#broization

From an original idea by @rakurairagnarok

"Fifth time this month he's late." From behind his desk, James tried desperately to distract himself from just how furious he was. Daniel was not a particularly bad performer as far as his work was concerned, but he was a somewhat laxidasical employee when it came to the everyday expectations that the Vita Corporation expected of him. That would be to be on time, to respect authority, to not slack off in his cubicle... Basic fundamental things that make a corporate office run smoothly and efficiently. Looking down at Daniel's file, James was preparing himself to ream the disobedient subordinate during this employee review. Thus, precisely three and a half minutes past the hour when Daniel entered his office, it shouldn't have come as a shock.

"You're late Mr. Fordham. Sit down." The harsh tone that James spat at the young man was absolutely intended to frighten the young marketing executive, though in typical fashion for the Aussie fella he was, Danny sat down on the bench entirely unperturbed. This had come as no surprise to him, as Mr. Wellington frequently would come down hard on him for just about any minor mistake. There was a bet going around his department about what stupid policy the old American bat would harp on that day, and it was going to make some of the blokes a bit richer.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Wellington?" Danny's unenthusiastic tone infuratied James. The disrespect his little shit had for him- if they were in Dallas, he'd be on the street with his cardboard box by now, but in Sydney, things were different.

"Fordham, I have told you time and time again about your behavior. You're soft. You show no respect. You're late nearly every day. I will not continue to tolerate this type of adolescent rebellion." Danny tried desperately to hide the smirk which subtly began to pry at the corners of his lips, successfully avoiding tipping off James to his truthful reaction. "But why do you think I called you in this time?" Danny pondered for a moment. Perhaps it was the fact that he tracked sand from the beach across the office carpet on Tuesday. Or that he left his surfboard in the employee lounge overnight on Thursday. Maybe it was the fact that his longboard made skidmarks on the sidewalk at the entrance of the building... Truthfully, Wellington would love to use any of those as an excuse to scream at him.

"Can't say I have any idea, sir." James huffed, his face getting redder. He pulled out a piece of paper from the desk drawer and began to read.

"A complaint filed against one Mister Daniel Fordham: Each day during lunch, Mr. Fordham utilizes the building gym for approximately one hour. After which, he showers and returns to his desk on the 47th floor." James paused and stared at Danny. "Does this sound familiar, Mr. Fordham?" Unsure of where James was going with this complaint, he absentmindedly nodded. James furrowed his brow and continued. "When Mr. Fordham returns to his work, he brings his duffel bag into the office and places it under his desk for the remainder of the day." Bingo. He now knew precisely where James was going. Looks like Chris and Lyle would be getting $40. "The stench that emanates from this bag is indescribably offensive, distracting, and inappropriate..." Danny chuckled to himself. Which only seemed to enrage James even further. "MISTER FORDHAM! I WILL NOT TOLERATE YOUR INCONSIDERATE BEHAVIOR FURTHER. You will either do something about your... things, or I will make sure you find a job where they do not care about such filth. Do I make myself clear?" Danny nodded, smiling, before rising to his feet.

"Perfectly, sir. I've placed it in the men's room for now, and I'll think of what do do with it from now on." James waved off Danny, banishing him back to the cold cubicle which confined him from 9 to 5. As he sauntered out the door, high fiving his coworkers and collecting his winnings, James was fuming behind his desk- he was at the end of his tether. Every other employee understood the corporate hierarchy, and their place in it, except for Daniel Fordham. His work wasn't by any means subpar. It was completed on schedule, was thorough, and met every goal expected. Rather, it was the tone in which he conducted himself. He didn't eat, drink, and bleed for the company, and James wouldn't have it any further. Rising quickly from his desk, he stormed out the door into the large open room.

"FORDHAM! I want PTS reports on my desk in exactly two hours!" The office fell silent, as Danny turned around, dumbfounded.

"I can work through my lunch hour if you need, Mr. Wellington." James nodded firmly.

"See to it that you do." James wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief, and began to walk towards the restroom. All of this shouting was going to give him a heart attack- he needed to take some of his medication and he'd be fine. He burst through the door and leaned against the sinks, fiddling through his jacket pockets to find his pill bottle. Popping the cap, he swallowed two capsules and tossed them back. Controlling his breathing, the middle-aged man looked in the mirror. He was overweight, balding, his suit was baggy and ill-fitted, but above all, he just looked unhappy. He sighed, knowing full well deep down just why it was that he always came down hard on Danny.

