic, with a hint of arrogance. "Poor kid, lost his ID," Martin muttered. Instead of turning it in, he slipped the card into his bag. He wasn't sure why—maybe out of pure curiosity or because he wondered what it would be like to be so young and carefree. At home, he tossed the card into a drawer and didn't think about it anymore.

The next morning, Martin felt strange. When he woke up, he sensed an unusual energy. His muscles tingled as if he'd just worked out. At the office, he sat at his desk and tried to process a damage report, but the numbers and clauses blurred before his eyes. "What was the formula for risk assessment again?" he wondered. It wouldn't come to him. Instead, an image flashed: A dingy middle school in a rundown neighborhood, where he'd hung out with buddies instead of studying. "Nonsense," he shook his head. "I went to high school."

Throughout the day, it got worse. His skin felt tighter, his voice sounded deeper, more youthful. At lunch, he stared at his plate and suddenly craved protein shakes instead of the usual cafeteria food. In the evening at home, he changed clothes and noticed that his belly looked flatter, his arms more defined. He pulled out the ID and stared at the photo. "Kevin Podolski... 19 years old." Martin was 45, but when he looked in the mirror, he saw wrinkles disappearing, hair growing—darker, longer, into a mullet.

That night, he dreamed. Not of insurance policies, but of an apprenticeship as a carpenter. He remembered the workshop, the smell of wood, the crude jokes from his colleagues. But he hadn't stuck with it—too boring, too exhausting. Instead, he hung out at the gym, pumping iron to blow off steam. One day, the manager had approached him: "Hey, kid, you're here more often than I am. Want to start as a temp? Pay's okay, and you train for free." Kevin—no, Martin—had nodded. That was his entry.

On the second day, Martin called in sick. He couldn't remember his passwords anymore, let alone insurance rates. Instead, he thought about parties in the hood, playing foosball with the bros, the feeling when the ball hit the goal. His clothes fit too tightly; he had to buy new ones—tight tank tops, sweatpants. While shopping, he felt eyes on him, and a strange tingling spread through him. He was horny, constantly. When he masturbated that evening, he didn't think of his ex-wife, but of muscular guys at the gym.

The transformation progressed. On the third day, he woke up with a six-pack. His memories of the insurance office faded like old photos. He looked around his room. For some reason, he'd expected a classic bedroom. Wardrobe, queen-size bed, a valet stand for his clothes. Shit, he must have had a bad dream. He was in his shared apartment room, the place he split with his old buddies: Mike, who was now a personal trainer, Tim the mechanic, and Alex the bartender. Back in the day, they'd played soccer together on the neighborhood youth team. Now they trained together, pumped iron, sweated, and laughed at dumb jokes. "Bro, you look like you could hit a new PR today," Mike had said yesterday during bench presses.

By the end of the week, Martin was gone. Kevin Podolski stood in front of the mirror, flashed his typical grin, pulled on his Adidas jacket, and headed to the Iron Temple Gym. He was 19, fresh, invincible. Insurance? What insurance? His life was the gym: Guiding clients, keeping equipment clean, and occasionally... well, earning a little extra. Some guys asked discreetly if he could "help" after hours. A blowjob here, a quickie there—it supplemented his salary, and hey, he was perpetually horny. Why not?

In the heart of a crumbling downtown brownstone, where the air hung heavy with the scent of rain-soaked bricks and distant traffic hum, two men lived side by side in apartments that might as well have been worlds apart. On one side lurked Mike, a hulking construction worker pushing thirty, whose mornings shattered the neighborhood's fragile peace with the guttural thunder of his motorcycle engine, vibrating windows like an earthquake's prelude. Mike embodied toxic masculinity in its rawest form: his body a sculpted fortress of bulging muscles, veins snaking over biceps like twisted ropes, and a thick mat of coarse chest hair that he flaunted shamelessly in sweat-stained tank tops clinging to his sweat-glistened skin. His buzzcut framed a face etched with perpetual cocky smirks, his "bro" grin flashing white teeth that promised trouble, making him ruggedly magnetic to those drawn to danger. By day, he hammered steel on sun-baked sites, muscles rippling under the relentless glare; by night, he guzzled cold beers with his rowdy crew, laughing uproariously as if he owned the entire block. His hapless neighbor, Dr. Ethan—a wiry, bespectacled literature professor with a penchant for tweed jackets and quiet contemplation—became the unwitting target of his ceaseless bullying.

Mike's torments were a symphony of petty cruelties, each one chipping away at Ethan's sanity like a chisel on stone. Evenings brought the assault of blistering rock anthems blasting from his walls, the bass thumping so ferociously that Ethan's towering bookshelves quivered, sending dust motes dancing in the lamplight and rendering every page unreadable amid the cacophony. "Hey, Prof, time to loosen that stick up your ass and chill!", Mike would bellow with a guttural laugh, his voice slicing through the door like a chainsaw when Ethan mustered the courage to knock and plead for mercy. Trash became his weapon too—crumpled beer cans clattering like metallic hail into the hallway, greasy pizza boxes smeared with congealed cheese, and discarded condoms slick with residue, all piled in a reeking heap. When confronted, Mike's eyes would gleam with malicious delight: "Don't shit your pants over it, old man. That's just real life kicking in!" But the elevator rides were the pinnacle of humiliation: trapped in that claustrophobic metal box, Mike would slouch against the wall with lazy arrogance, unleash a thunderous belch that echoed like a cannon, then follow it with a noxious fart, the acrid stench of beer and sweat filling the air like toxic fog. Ethan would gag, eyes watering as he pressed against the opposite wall, while Mike's booming laughter reverberated: "Smell that, Prof? That's pure man essence—beats the moldy stink of your ancient tomes any day!"

