#alpha tf

It was the only thing in my life I actually looked forward to anymore.

The bus was packed with the same dead-eyed zombies as always. I wedged myself against a pole, phone held low, and opened my secret Tumblr feed. I scrolled past thick chests, veiny arms, and arrogant smirks, my cock twitching against my thigh with every new image. The guy next to me smelled like cheap cologne and defeat.

God, I’m so fucking done with this.

I didn’t want to just live like this anymore. I want to be rich. To wake up whenever I wanted and jerk off all day in some massive bed if I felt like it.

Fuck that — why stop at rich?

I want to be hot. Huge. Powerful. The kind of man people drooled over. The kind who took up space and made others feel small.

My thumb kept moving, heart beating faster, when a GIF suddenly loaded.

Holy shit.

I turned the phone off like a secret nobody else could watch

=============

The second I stepped inside my tiny room, I started stripping. Shirt, pants, boxers — my daily ritual. But tonight my heart was pounding harder than usual. I knew what I had waiting on that screen.

I didn’t even make it to the bed. My cock was already throbbing as I wrapped my hand around it, slowly stroking while I was still standing. In my head I kept replaying that GIF on loop: his perfect body, that cocky smirk, the way his hands gripped those legs like he owned every inch of anyone beneath him.

His beauty. His roughness. His raw fucking power.

I grabbed my phone again and opened my little secret.

There he was — even better than my imagination. The man I want to be. The man I deserve to be. Just pixels on a cracked screen… yet I could already feel his magic pulling at me, like the universe was daring me to want it harder.

I stroked faster, eyes locked on a loop showcasing his power, my breath getting ragged. “Fuck… I wish that was me…”

The screen flashed.

==============

For a split second everything vanished — my shitty room, the phone in my hand, the familiar weight of my own cock.

Then the world slammed back in.

I wasn’t laying down anymore. I was on my knees, powerful thighs spread wide, muscles burning with effort. My hands — no, his hands — were gripping two smooth, trembling legs, folding them back hard against a slender chest in a deep mating press. My hips were driving forward on pure instinct, slamming a thick, heavy cock into a tight, twitching hole.

What the fuck—?!

Panic exploded in my chest. This wasn’t my body. This body was huge — broad shoulders, thick slabs of muscle, veins popping along my forearms as I held the twink’s legs open. My cock felt monstrous inside him, stretching him wide with every thrust. I could feel the heat, the insane tightness gripping me, the way his walls fluttered and clenched.

Below me, a cute, flushed twink stared up with wide, watery eyes, mouth open in a silent moan. His smaller cock leaked against his stomach as I drove into him again. I didn’t know him. I’d never seen him before. But this body knew exactly what it was doing.

“F-fuck—” I gasped, my voice deep and rough, nothing like mine.

I tried to stop, but the hips kept moving — powerful, relentless thrusts that made wet, obscene sounds every time I bottomed out. Pleasure rolled through me like a drug. Every stroke felt better than the last. My new cock was so much bigger, so much more sensitive. I could feel his hole milking me, greedy and hot.

The smell of sex was thick in the air — sweat, lube, and raw musk. I could taste salt on my lips. My new heart was pounding hard in my wide chest.

This isn’t real. This can’t be happening.

But it was. I was him. The man from the GIF. Rich. Hot. Powerful. And right now I was balls-deep in a twink, wrecking him.

My panic started to melt as another hard thrust made him cry out. A low, feral groan left my throat. My hands tightened on his legs, pushing them further back, folding him in half. The motion felt… natural. Like the body was teaching me what it wanted.

I could feel every inch of this new body coming alive under my control. The burn in my powerful thighs as I drove forward. The flex of rock-hard abs with every thrust. The heavy swing of my massive balls slapping against his ass. My thick cock throbbed inside him, so much more sensitive than anything I’d ever felt — every ridge and vein dragging along his tight walls sent sparks up my spine.

“Shit… so fucking tight,” I muttered, voice thick with lust. My hips snapped forward harder, chasing that mind-numbing pleasure. I looked down at my massive chest, sweat glistening on carved pecs, the way my abs flexed powerfully with every thrust, the thick cock disappearing into his stretched, pink hole.

This body was responding to me more and more. My fingers dug deeper into his soft thighs, feeling the strength in my grip. I could hear the wet, filthy sound of my cock pounding into him echoing in the luxurious bedroom. The twink’s desperate little whimpers were like music.

Slowly, I started to control the rhythm. No longer just being carried by instinct — I was steering it. I pulled back until just the fat head of my cock stretched his hole, then slammed back in with a powerful roll of my hips, savoring every sensation.

This was mine now.

I leaned in closer, pinning him completely, and let the body take over even more. The panic was still there, flickering at the edges… but it was getting quieter with every deep, claiming stroke.

Then the memories slammed into me all at once.

One second I was panicking — the next, everything clicked.

I am Yoshi.

37, world famous actor, owner of a sleek penthouse overlooking the city, a supercar, and more money than most people could spend in three lifetimes. Respected. Feared. Desired.

And married.