Jealousy. He looked at this youthful, relaxed, cool young man who despite clearly being uninterested in devoting his entire life to the company, was as successful as he was. When James was his age, he was a low-level intern, working his ass off to afford rent. Why should this little shit be able to surf through life without a care in the world, while he angrily slaves away, running his company with an iron fist? It wasn't fair. The man sighed, and looked down. Was this success? It was in this moment that James saw the bag. There, in the far corner of the bathroom, lying atop the granite countertop was Daniel's ratty old Adidas gym bag he'd just gotten done screaming over.

Something within him snapped, whether it was the mere sight of it or if it was the proximity, but James lost all control of himself. He'd show that little fuck just what he thought of his attitude. He'd just toss that bag down the garbage chute and be rid of it. Then he wouldn't be smirking anymore, he wouldn't be joking around, he wouldn't be so damned relaxed! James scampered over to the bag and took ahold of the beat up shoulder strap... and froze.

One gentle inhale and he was assaulted with it- pungent, odious, rank... the complaint was clearly well founded. The bag was zipped tight and it still couldn't contain the musk. In his mind, James was ready to entirely eviscerate the fetid bag, but his body disobeyed. He looked around the bathroom, searching for any bystanders who might see him, and when he was satisfied the coast was clear, he turned back to the zipper and slowly began to pull. The quiet buzzing of the zipper opening the bag echoed in the empty bathroom, ringing loudly in James' ears until it reached the end of the track. Pulling the bag wide open, the smell was noxious. He peered in and saw grey-brown Lonsdale hoodie, shorts, tube socks and Asics Tigers laying atop a heavily worn jockstrap.

James stared down at the items, knowing full well that he should be absolutely appauled, and yet... he was not. He reached out, the tips of his fingers brushing against the still warm, damp fabric of the jockstrap. It was as if he was hit with a freight train, chills ran down his body, seeminly electrifying every molecule within him. It felt... incredible. He looked at his hand, squeezing it into a fist, feeling an odd mix of energetic power and relaxation wash over him. He hadn't felt this way in years, at least since his early thirties. He reached down and let his fingers drag across the sticky wet socks, causing another burst of electric energy surging through him. This feeling of release, the release of tension that had built within him over the grueling years was an absolute revelation in ways he hadn't ever experienced before. That's when he saw his hands... the wrinkles were gone. He peered down looking at his palms, softer, stronger, younger... Turning toward the door, he bolted the door locked and began to shuck his suit.

Free from the bondage of the uncomfortable, cheap suit, he stood naked before the bag, filled with a motivation therebefore foreign to him. The bag beckoned him, and he dove right in. He grasped the jockstrap, bringing it to his nose, inhaling the sharp, sour smell of unwashed dick and sweaty balls. The musk annihilated his senses, forcing a loud moan to escape his mouth, a tad bit deeper than before. His body now nearly on autopilot, he put his two feet into the holes of the jockstrap, pulling it up the sides of his legs until his package fell neatly into the wet, fetid pouch. He felt a stirring in his groin, a odd stretching sensation overtook his cock. Watching with awe, he saw the pouch begin to fill out and sag. He huffed with labored breath as the stained fabric strained to contain the sheer girth and heft of his growing bulge until a long, uncut cock snaked its way out. James poked it with his finger, the slick, slimy coat of pre inundating his pointer finger. Swirling it around under his long foreskin, he gasped at the sensitivity his cock had never before given him, before bringing his hand to his nose. It was sharp, it was virile, and it was hot.

He turned back to the bag, rummaging through it's contents before he found the shorts, slipping them on just below the waist. His varicose veins retracted back into his skin as it tightened and tanned. The layers of fat melted away and his muscles firmed while bristly hairs began to poke out of his inflating thighs and calves. He could feel his butt tightening and ballooning outward, letting his hands grasp the two strong orbs that now adorned his behind. He turned to the mirror, slapping his ass and enjoying the muscled ripples. He'd grown at least a foot and a half taller, landing at around 6'5.