For months, Ethan swallowed the bile rising in his throat, his fists clenched in silent fury behind closed doors. As a scholar of literature's darkest tales, he knew revenge could taste like nectar, sharp and intoxicating. One fateful evening, as shadows lengthened across his cluttered desk and the glow of his laptop pierced the dim room, he delved into the shadowy depths of the Dark Web and unearthed Chronivac—a clandestine software whispered about in forbidden forums, capable of rewriting reality itself: reshaping flesh, twisting minds, and upending fates with cold precision. Fingers trembling with anticipation, Ethan downloaded it, pieced together Mike's digital footprint from pilfered building photos and overheard snippets, and crafted his masterpiece of retribution. "From brute alpha to my devoted little pet," he hissed under his breath, eyes narrowing as he dialed in the parameters: age regression, body refinement, personality overhaul. A single, fateful click ignited the change, the screen flickering like a storm on the horizon.

Dawn broke with a soft, golden haze filtering through Mike's grimy curtains—or rather, through the eyes of the being who had once been Mike. His awakening was a disorienting haze; the once-ironclad muscles had melted away into a lithe, toned silhouette, sleek and youthful like a swimmer fresh from the pool, skin smooth as polished marble where coarse hair had vanished. His buzzcut had blossomed into tousled waves of soft, caramel locks cascading over his forehead, framing a face now boyish and endearing: wide, doe-like eyes shimmering with innocence, plump lips curved in a tentative smile that begged for approval. Staring into the mirror, he blinked in confusion, his voice emerging as a melodic whisper, high and velvety: "Wh-what…?" A torrent of fabricated memories crashed over him like a tidal wave—Mikey, a wide-eyed 19-year-old literature major, idolizing Professor Ethan with starry-eyed devotion. The roughneck builder? A fading nightmare, dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

Mikey shook off the fog, stepping under the steaming shower spray that cascaded over his newly sensitive skin, every droplet a tingling caress. He dressed hurriedly in a form-fitting polo that hugged his pert chest and slim waist, paired with jeans that sculpted his firm, rounded ass like a second skin, accentuating curves he now possessed without question. Grabbing a crisp red apple from the counter—its skin gleaming like ruby under the kitchen light—he felt his heart flutter like a caged bird as he rapped on Ethan's door. "Good morning, Professor!" he chirped, voice bubbling with eager sunshine as the door swung open, extending the fruit like an offering to a god. Ethan's lips curled into a predatory smile, his eyes drinking in the transformation as he accepted it. "Thank you, Mikey. Such a thoughtful boy. Come inside—we've got a bit before class."

The day unfolded in a haze of intimacy: Mikey perched in Ethan's seminar, front row, his gaze locked on the professor's every gesture, pen flying across his notebook as words flowed like poetry, each lecture a revelation that made his cheeks flush with awe. Evening brought them back to the brownstone's quiet halls, where Ethan beckoned him over with a velvet whisper. "You're my perfect good boy," Ethan murmured, his breath hot against Mikey's ear as the young man nestled into his arms, body yielding like warm clay. The Chronivac's magic had woven submission into his very soul—craving praise, aching for touch. Mikey tilted his head, lips brushing Ethan's neck in feather-light kisses tasting of apple sweetness, surrendering completely. Ethan claimed him first with tender strokes, hands exploring every inch of smooth, quivering flesh, then with fiercer thrusts that drew gasps and whimpers from Mikey's throat: "Yes, Professor… oh god, for you… I'd do anything for you." The bully's echoes faded into oblivion; in his stead was a cherubic devotee, bearer of morning gifts and vessel of nightly desires.

It was a sultry evening in this godforsaken small town in the Midwest, where the air hung heavy with humidity and the distant stench of the fertilizer plant. Mark Thompson, 48 years old, an investment banker from Chicago, sat in his rental car staring at the flickering neon facade of the only sports bar for miles around. "The Rusty Nail" – a name that fit this dive perfectly, where the sweat of men beaded in the heat and the closeness of bodies created an underlying tension. Mark was here to oversee the takeover of the local fertilizer manufacturer, a relic from family hands that had been pumping out the acrid scent of ammonia and animal musk for generations. He hated it. The people here were raw, toxically masculine hillbillies who spoke of hard muscles and unbridled strength. No fine restaurant, no cocktail lounge – just greasy food, cheap beer, and the smell of testosterone.