A beautiful wife was out right now — elegant, high-society, none the wiser. She thought I was “working from home” again. I saw her face in the painting next to me and memories flood: smiling at charity galas on my arm, kissing me goodbye in the morning, completely oblivious to the fact that her husband regularly destroyed tight little twinks like this one in her own bed.

A low, possessive growl escaped my throat as another memory locked in. This no-name twink was just another stress relief. An eager hole I used whenever I needed to remind myself I could take whatever the fuck I wanted.

“Fuck…” I breathed, voice deep and commanding. My hips snapped forward harder, driving my massive cock balls-deep into him. The memories made everything hotter. I wasn’t just fucking him — I was cheating. I was the rich alpha who had it all and still took more.

The twink moaned loudly beneath me, his smaller cock leaking all over his stomach as I folded him in half. My new body knew exactly how to wreck him — brutal, confident strokes that made his eyes roll back.

I grinned, sweat dripping down my carved abs. “That’s it. Take my cock like a good boy.”

The words felt natural now. The old me was already dissolving, buried under waves of power, money, and pure sexual dominance. I had a wife at home… and right now I was balls-deep in a secret twink, stretching him open like he was made for it.

I slammed in again, groaning at how incredible my thick cock felt. Bigger than anything I’d ever had before. Veiny. Heavy. Perfect.

This was my life now.

And I fucking loved it.

In your recent post about the descendants of werewolves (my favorite creature !), you introduce us to Beasts and their nightly transformations.

But what would hapen if a Beast enters a transformation area like Maxford or Baxter Beach ? Would both their forms be affected or only one ? Or will they somehow influence the power of the town/beach/wherever ?

Since I’ve introduced you guys to transformation areas, I’ve mainly focused on Maxford, since it's one of the largest, and to be honest one of the most interesting transformation areas that exist. But for a complicated question like this, it makes more sense to focus on one of the smaller and more controlled transformation areas, which brings us back to another place I introduced you to early on, known as Baxter Beach.

For those of you who don’t remember, Baxter Beach is another transformation area, a small beach somewhere on the American east coast that transforms anyone who walks onto the sand into a hunky surfer for as long as they stay there. There's also a small surf shop that can extend the transformation of those who enter the area for some time, but we’ll get into that some other time. What we’re going to focus on for now is how Baxter Beach, and other transformation areas like it, affect those who aren’t quite human. Not just Beasts, but Alphas, Camous, and even Trait Vampires.

Let's start with the group you’re most familiar with, Alphas. The other descendants of werewolves besides Beasts, Alphas are incredibly manly men who are so naturally dominant that reality itself submits to their will. Men who get the entire world handed to them on a silver platter, by people who will become whatever their Alpha decides. The thing is, with a place like Baxter Beach, an area with a sort of will all of its own, Alpha's power can get a bit more… interesting. When an Alpha and a TF area come into contact, they don’t come into conflict like many people assume they would, but instead tend to form an almost symbiotic relationship. The Alpha and the area become intertwined, at least for as long as the Alpha stays in the area. The Alpha gains even more control and power than they normally would have, and the area gains more direction and strength. For example, if an Alpha were to come in contact with Baxter Beach, the Alpha would become a hunky surfer on the outside, well keeping their true self intact internally. They’d then have almost complete control over the area, not only the people but the physical area itself, able to warp and play with it with ease. They’d be able to focus the natural power of the beach in any way they wanted, and even somewhat increase the beach’s area of effect. An Alpha finding a TF area can be very, very dangerous, because as long as they stay in that area, the Alpha is essentially a god. The only limitation they’d have is that the Alpha has to stay ‘on brand’ as it were. They can do anything… as long as it’s beach related. All that being said, it is possible that something else could happen, if it were a particularly strong Alpha, or a particularly powerful area.

Next up is Camous. For those who don’t remember, Camous are essentially the opposite of Alphas, people who don’t control reality, but who conform to fit into it. Surround a Camou with a group of gym bros, you get another obnoxious gym bro. Throw a Camou into a gay nightclub, you get a cute twink ready to rave. For an Alpha a tf area is a gift, but for a Camou, they’re basically death sentences. Camous already naturally submit to their environment, but when they come in contact with a tf area, an environment that makes even regular people submit, they essentially become a part of the area itself.  They undergo an intense transformation, becoming a pinnacle of whatever the area makes their victims into, and become a sort of conduit for the area's power, one that remains even after leaving the area. For example, if a Camou were to enter Baxter Beach, they’d become a hunky surfer like everyone else, but they’d notably remain one after leaving the area. Not only that, they’d make those around them hunky surfers too, at least for a while, essentially becoming a moving part of the Beach’s influence. In a way, the area infects them, turning the Camou into a part of the area itself and making them a permanent resident. Some Camous will actually seek out tf areas, since well it does change them, it protects them from being changed again and gives them a solid sense of self, something many Camous crave. Of course, they have to pick the area very carefully, or else they might become something they hate. 