Swiping the socks and sneakers, he brought the dripping wet items to his face, letting the sweat smear across his face. Ripe, rank, and addictive. Eagerly, he slipped the wet socks up his ankles and calves, and thrust his feet into the massive sneakers. Immediately, he felt his soles begin to expand against the footprint embedded in the insole, stretching and creaking against the leather shoes. His toes elongated and strengthened, as if years of surfing and skating had naturally grown the two prized size 16 boats. From waist below, he was not the same man. Not even a younger version of himself, but rather someone entirely different. His knees weren't buckling, his ankles weren't sore, his balls hung low, filled with buckets of potent cum and pumping testosterone. And there was only one more item left.

He grabbed the hoodie, turning to the mirror to see one last glance at the old James Wellington, before he thrust his arms into the open holes. Bubbles began to form beneath his skin, liquefying the heavy sacs of fat that drooped down from his weak arms, until it solidified, being entirely absorbed into his muscles. His biceps and triceps inflated like balloons, straining against the fabric before easing up. His hands were now youthful, limber, strong, tattoos began to crawl out of his knuckles and stretch upward toward his broadening shoulders and swelling pecs. His gut collapsed in on itself in an instant, as if popped by a needle and letting the excess air stream out of him, leaving a tapered, tight waist and strong, cobbled abs. His head popped out of the top of the sweatshirt, caught in the hood itself.

The years melted away, the wrinkles tightened and his hair thickened and shortened into a tight, but sweaty crop. His eyes struggled to adjust to the brightness of the room, until he could finally see out of their piercing blue irises. He fell backward against the wall, sliding downward as if completely exhausted from a particularly long workout: damp, ripe, and pulsating. The lock clicked on the bathroom door, allowing his secretary to walk in.

"No I can't imagine why the door is loc... Oh! Mr. Wellington! You're back from your exercise already?"

Jimmy smiled, looking up at his faithful assistant and pulling himself up from the ground. He sauntered over slamming his massive hand onto the lanky young man's shoulder.

"Sure am. Just taking a breather." His low, thick aussie accent poured out of his lips like syrup. "Gonna get changed in a minute. Could you see if Danny could come see me in the office whenever he has a minute?"

AN HOUR LATER

Danny walked up to the heavy wooden doors, annoyed beyond belief that he'd be subjugated once again to James' shrill shrieking. He turned to the assistant, quietly typing behind the desk, though for the first time he'd ever seen before, the bloke was smiling.

"Ay, you alright, Curtis?" The man turned and nodded with a chipper demeanor. Danny brushed it off as a good day for the fella, as he pushed open the heavy door. Immediately he was taken aback. What once was a dark, stuffy, extremely formal room was now open, light and airy. The heavy mahogany desk was gone, replaced with a streamlined metal and glass one at a third of the size. The heavy blinds were gone, letting the full rays of the Sydney sunlight permeate the room. Danny confusedly looked around the empty room, until he caught a familiar whiff coming from the back corner directly behind him.

"Ah good, Danny, you're here." Danny spun around, immediately seeing the lean, suave, sexy sight of his boss sipping a glass of whiskey on the rocks. He sat back in the seat, his huge feet and long legs extended outward in a relaxed stretch. Huge feet that... seemed to be the same size as his. In fact, legs that were the same length as his, a suit that was the same dimensions as his... a body comparable to his own that smelled... just like his. "I have a proposition for you, bud. Sit down." Danny sat down across from Jimmy, dumbfounded.

"Now then. I believe this belongs to you, my friend." Jimmy tossed the gym bag back to it's rightful owner, who ignored it entirely to continue his slawjawed awe of the man that sat before him. "What on earth have you been doing, Danny? New preworkout? New vitamins? New protein powder? You do anything different lately?"

"Well, I did take some of the trial supplements from R&D a few days ago. Did wonders on my stamina, but... sir..." Jimmy waved his hand, offering a glass of whiskey to his current subordinate.

"I figured. See, we were hoping to test that in a few weeks, and I'm so glad you tried it early. Looks like the VitaSupps project works better than we anticipated... with some interesting side effects." Jimmy reclined, throwing an arm behind his head. "I like your energy, Danny. Your essence. I think it's the direction we need to start heading in, and I think you're just the kind of guy I want next to me as we do it." Danny smiled from cheek to cheek, thrilled he was finally getting the recognition he'd always deserved. As the two executives clinked their glasses, the deal was sealed. The Vita Corporation was going to be rolling out their new lifechanging supplement, and they had quite a bit of restructuring to do. Out with the old, in with the new, and with Wellington & Fordham working side by side, the company was more than ready to proceed.