He entered the bar in his tailored suit, the tie tight around his neck like a restraint, his shoes polished to a shine. Heads turned, gazes sliding over his slim, urban body. The patrons were a pack of rednecks: tight flannel shirts stretched over broad shoulders, baseball caps hiding sweat-soaked hair, and tattoos that told tales of rough nights and hard touches. White trash, Mark thought disdainfully as he pushed through the crowd, feeling the heat of bodies brush against him. The room smelled of cigarettes, stale beer, and the animal scent of men who'd spent the day in the factory.

At the counter, he ordered a whiskey, neat. "No ice," he muttered to the bartender, who eyed him with a lustful gaze. Next to him sat a guy in his early to mid-30s, with a thick full beard, looking like a wild lumberjack. His plaid shirt was unbuttoned down to his chest, revealing a hairy, muscular torso that gleamed in the neon light. Sleeves rolled up, showing arms shaped by hard labor, with tattoos dancing like erotic stories across his skin. The guy grinned broadly, his eyes wandering over Mark's figure. "Hey son, sit down with me!"

Mark rolled his eyes inwardly. Son? The guy could be his son if he'd knocked up some girl at 16 like these village idiots – in a hot, sweaty night behind the barn. He was annoyed, just wanting his drink and to be alone, but a strange pull in his groin kept him there. The bartender already set down a beer – the bearded man had ordered a second with a casual, dominant gesture, without asking. His hand brushed Mark's arm as he handed the bottle, a touch that sparked through Mark's body like electricity. "Cheers, son," the man said, lifting his bottle, his lips closing around the neck as if sucking something else.

Mark hesitated, then clinked bottles, feeling the cold glass tingle his fingers. "And son, how's it going?" the bearded man asked with a wink, his voice deep and vibrating.

With that "son," Mark felt an intense tingling that radiated from his neck down to his loins. The bar seemed to spin, the heat rising, and he felt… younger. Hornier. He was now 38, no longer the stressed Chicago banker, but the branch manager of the local bank. Instead of the suit, he wore a leather jacket that hugged his broadening shoulders tightly, and a cowboy shirt half-open, revealing a smooth, toned chest. The bearded man – Jake, yeah, that's his name – had been his buddy for ten years, since Mark was transferred to this branch. Their thighs touched under the counter, an accidental yet electrifying closeness. "Ah, everything's the same as always, Jake," Mark said, sipping the beer, his tongue licking over his moist lips. "But word is, the fertilizer manufacturer is in trouble. The biggest employer here. That's what they're saying at the bank."

Jake whistled through his teeth, his hand landing on Mark's thigh, a firm, possessive touch. "That would really suck, son!" He waved to the bartender. "Two portions of spareribs, the big ones!" His fingers pressed a little too hard, as if he wanted more than just talk.

Again that "son." The tingling exploded, heat flowing through Mark's veins, and years fell away from him. He was now 28, no longer working at the bank, but directly at the fertilizer manufacturer, in production. Dirty hands, hard work, his body toned from shifts in the heat. He and Jake were colleagues, sharing shifts, locker rooms, and beer afternoons where sweat made their skin glisten. "Totally sucks, man," Mark grumbled, biting into the ribs, the greasy meat dripping down his chin as he caught Jake's gaze – hungry, animalistic. "Those tie-wearers have no clue. We're the ones knee-deep in shit every day, busting our asses for the company." His voice grew rough, and he felt his cock twitch in his tight jeans as Jake moved closer.

Jake nodded, his hand sliding higher on Mark's leg, brushing the inside. "Exactly, son. Let's talk about something better. Gym yesterday? Tried the new bench press machine?" They chatted about football – the Bears would fail again this year – and laughed at the idiots in the big city doing Dry January. "As if we need that!" Mark roared, and they clinked laughing, their bodies pressing together, the scent of sweat and beer mixing with something more primal. Jake's beard tickled Mark's ear as he whispered: "You look damn hot today, buddy."

"And son, how's the sex?" Jake asked suddenly, with a mischievous grin, his fingers now pressing firmly on Mark's crotch.

The word "son" echoed in Mark's head, an orgasm of transformation. The world blurred in a haze of lust. He was now 18, fresh out of high school, working as a temp at the fertilizer manufacturer. His body young, taut, full of unbridled energy. Jake was no longer just a buddy – he was his dad's best friend, the strong, dominant man who'd raised him in this town after his parents car accident, with rough hands and forbidden glances in the shower. "Hey Dad, you don't ask that in public!" Mark laughed, but it was a hoarse, aroused laugh. He leaned closer, feeling Jake's hand massage his hard cock through his pants. "But okay… that one foreman, you know, the one who always jerks off in the shower after shift. I find him hot. His thick cock, standing there, wet and pumping…"

Jake just grinned, his beard quivering with excitement as he slowly unzipped Mark's fly. "I know exactly who you mean, son. I've fucked that ass multiple times – hard and deep, until he whimpered." They burst into booming, lustful laughter, slapping each other's shoulders, but Jake's hand stayed where it was, stroking, demanding. The bar around them seemed more alive, the neon lights flickering in time with their breaths. "Another beer for both of us!" Jake called to the bartender, while pulling Mark deeper into the shadows of the bar.