Another interesting group that can interact with tf areas are trait vampires, although their way of doing this is a lot simpler. Trait vampires, surprisingly, are affected by tf areas at all. No one is quite sure why, but a trait vampire stays exactly the same when inside the tf area, with the only notable difference being that they can’t steal any of the traits created by the area for themselves. One thing they can do, however, is alter some specifics of how the area affects people. For example, if a trait vampire were to walk onto Baxter Beach, they wouldn’t transform, or be able to steal someone's muscles, but they could make it so one of the hunky surfers was a beefy lifeguard instead, or a giant beach bodybuilder. They can make it so that the beach has to ‘reroll’ and transform the person in another way than they initially picked. This isn’t very useful, but can be fun for a trait vampire looking to play with their powers a bit. 

Finally, let's go to your favorite group, the Beasts. Regular guys who undergo nightly transformations into incredibly manly, gruff men, ones with animalistic impulses and the need to fuck. They can spread their curse through unprotected sex, but are generally harmless as long as you have a condom. When a Beast interacts with a transformation area, they can actually gain another form. For instance, if a Beast were to enter Baxter Beach, they’d remain unchanged, and would still become their Beast self at night, but might gain the condition that they become a surfer when they touch salt water. This new, extra form will stay with the Beast, even after they leave the area, so most Beasts avoid tf areas so they don’t end up gaining a third persona. 

You were still sweating from the gym when you stumbled into the cramped apartment you shared with Jared. The door clicked shut behind you, and the air inside was humid, heavy with the scent of coffee grounds, burnt toast, and the faintest lingering musk of last night’s… triumph.

You grinned to yourself. That guy — what was his name again? Cody? Corey? — he had been wild. Total jock energy, thick arms, shaved chest, and not exactly polite. But hot as fuck. The kind of hookup you didn’t usually land, but damn, you had. Your knees still ached from the tile in the bathroom stall where it happened.

You dropped your gym bag with a thud and began stripping off your sweat-drenched tank top, your slim torso slick under the overhead light. You weren’t jacked, but you looked good — wiry, tight, smooth. A lean, toned twink in his prime.

“Home sweet home,” you muttered, wiping sweat from your brow and kicking off your sneakers. The apartment was quiet. Jared must still be out — probably at that drag brunch thing he wouldn’t shut up about. You rolled your eyes affectionately.

You needed to shower, but something in the living room caught your attention. There, crumpled half-under the couch cushion, was a pair of underwear — not yours, not Jared’s. Light blue, banana-print boxer briefs, and big. Way too big to be yours.

Curious, you bent down and picked them up, holding them at arm’s length. They stank — like musk, sweat, and something riper, like the crotch had been marinated in pure testosterone and swamp ass. You gagged.

“What the hell…” you muttered, chuckling, wrinkling your nose. “Fucking disgusting.”

They had to belong to your hookup. No way they were Jared’s — Jared only wore Andrew Christian thongs, and you knew it.

You brought the briefs closer, reluctantly curious. The crotch was huge, stained dark with old sweat, the fabric stretched and worn. You laughed to yourself. “Jesus, this guy was hung.”

You should’ve tossed them in the trash, or at least the laundry. But your fingers lingered on the waistband. Something about the heat of the fabric in your hands, the faint tingling in your fingertips — you couldn’t look away.

A dumb thought popped into your head.

What if I just… tried them on?

You snorted, shaking your head. “Gross, no. That’s... that’s disgusting.” But your hand moved almost without thinking, sliding the briefs up your legs, the damp fabric clinging to your skin like it belonged there.

They were too big — but as you pulled them over your narrow hips, they tightened. The waistband snapped snug, like they had shrunk to fit you, the banana-print fabric clinging tight to your groin.

You shuddered. “What the fuck…”

And then it hit you — a jolt of heat, radiating straight from your crotch. You staggered, gasping, your knees buckling.

“Nnngh… what the hell is—”

Your hands flew to your groin. Your cock — usually modest, neat, cute — was swelling, thickening, pulsing against the soaked cotton. You watched in horror as your bulge grew, twitched, the outline obscene.

The briefs stretched, the fabric straining, seams whining.

“Nnnghh, fuck, fuck…” You panted, stumbling back onto the couch, your thighs trembling. They were swelling too, your quads thickening, the once-slender muscles bulging, pushing against the briefs, hair sprouting coarse and dark along your thighs.

You groaned, a low, guttural sound, not your voice. It was deeper, rougher.

“Shit, what’s happening to me…”

You doubled over, gripping your head. Your abs cramped, then flexed, your formerly flat stomach ripping with muscle, veins appearing like cords beneath your skin. Sweat poured from you, pungent, rank. You reeked like a locker room, BO rising in waves.

You wanted to stop. To tear the briefs off. But your hands wouldn’t move.

And your brain — your thoughts — slurred, grew slower, dumber. Words jumbled together. You blinked, drooling, your mind fogging.

“Bro…” you muttered, “fuckin’… wha…”

Your arms twitched, your biceps swelling, veins popping, hair creeping along your forearms. You could feel your shoulders broaden, bones grinding, body rebuilding.