@van-oh-the-shimmering-ways needs a bit of uplifting. Let’s see if we can’t help him out a bit.

The bad day to end all bad days had finally found him. Chris opened the door to his house, let his bags drop to the ground, and collapsed on the couch. The little vacation that sat eagerly awaiting him in his bedroom hid in the back of his mind all day through the torrential shitstorm he endured. Rising exhaustedly, he trudged toward his bedroom, each step leading him to decide whether or not to take the time off of work. The inconvenience would be pretty significant... but... Sometimes you just need a break from your world. 

He opened the door, and laying on his bed was his favourite vacation spot- Kai. Chris had found this empty hunk of a skinsuit on an impromptu visit to Los Angeles for a convention. Just laying there, “suntanning” on Laguna Beach. He knew immediately from the blank expression and flawless physique (as well as the subtle fleshtone zipper on his neck) that this was one of those skinsuits that he had heard of! Celebs and rich people use them to go out into public without being noticed, but he’d never seen one in person!

He didn’t think, he swiped up the bronzed babe and folded him neatly into his messenger bag. After a long flight home, and no shortage of irking in the back of his head, he rolled him out, letting him lounge seductively on the bed. There the suit sat for a few weeks, but after a day like this? Fuck yes- it was time for a vacation.

Chris stripped out of his work clothes, shucking them to the closet. He took hold of the zipper, and pulled downward. A gigantic burst of air escaped the hollow man, reeking of sweat and subtle hints of latex. Apparently, whoever his previous owner was, didn’t take considerable care of him- he didn’t smell washed. But oh well, sometimes you just gotta embrace the nastiness. He pulled him upright, sitting Kai on his lap. Skinsuits are notoriously heavy when not stowed- so as Kai’s tight, warm bubble butt sat on Chris’ lap... It was as if some beach boy walked right off the volleyball court and onto his growing bulge. He let out a shuddering sigh, enjoying every moment of holding the studly man, before he slipped his foot into the bodysuit.

When one enters a bodysuit for the first time, they will likely be surprised at the sensations. It is slick and sticky like lube, warm, and extremely malleable. So when Chris saw his foot beneath the tattooed, tan skin of Kai’s thigh, slowly moving downward toward the considerably larger toes, whatever sense of hesitation he had was quickly obliterated. With a stark shove, and a loud “schlick,” he felt his toes and foot slip into Kai’s. He wriggled his new toes, and ran his hands down the muscled thighs. Each touch was like a bombarding of sensory bliss, the sensitivity of the suit was incredible! Once his feet and legs were inside of Kai, to Chris, the line between suit and self was indistinguishable. He stood up, unused to the height and weight of his legs, and struggled to find his footing. He eventually found it, and tugged the groin over his own. 

Next skinsuit fun fact: genitalia is a pain in the ass. Pun intended. Adjusting your cock into the suit’s sheath is quite a task, as the suit is very tight against the skin of your thighs and ass at this point. So in Chris’ case, trying to stick his hands beneath his second skin to guide his raging boner into the flaccid, heavy, uncut cocksheath was a challenge. The slickness of the suit against his tip made him gasp and squirm, but after a few pelvic thrusts, he slipped in with a loud “slurp.” As one’s cock is united with the sheath, the linking typically overstimulates the cock, as the tightness, warmth, and throbbing of having their cock inside another oftentimes is overwhelming. Chris could barely pull back his foreskin without gasping from the sensitivity. He looked down at his muscular lower half, heart racing and member throbbing.

Eagerly, he slipped his arms and hands into the suit’s, letting them effortlessly slide on like gloves. The immense heaviness of his torso made his knees buckle, but he quickly became accustomed to it. He groped his meaty pecs, and squeezed his strong biceps. Kai was a piece of art in his own right, having a life story literally etched onto his skin- quite a useful little tidbit that cost the buyer an extra 30,000; but was an insanely arousing addition nonetheless.

Skinsuits sweat often, regulating the wearer’s heat from within, and preventing overheating. So as Chris ran his hands down Kai’s slick, sweaty muscles, it was as if these were his chiseled muscles, his calloused hands, his sticky pits, his musky toes... The ability of the suit to completely merge with the wearer was unparallelled, as he was about to experience firsthand. 

Chris nervously looked at the hollow head, and slowly pulled it down over his head. His thick head got caught in the neck cavity, as first time wearers often experience, but with a quick tug, and a juicy “shlip,” his head was propelled upward into the suit. His mind was immediately linked to Kai’s, the suit melding the body’s personality, memories, and mannerisms with Chris’ own; downloading the information if you will. So by the time ‘Kai’ took his first deep breath, he was no longer just Kai or just Chris. He was... Both!

“Yeahhh! Sick! This is what I call a vacation!” After taking a few HOURS to get to know his body, ‘Kai’ called their boss- assertively demanding a full three weeks of paid vacation, which his pusscake of a supervisor immediately caved at the might of his voice. He was on a plane to LA that night, ready to enjoy the sunbleached Pacific Coast in style- a MOST needed vacation from reality.

@realness365, Sorry for completely forgetting about this request. Super excited.

“Yo! Dude!” You stop, your simple jog in the park interrupted by some voice calling out to you. Turning to the left, you see a kid you’ve never seen before doing pull ups at the fitness park. This surprised you for a couple of reasons. Primarily, when you jogged this route the day before, there had been no fitness park. Secondary, his gym bag, haphazardly tossed next to the tree, had the unfamiliar name of Sunnmore University in big collegiate lettering. You’d lived in your town for a good long while now, and you didn’t know of any University popping up recently. Nervously, you call back.

“Yeah?” The jock drops from his pull up, sauntering over to you. Was he going to mug you? Berate you? The uncertainty of his intentions made his approach seem all the more ominous. Grasping the small canister of pepper spray you ironically bought the day before, you stood your ground, doing your best to suppress the sight of your increasing anxiety. Mere feet away from you, he finally came to a stop, his bulging muscles glistening with beads of sweat and the dirt of the park.

“Could you do me a favour and time me? I gotta do 100 pushups in 5 minutes for coach.” He hands you his phone, taking it upon himself to just plop down on the dry, dirt covered ground and get into a pushup position. Stunned, you awkwardly give a three second countdown and begin timing him.

20 pushups each minute. He swung up and down, up and down, as if it were nothing. At the halfway mark, he started to clap in between each dip, as you stared in awe of his energy and dexterity. Five minutes having past, he jumped up and snatched the phone out of your hands. With a quick thanks, he started back to his pull-up bar, when you stopped him.

“Hey, how the hell do you get that fit, dude? That was incredible!” He smiles and flexes a little, clearly putting on a show for his eager audience.

“Hard work and a little somethin’ somethin’. Why? You see something you like?” He flexes his biceps, sauntering back to you. He jovially places his hand on your shoulder, letting out a friendly laugh. “You wanna see?” Mesmerized, you nod in a lusty stupor, and he throws his sweaty arm around your shoulders, leading you over to his bag by the big sycamore tree. He ruffles through the bag for a minute, giving you a glimpse of lacrosse boots and uniforms. Eventually he pulls out a small, turquoise puck. At first, you think it’s a hair gel or paste, but when he opens it up, it’s a dark black lotion.

“Coach calls it Thermicore. It’s some weird company out in Estonia, but if it works, it works.” He hands you the puck, and you glance at the strange black lotion. It has no scent, and looks almost as if it has little crystals or grains inside it, like bits of sparking obsidian. “Hey, you wanna take a break from your little jog and try it out?” You consider walking away. You don’t know this kid, in fact, he’s the type of douchey college frat boy you intentionally distance yourself from. Yet, there was something about those sparkling beads of sweat, looking like he was covered in glistening diamonds, that made your heart fill with envy. Damn, if a kid with a body like this gives you advice, take it!

The overwhelming nervousness seems to melt away as you dip the tip of your finger into the Thermicore. Your spine tingles, and goosebumps erupt across your body: it’s cold. Unnaturally cold. Like just the little smidgen of it that graces your fingertip equates to an arctic polar plunge. The jockboy laughs at your obvious reluctance, before snatching the puck out of your hands. Cupping a copious amount of it, he strips you of your shirt, and begins to lather you with the paint-like lotion.You thought just a small amount of it was unbearably cold, now with it covering your body, unbearable was an understatement.