You grunted again — loud, obnoxious, like a gym bro mid-squat — and slapped your chest. Hair coated it now, thick and coarse. Your nips were harder, larger, surrounded by dark areolas.

Your neck thickened, your jaw sharpened, the shape of your face morphing. Your cute features melted into a chiseled, square-jawed mug, a light shadow of stubble darkening your cheeks.

Your voice dropped, muttering, “Fuckin’… bro… the fuck…?”

You glanced down — your banana-print briefs were soaked, your cock pulsing, hard as fuck, leaking precum.

You didn’t feel scared anymore. You felt horny. Stupidly horny. And that smug grin curled on your lips, slow and dumb.

A weird urge gripped you — a need. Your fingers tugged the waistband, snapped it, and you laughed.

“Dude,” you chuckled, “these banana drawers are fuckin’ sick.”

You flexed, admiring your arms, the veins, the bulk, the hair. Your sweat stink filled the room, and you loved it.

A crackling sound erupted in your brain, like static, as something deep inside you broke.

A voice in your head now whispered…

“You’re just getting started, bro.”

You slouched there on the couch, legs spread wide, your hand gripping your junk through the tight banana briefs, fingers lazily fondling the thick bulge, drool slick on your stubbled chin. Your abs flexed involuntarily, the sheen of sweat now a film of musk, sticky and pungent.

Somewhere — deep inside — your old self, that twinky barista, was screaming. He wanted to rip the briefs off, wash the stench off, run. But your body wouldn’t listen. Your brain buzzed, a low hum, almost like white noise. Each pulse of blood through your thickening veins dulled your thoughts further.

You scratched your chest — fingers digging into the forest of hair now coating your pecs. It felt good. Filthy. Right.

“Unnnghh… bro…” the sound slipped from your lips, dumber, slurred.

You blinked and caught sight of yourself in the mirror across the room. Your heart skipped.

Fuck. You didn’t look like you.

Gone was your narrow frame, your smooth, boyish face. In its place sat a thick-chested, muscle-stuffed bro, jawline angular, lips curled in a smirk, eyes glassy and cocky. Hairier, darker, more brutish. A fuckboy, no doubt.

You stood up unsteadily. Your legs were thick, calves like stone, thighs rubbing together, chafing with each step. You farted, loud and wet — and laughed.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you chuckled, voice deeper, like gravel and testosterone. “Guess them eggs hit different, huh?”

You scratched your ass, sniffed your fingers, then shrugged. You didn’t even flinch.

Your eyes scanned the floor, and there it was — something you didn’t recognize. A black baseball cap, embroidered with bold red letters.

TRUMP 2024 — SAVE AMERICA AGAIN.

You snorted. “Hell yeah,” you muttered — then froze. What the fuck did you just say?

Panic gripped you for a moment. But then… that same hot, tingling warmth returned, pulsing through your skull, down your spine, into your cock.

You moaned, almost blissed out, and grabbed the cap. It was sweaty, worn, reeking of cheap beer and gunpowder. Without hesitation, you pulled it on, the brim crooked, the fit perfect.

“Fuuuck, yeah,” you groaned. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

Your cock twitched. You farted again, louder, your ass cheeks clapping together. Your hand scratched your hairy gut, then reached for your phone, unlocking it with a thick thumb.

Your eyes scanned your home screen. Grindr, Instagram, Spotify — all your apps.

But they felt wrong.

Instead, your fingers deleted them, laughing like it was a joke.

“Nah, man,” you muttered. “Fuck that gay shit.”

You opened YouTube and searched “Top 10 Guns Every Patriot Should Own”, instantly getting rock-hard. Your cock throbbed, leaking, staining the banana-print briefs. Proud Boy Podcast, Joe Rogan, Alpha Male Workout Plans — your new feed.

You stumbled to your bedroom, the floor creaking beneath your heavier frame. Your old posters — Beyoncé, Timothée Chalamet, RuPaul — looked alien now. You ripped them down, chuckling.

“Fuckin’ lib shit,” you grunted.

And there, on your bed, laid out perfectly, was a black handgun. Your eyes lit up.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed it, felt the weight, the power, and something in your brain just clicked. You posed, gun in one hand, biceps flexed, cap tilted, a self-satisfied grin on your face.

“Alpha fuckin’ male,” you said out loud, laughing like an idiot, farting again, scratching your nuts.

You looked in the mirror again — your eyes colder, smirk wider, bananas stretched tight across your fat cock and muscular thighs.

No shirt. No pants. Just pure MAGA energy.

You snapped a photo — mirror selfie, flex, gun low — and posted it on Instagram with the caption:

“Woke = broke. Real men lift, shoot, and breed. 🇺🇸💪 #MAGA #AlphaAF #NoHomo”

Your old followers vanished. But new ones — bros, babes, patriots — flooded in.

And you… grinned.

The door creaked as you shoved it open, shirtless, gun in hand, banana-print briefs barely containing your monster bulge. The late afternoon sun hit your skin, gleaming off the sweat, the sheen of musk, highlighting every vein, every muscle. The air outside smelled clean, but as you stepped onto the front porch, a gust of your own stink followed — BO, crotch sweat, gunpowder, farts — your new cologne.