The thick, black goo, under the guiding hand of the still unintroduced jockboy, now covers your entire torso. Physically, it doesn’t make sense. He grabbed a good dollop, but not enough to cover your entire upper body! Further, as you look down at your belly, it begins to disappear. Or, rather, seep into you. It is an invasive, confusing, yet strangely titillating tingle that overtakes your senses. In seconds, every single pore had absorbed the dense slime.

“Aight, bro, come on! Gotta get started before it kicks in!” Your arm is nearly tugged out of socket as the jock drags you to the pull up bar. Effortlessly, he jumps up and goes rep after rep of chin ups. Feeling minorly empowered, you leap up and grab the bar, and struggle to pull your body up to the corrugated metal bar. Grunting, moaning, and panting, you manage to pull your chin to the base of the bar. One down, ten to go. Yet, as you hung there like a strung up shark, a sudden flash of heat struck you. Just a momentary burst of energy, enough for you to do your second rep, much easier than before. Chin up, burst of heat. Chin up, explosion of energy. In no time, you had brushed ten reps off like it was nothing. You had worked up quite a sweat in the process, as the Thermicore kicks into gear and heats your body up- an all natural sauna.

Feeling the need to just hit the ground and smash out some pushups, you drop from the bar and go to town, feeling as if the earth was moving under your powerful hands. Sweat began to trickle down your sides, down your arms, down your chest like little rivers flowing to your toes. The dirt beneath your fingers combined with the dripping sweat, pooling into a puddle. Damn, you are sweating like a beast! Pulsating waves crash over your throbbing muscles, as you push up, and down.

You flip over onto your back, throwing your thick, muscled arms around the back of your head. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Each rep crunching your abs, strengthening your core, creating that washboard six pack you always wanted. Your shirt clings to your bulging pecs, and rippled torso, drenched in sweat.

The jock extends his hand to help you up, which you take in exhilarating zeal. He hands you your phone, which you haphazardly left at the campus gym the day before. Smiling, you put in your earbuds, and listen to coach’s soothing voice caress all your troubles away. Reps, after that, seemed seconds apart, accomplished at the slightest ease. Burpees. Jumping Jacks. Windmills. High Knees. Squats. A full body workout intense enough to down Arnold Schwarzenegger passed by in the blink of an eye. Your bro limped over, clearly exhausted from the amazing progress he made.

“Yo, dude. I’mma head home. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow!” You wave goodbye to your captain, and start jogging to catch your train back to campus. Just barely making it, you plop down on the seat, knowingly ignoring the studying glances of the girls seated adjacent to you. A star Lax bro is used to attention like that, nothing a nice Playboy and your fleshlight can’t handle. Besides, coach wants you to keep focused for the game. Only then can you slam some tail. In the meantime, you gotta go pick up your puck of Thermicore, can’t get swole without it.

Now we head up north for some Frosty wintertime fun!

The lights flickered on in the locker room, and Paul was immediately assaulted by the smell. That rank, powerful stench called hockeymusk that he was so aversed to. It offended him. Deeply. Just being in the locker room of those chauvinistic, cis-gendered pigs made him furious. See, Paul was something of a social justic warrior. Not the kind that would go out and fight for the homeless, oppressed, or misunderstood. He was the SJW that demanded the great Red American Revolution, thinking himself a nouveau Lenin. What was the cause this time? Sports.

Evidently sports caused a hierarchical class system that placed the well-abled above the common man, and it oppressed the weak of the populus. Welp, it had to go. His plan was to sneak into the local hockey team’s locker room, and destroy all their gear, making it impossible for them to play the next day.

However, the actual task was proving to rather more difficult than he expected, as the famously rancid hockeymusk defiled his nostrils. He needed to get the job done and get out of there. Heading over to the trophy case, he picked up a helmet, and smashed the glass; medals and golden cups fell like rain to the ground, landing in a pathetic pile at it’s base. Paul smiled as the graffitied the newly painted walls, and doused the fresh carpet with red paint. 

He had nearly become accustomed to the stench of the room, until he was about to smash the benches and stalls. Something caught his eye. It was a pair of skates. They just sat there, innocently, one leaning against the other next to the bench. A strange aura wafted about them, as if a semi-visible gas surrounded them, translucent. His rage and fury bubbled as he approached the skates; his hatred of the patriarchy and toxic masculinity was all to be focused on this one very symbolic representation of Hockey. 

A bic lighter in hand, and a little bottle of kerosene would do the trick, and he would have some flaming skates to hang above the soon to be melted arena. What a revolutionary idea. His arrogance and self-righteousness swelled within him as picked up a skate and flicked his lighter. Yet, he stared at the black and white skate, transfixed. Something about it made him shudder and stay his hand.

It was the wafting aura: it was Hockeymusk! Literally steaming from the still warm skate. Getting a huge whiff of the miasma, he dropped the bic lighter and covered his nose, in a futile attempting to shield himself from it’s strength. He tried to toss the skate across the room, but his grip tightened it’s hold on the blade. To his horror, he was bringing it closer to his face.

He couldn’t hold his breath forever, and eventually the need for air overtook him. He gasped and let in the foul odor of 1000 games, each one more sweaty than the last. It was hypnotic in a way, for one smell was not enough. He found himself burying his face in the skate, savoring each grimy inhalation of sweaty foot stench. His head began to spin, and his vision fogged. He knew the Hockeymusk was within him now, he knew there was no going back.

In a musk-fueled haze, the vision of the ice rink in the distance called to Paul, beckoning for a new player. He looked at the warm, stinking skate and it’s twin, grinning softly. Surely, the owner wouldn’t mind him borrowing them for a quick loop around the rink. Slowly and tenderly, he stripped his clothes; article by article feeling the tension and repulsion within him be suppressed. So when he stood there, in the clothing God had bestowed upon him, his confusion reach it’s fever pitch.

To the left of the skates were the sopping wet socks, stinking, mixed with melted ice and filthy footsweat. Sliding his foot into the hot, slick sock, an electrical sensation surged throughout his body. He pulled the large sock on, then the next. Wriggling his toes, it was an incredible dissociation from himself. For the first time, he noticed these weren’t his feet. They didn’t belong to him. He found the stained, off-white jockstrap atop the heap of gear, pulling it into place. The warm, slick, cheesy fabric of the well-loved jock cupped him snugly, filling him with a sense of support. It was as if the jock gifted him the erotic sensation of his cock grinding against it’s delicious filth. He rubbed the growing bulge within the cotton sac, and felt the sweat and cock cheese mingle with his formerly clean cock. 

A second electrical surge sent chills down his spine, as he increased his speed. Faster and faster in pace, he grasped each and every article of gear. Pads, cups, jersey, pants, each one giving the same electric shock of the former, and overpowering his sensations with it’s strong, damp smell. 

His peripherals caught the mirror in the distance, within which an unfamiliar man stood. A man in transition, whom had lost his way and was slowing coming back to his destiny. Sitting on the bench, he grabbed the catalyst to his transformation, slipping them onto his feet. The skates welcomed his rank feet home, a long-awaited homecoming. The man slipped on his helmet, his identity lost somewhere in the manstench-filled haze in his mind. 

He made his way to the rink, the glistening ice glowed dimly in the poorly lit arena. One step onto the ice, and a surge of warmth filled him. He was home. One lap around the rink, he felt new life and power surge throughout him. Two laps, he felt the hidden master within him take over. Three laps, he inhaled one last deep breath as Paul, and welcomed Marius Halvorson, the Swedish prospect the team had just recruited.

Marius exhaled his first breath, smirking as he skidded back to the box. His teammates were just beginning to wander in for the final practice before the game that night. In his heart, Marius knew he was a reborn man, and he vowed then and there on that ice rink that he’d live it to the fullest.

So if you’re ever in the vicinity of a MHL game, and see a sexy young Swede kicking ass on the ice, flirting with his fans in the stands, showing off after every goal he makes. Be sure to hit him up after the winning game, he’s sure to show you the ropes.