You stretched, arms wide, biceps bulging, and belched loud, a deep, wet roar from your gut.

“Fuuuck yeah,” you grunted, voice rough, slow, full of arrogant drawl. “Ain’t nothin’ like fresh air and swamp ass, bro.”

You scratched your crotch with one hand, the other twirling the handgun lazily at your side. You didn’t care who saw. Neighbors stared. An old lady down the street gaped in horror. You just smirked.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, hag?” you barked, spitting on the porch and adjusting your cock. “Go watch CNN or somethin’, ya fuckin’ lib.”

Your accent now had a dumbed-down frat boy twang, every word oozing arrogance. You weren’t even thinking — just spewing shit.

Your brain felt empty, but pumped. Thoughts reduced to gains, guns, pussy, Trump, tits, freedom, farts. You let out another guttural ripper, laughing, then sniffed your armpit, groaning in approval.

“Fuckin’ smells like a man,” you muttered, grinding your hips, feeling your fat cock swell, pre oozing through the briefs. “Bet some dumb bitch’d love it.”

And like fate heard you, a car pulled up, top down, music blasting some trashy pop remix. Out stepped her — blonde, tan, tight little crop top, Daisy Dukes so short you saw the crease of her ass cheeks.

You whistled, eyes locked on her. Your cock throbbed.

“Yo, babe,” you called, voice cocky, commanding. “You lost or just lookin’ for this dick?”

She turned, eyes trailing down your massive body, landing on the bulge, licking her lips.

“Damn,” she purred, sauntering over, chewing gum, eyes on your abs, your gun, your smirk. “You, like… live here?”

You scratched your fuzzy gut, nodding, farting, and not caring as she wrinkled her nose, then giggled.

“Name’s Brock,” you said. The words felt natural — no memory of any other name. You didn’t even flinch.

She giggled again. “Brock, huh? You look like trouble.”

You stepped forward, towering over her, flexing one bicep, the other hand resting casually on your cock.

“Trouble’s my fuckin’ middle name, babe. Wanna come in? House smells like sweat, gun oil, and testosterone — but I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

She bit her lip, looking around — then back at your body.

“God, yeah. I love a real man.”

You laughed, loud, dumb, crude, then slapped her ass hard, making her yelp.

Inside, you shoved her against the wall, kissing her sloppily, your tongue dominating, hands gripping, ripping her top off.

“You fuckin’ like MAGA cock, don’t ya?” you growled, rutting against her.

“Mmhmm,” she moaned, breathless.

“Good. ‘Cause this cock’s straight, hard, and free, just like this country.”

You didn’t care about anything anymore. Not your old life, not your past, not him. You were Brock, alpha, straight, conservative, horny as hell.

Your room — now decked out with flags, protein tubs, ammo boxes, a gun rack. Posters of Trump, guns, chicks with big tits. Your old bed sheets — gone. Now: camo print, stained with sweat, cum, and beer.

You fucked her rough, grunting, farting, laughing, belching, talking shit.

“You’re mine now, babe. Ain’t no soyboys in this house. Just real men. Alpha. Conservative. Fuckin’ king.”

You came like a beast, roaring, then fell back, cock still hard, smiling smug, scratching your nuts, gun resting beside the bed.

Life was perfect.

You were Brock Slade now — gun-toting, Trump-voting, pussy-wrecking alpha god.

And your old self?

Just a bad dream, buried beneath muscle, BO, and banana briefs stretched over a fat MAGA cock.

You’re scrolling Tumblr on your couch in Melbourne, sipping a flat white and smirking at the screen. You post and reblog, feeling smug. Progressive, open-minded, proud of your country’s values, always calling out the wrongthink online. No one could ever change you.

The moment you hit post, your phone screen flashes white and red. A strange heat surges through your body, starting in your head and spreading like wildfire.

Your thoughts start to fuzz. Complex ideas about social justice feel slippery, harder to hold onto. “What the… mate, this is bullshit—” Your voice cracks mid-sentence. Your Australian accent warps, flattening out, thickening into a slow, drawling American Southern twang. “The fuck was that?”

Your body begins to change. You were lean and fit in that typical city-boy way. Now muscle packs on fast and heavy. Your arms thicken into powerful, veiny forearms built from years on the job. Shoulders broaden, chest barrels out into thick slabs of pecs, and your gut pushes forward into a solid, powerful beer belly that screams working-class American. Height shoots up. Your legs become tree-trunk thick, perfect for stomping around a construction site. Tattoos appear on your biceps: American flags, “Don’t Tread on Me,” and crude skulls. Your face shifts too, jaw squaring, nose broadening, eyes turning a duller blue. A thick, unkempt black beard explodes across your cheeks. Your hair shortens into a messy, faded cut.

Your cock throbs hard, growing thicker and heavier, now straining against work jeans that have replaced your trendy pair. Your ass is big, round, and powerful. One every woman and man can’t help but stare at when they first see it.

But the real corruption happens in your mind. Your brain slows down. Vocabulary shrinks. Critical thinking dissolves into simple, greedy instincts. You don’t need ‘em, anyway. “Good” beliefs burn away, replaced by raw, corrupt American alpha redneck thinking: Fuck the government, fuck regulations, take what you can get, what you deserve, and don’t apologize. Women belong in the kitchen or on their knees. Immigrants are stealing jobs but you sure can pay them a hell of a lot less under the table. Real men dominate. You’re still gay, but now it’s filthy and toxic. You dominate betas, use them like holes, and brag about it in the locker room. Just some locker room talk between guys.

Memories rewrite. An American driver’s license appears in your hand. You’re Brock Harlan, a 38-year-old dumb-as-bricks construction foreman from the good ol state of Texas. You run a big site in Houston, cutting corners on safety to pocket extra cash, taking bribes from contractors, bullying your crew, and skimming materials to sell on the side. You drink beer by the case, watch football every Sunday after church, and hate “woke shit” because Fox News and your pastor tell you to.

The transformation finishes with a grunt. You look down at your massive, hairy body in a dirty hi-vis vest, work boots, and stained jeans. Your phone is now a cracked Android with conservative memes and porn apps full of rough trades. And Grindr of course, for when you need a quick hookup.

“Fuckin’ hell…” you mutter in your deep, slow American drawl. “What was I even thinkin’ before? All that liberal bullshit.” You laugh, a dumb, loud belly laugh. Being smart is overrated anyway. Feels better to be big, strong, and simple. A real man in control of his life.

You head out to the job site, five minutes late. Your crew knows you as the corrupt boss who makes them work overtime without pay, who takes kickbacks, and who occasionally drags one of the younger, nervous workers into the trailer for “private talks.” You bend them over your desk, your thick cock stretching their asses while you grunt about how real men take what they want. You slap their asses red and tell them if they complain, they’re fired. Half of them come back for more, addicted to your dominant, corrupt energy. You’d almost pity them if you had any empathy.

After work you hit the bar, slamming beers, telling dirty jokes, and eyeing the hot new hire with the tight piece of ass. You already know you’ll have him broken in by Friday. On his knees, calling you “boss” while you flood his throat and licking your boots clean. Hell, he should thank you for it like the weak beta he is.

You’re dumber now. Just power, cash under the table, cheap beer, and using people. Every time you flex your big American muscles or count your dirty money, it feels right. Living the American Dream, your way.

You arrive back home to your apartment in your gas guzzler truck that takes two parking spaces to fit, the one you paid for with the extra materials at the last few jobs. As you settle on the couch in front of the TV, another beer already in your hand, the Grindr notification sounds from your phone. Some soyboy college student good enough for a night under you at least.

You send him a pic of your already hardening package (unsolicited of course), giving him a sneak peek of the rest of his night.

And you’ll make sure it’s a long night.

~~After Practice~~

Alex had never expected his college life to take this kind of turn. He’d moved to New York for school, planning to live on campus like most students, but when he found a better deal on an off-campus apartment that financial aid would cover, he jumped on it. The apartment was in a decent neighborhood, close to the subway, and the landlord didn’t ask too many questions. Seemed like a win.

What he hadn’t planned on, though, was Frank—his new roommate.

Frank was… something else. The guy was like a time capsule from a decade ago, straight out of Jersey Shore. From the gelled-back hair, the deep tan, ridiculous yelling at football and ufc matches every weekend, the flashy chains, to the relentless love of tank tops and gold watches. Alex wasn’t sure if Frank was for real or if this was just an elaborate, extended joke.

But here’s the thing: despite his douchey exterior, Frank was actually a pretty nice guy. Sure, he blasted club music at ungodly hours and flexed in the mirror every time he passed it, but Frank was always chill. He’d offer Alex food whenever he cooked, made sure the apartment was clean, and always gave him a heads-up when he had people over. Plus, Frank clearly knew what he was doing in the gym. The guy was shredded, and Alex had to admit, Frank’s discipline when it came to his diet and workout routine was impressive.

It didn’t take long before Alex’s curiosity got the best of him.

One day, after weeks of seeing Frank pound protein shakes and head to the gym religiously, Alex asked him for some advice. He had always been a casual gym-goer, but seeing Frank’s dedication made him wonder if he could up his own game.

“Yo, Frank,” Alex said one afternoon as they sat in the living room. “What do you usually eat for those gains, man? And how do you stay so consistent?”

Frank grinned, pausing the DJ Pauly D remix playing on his speakers. “Bro, it’s all about focus foods and the right lifts. Stick to lean meats, eggs, beans, lots of veggies. And you gotta hit the weights hard. No shortcuts.”

Alex nodded, scribbling down some notes on his phone. “Got any recommendations? Like content or something I can watch?”

Frank’s grin grew wider. “Oh, for sure. I’ll send you some stuff. There’s Dom Mazzetti, Vinny Guadagnino—some good shit, bro. But hey, I’ll send you my playlist too. Got a WAV file I use at the gym that keeps me hyped.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “A playlist?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s got some fire tracks. Also, I threw in some personal affirmations underneath it, helps me stay focused during my lifts. You probably won’t even notice them, but they help, bro. Trust me.”

Alex wasn’t really buying into the whole “subliminal affirmation” thing. It sounded like some weird self-help nonsense. But Frank was shredded, and if these little tricks worked for him, maybe they were worth a shot.

Later that evening, Alex plugged in his headphones and hit play on Frank’s WAV file. It started with “Lucky, Lucky, Lucky Me”—a male cover that felt oddly calming. The song transitioned into upbeat remixes like “Fireball” and other club tracks that seemed to pump adrenaline into his veins. Somewhere in between, Sinatra’s smooth voice made an appearance, bringing a strange, nostalgic energy to the mix.

As the playlist played, Alex caught faint whispers beneath the music—barely noticeable. “You love the gym. You crave the weights. Tanning makes you feel amazing. You rep the Italian pride with every lift.”

He chuckled to himself. This subliminal shit can’t be real, he thought. But, whatever—Frank swears by it.

The playlist ended with “Lucky, Lucky Me” again, and as Alex dozed off that night, the tune echoed faintly in his head.

The changes didn’t happen overnight, but as the days went by, Alex began to notice subtle differences. It started with his workouts. He’d always been someone who worked out occasionally, but now there was something different. One morning, as he walked past the gym on his way to class, he felt an urge—a need to lift. It wasn’t just about getting in shape anymore. Something about the weights called to him, pulling him in.

He ended up inside, grabbing a set of dumbbells and diving into a full workout. By the time he finished, he was drenched in sweat, but instead of feeling exhausted, he felt exhilarated. There was a rush—an energy that coursed through him, leaving him wanting more.

From that point on, the gym became part of his daily routine. At first, he didn’t even realize it was happening. He started following Frank’s tips—lifting heavier, focusing on compound movements, and pushing himself harder with each session. His muscles responded quickly, growing faster than they ever had before. His shirts started to fit tighter, hugging his chest and arms in ways they never had before. Every time he looked in the mirror, he couldn’t help but flex, admiring his progress.

It wasn’t just the gym either. One afternoon, Alex caught himself in front of the bathroom mirror, noticing how pale his skin looked under the fluorescent lights. Without thinking much of it, he booked an appointment at the tanning salon down the street. After his first session, he looked at himself in the mirror, marveling at the golden glow on his skin. It made him feel good, confident—like he was stepping into a new version of himself.

Tanning became part of his routine, just like the gym. He started looking forward to that golden glow, the way it made his muscles stand out more, and how it just felt right.

One weekend, Alex found himself wandering into a clothing store, drawn to a section of tank tops with bold prints—Italian flags, American flags, vibrant colors that screamed confidence. He picked up a few without thinking twice, the fabric feeling perfect against his newly defined arms. When he got home and slipped into one of the tanks, he stood in front of the mirror, flexing his biceps. The tank hugged his body in all the right places, and as he admired his reflection, a grin spread across his face.

Damn, I look good.

It wasn’t just the clothes that made him feel this way—it was the pride, the feeling of representing his heritage with every lift, every flex. It felt right.

The most surprising change came with his voice. At first, it was barely noticeable—a slight shift in his accent, a few new words slipping into his vocabulary. But as the weeks went on, the transformation in his speech became undeniable. His voice took on a thicker Jersey inflection, and words like “bro” and “yo” started slipping out naturally, almost without him realizing it. He spoke with more confidence, more swagger, his words carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before.

He even noticed how loud he’d become, but it wasn’t obnoxious—it felt like he was owning the room. His friends started to comment on it, but Alex didn’t mind. It felt like the way he was supposed to talk, like his voice was finally matching the rest of his transformation.

One night, Alex found himself scrolling through YouTube, where he came across a Dom Mazzetti video. He clicked on it, expecting to laugh at the over-the-top persona, but something else happened. As Dom joked about gym culture, diet, and lifting, Alex found himself nodding along, relating to the lifestyle. The gym wasn’t just a place to work out anymore—it was part of who he was becoming.

The next few weeks passed in a blur. Alex’s days revolved around the gym, tanning, and repping his heritage with pride. He found himself following more content creators who embodied the same mindset—guys who lived for the grind, the lifts, and the pride in who they were.

His roommate Frank noticed the changes, too. “Bro, you’re looking jacked,” Frank said one afternoon as Alex flexed in the mirror before heading out to the gym. “You flexing the gains hard now.”

Alex grinned, running a hand through his hair, which he’d started gelling back every morning. “Yeah, man. It just feels right, you know?”

Frank clapped him on the shoulder, a proud smirk on his face. “Told ya. Once you get in the groove, there’s no going back. You’re one of us now, bro. Tanning, lifting, and heritage. Welcome to the crew.”

Alex chuckled, feeling Frank’s words sink in. Wasn’t just about the workouts or the diet no more. It was the whole package—the attitude, the pride, the way he carried himself. He’d become confident, bold, and unapologetic. The gym had become his temple, and every flex in the mirror, every perfectly tanned muscle, reminded him of how far he’d come.

He spoke with more confidence now, his voice carrying a thick Jersey accent that seemed to come naturally. Words like “bro” and “yo” slipped out effortlessly, and he found himself embracing the louder, more assertive side of himself. Even his walk had changed—there was more swagger, more presence.

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

A few weeks later, Alex and Frank were sitting in the living room, scrolling through profiles of potential new roommates. Their lease was ending soon, and they needed to find someone to fill the third room. Frank leaned back in his chair, sipping a protein shake as he swiped through a list of candidates.

“Yo, check this one out,” Alex said, pausing on a profile. “Marco Ricci. Italian last name.”

Frank raised an eyebrow and leaned in, studying the screen. “Oh shit, an Italian? That’s promising.”

They opened Marco’s profile, but instead of seeing someone flexing or rocking a tan, Marco looked... pretty regular. He wasn’t out of shape, but he wasn’t exactly lifting heavy either. Pale, with a pretty average physique, he was the kind of guy who didn’t seem to spend much time at the gym. His shirt was plain, and his expression, while friendly, was far from the confident swagger Alex and Frank had come to expect in their circle.

Alex chuckled, nudging Frank. “Dude’s kinda pasty, huh?”

Frank smirked. “Yeah, bro. Definitely needs some work. But Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know? He’s got the Italian blood—that’s what counts. We can mold him.”

Alex nodded, his mind already racing. Marco might not be there yet, but with the right guidance, who knows? The guy had potential. He just needed some direction.

“Yeah,” Alex said, swiping right on Marco’s profile. “We’ll get him there. If he’s down to move in, I have the perfect playlist in mind."

Frank chuckled deeply, shaking his head. “Bro, he won’t know what hit him.”

Alex grinned, flexing in the mirror nearby. “Hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, right?”

Frank laughed again, raising his protein shake in a mock toast. “Damn straight, bro."

WANNA BECOME A GUIDO FOR REAL? Try this subliminal:

Your phone buzzed, so you checked it. Another overdue bill notification, you sighed. Was that the fifth now? You'd lost count. Overwhelmed, you ducked into an alley, resisting the urge to breakdown and cry, and sunk to the ground, face in your hands, trying desperately not to break.

Things seemed hopeless, and they had for a while.

The rain kept pouring down, chilling you to the bone, and that snapped you out of it. You looked around for an overhang to sit under, some shelter, and saw it. A leather jacket, just abandoned by a trash can. You'd already sank low enough, you figured, so why not put it on for some warmth? You stumbled over to it and wrapped it around your cold frame. Underneath it was a beer bottle, completely sealed. What the hell, you thought, and picked it up. Hesitant to drink it, you didnt open it yet.

The jacket did smell a bit, you had to admit. A combination of wet leather, smell from being in proximity with the trash, and was that weed? But it was warmer with it on, and even if it didnt protect from the rain, it was better with it than without.

Absentmindedly, you found yourself walking back around the streets, heading back on the route youd initially come, then taking a few turns til you were in a place you didnt recognise. Everythings fine, you thought, and didnt worry. You found yourself knocking on someones door, and waiting. Why did you knock here? You thought, but you couodnt figure it out. After a long wait, the door opened to a man who shouldve looked terrifying to you, but you werent scared at all. He was short, and lean, but he was covered in piercings and tatts, his hair styled up into a bright blue and green mohawk. Not the kind of man youd want or expect to meet, but your body seemed to instinctively go in for the hug, and his stern face seemed to smile at you warmly. He kissed you, and it felt like you were short circuiting, your brain forgetting how to function, how to think, and for a second, you felt nothing but lust for this man in front of you. He stopped the kiss, and you returned to your normal self. Dazed, you followed him inside the house.

The house wasn't exactly clean, and a strong scent filled the air, that of cum, piss, cheap deoderant, musk and weed. It mingled in your brain, short circuiting it again and overwriting it.

"Yo Connah!" Said the punk, chucking a pair of clearly used, reeking combat boots at you. "Give em a sniff my man"

And you did. In bliss, shoving it to your nose, almost as if this man's words forced you too. Your body ached as you lost yourself in the smell, muscles growing, getting you taller by the second.

"Connah?" You thought. That didnt seem right. Was that your name? Of course it was, your boyfriend wouldnt lie to you. Wait. Boyfriend? What were you think-

Your thought process was interrupted by a hand on your cock, springing it to life, the punk looking directly at you while slowly but surely teasing your cock, working the foreskin back and letting his hands touch your glans, causing ripples of sensitivity and pleasurable pain to course through you. With each pulse, yiu lost yourself more and more. A cocky, dominant personality overwriting you. "Put em on me, bitch." You sneered, causing the punk to gulp and take the boots, sliding them onto your feet. Instinctively, you stood on him, pushing his face under your massive foot. He moaned, and you laughed. "Thats right bitch. You're mine now." You, no, Connah sneered. You were Connah now, you akways had been. Alpha, leader, cocky punk. You didnt remember the punk's name, but who cared? He was nothing more than your bitch anyway, and he wouldn't be the last. Connah was back bitches, and he was gonna make the entire town his gang.