Let’s get some of that Laguna Beach, California heat in this frigid time of year. :)

Jake Rathbone. My God, Jake Rathbone. How do I describe him? The perfect human being? A God among men? The envy of the universe? That’s inadequate. He is flawless. And he will be all mine. He made me pick up skateboarding. He made me shop at Pac Sun & Zumiez. I saw him drink a Rockstar Xdurance once, so I started drinking Rockstar Xdurance. 

Now I know what you’re thinking: you’re going a bit overboard, Tim. But you don’t understand, Jake Rathbone is my idol. It’s like the universe put us on the same planet just to bring us together. Here’s the problem, though: Jake is a superstar. That presents it’s own obstacles to making him my perfect husband. He’s surrounded 24/7 by his freeloading entourage, and it makes it nearly impossible to get close. 

So, what’s a poor kid of 41 from Newark, New Jersey to do? Well, thanks to a mysterious package, a plan hatched in my head. 

It started when this tiny little envelope was dropped off by UPS. It was addressed to me, from some Doctor from New Orleans. Snow? Frost? Something like that. Anyway, I didn’t recognize it, but curiosity got the best of me, so I opened it. When I first looked at it, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. It looked almost like a decal. One of those plastic stickers you put on car windows and laptop covers. It looked like a viking symbol of some sort, with strange runes around it. Also in the envelope was a cardstock letter from the mysterious sender.

“Dear Sir or Madame, Congratulations on being the first to test our new product, the TømmeRegalia. Imported straight from the mystic fjords of Norway, this unique item allows you to truly step into someone’s shoes. Wondering what we mean? Place the decal on a friend (or foe) and watch the magic and wonder. This is a controlled product release, so please, keep this to yourself. Enjoy, Dr. W.A. Frost Crescent City Trading Company”

Now, to the unimaginative eye, this seems like quite the scam. However, I could see through the doubt. This was the real deal. I looked at the black decal, and immediately tossed it into my messenger bag. I packed my bags and took the first redeye flight to L.A. It was time for me and my beloved to finally unite.

Stepping off the plane, and into the Uber, I meticulously planned my strategy. The ride from LAX to Laguna Beach was a long one, so I had plenty of time. I knew that Jake would be at the Laguna Beach Skatepark for a competition. I also knew he’d be surrounded once again by his damn lackeys. However, there was one opportunity of respite. At exactly 2:25 PM, Paramount Studios would reveal the first trailer for their Star Wars/Star Trek/Stargate/Firefly crossover movie, and ALL eyes would be on that. At that time, all the skaters would head to the trainer to get their muscles worked on. I’d have an extremely small pocket of time between Jake entering the tent, and the trainer entering. That was the plan. 

An hour and a half passed, and the notorious LA traffic proved to be much worse than I anticipated. As 2:25 creeped closer and closer, I needed to think about plan B. Well, I didn’t realize that until I arrived at the park. Thus, Plan B was improvising. 

I paid the ABSURD $180 ticket price, and walked into the park just as the current contender was finishing. To my delight, shredding the half pipe was Jake Rathbone in the flesh. And I mean it when I say “the flesh.” His sparkling, sweaty pecs and abs were on full display, just as I knew that cocky little Adonis would. I watched him fly through the air, spinning and landing the most amazing aerials I’ve ever seen. He had to be mine.

The loud screaming of the foghorn signaled the end of his event, and Jake effortlessly landed on solid ground; immediately flanked by his entourage. I realized immediately that I would never get Jake alone. Yet, the universe struck again, as I noticed one of his little cronies break off from the group, running toward the concession stands. He was no Jake Rathbone, but he was cute enough. Shirtless, he was impressive, with one adorable smile. I thought, yeah, he’ll do.

Seizing the opportunity, I slithered through the crowd toward the kid, pushing past edgy teens and millennial burnouts alike. Decal prepped and ready on the palm of my hand, by the time the cutie realized it, I had already slapped the black symbol on his sweaty bare shoulder. He let out a loud gasp, and stumbled backward, spilling some girl’s lemonade all over him.

“Oh God, you okay, bud?” His eyes fluttered, becoming distant. “Hey, I’ll take you to a bench. You oughta sit down.” I tossed his arm around my shoulder, taking in that youthful pit musk brewing in the California sun, and nearly dragged him to a small patch of shrubbery behind the port-o-potties. With each step, his body became lighter, easier to carry. By the time I dropped him on the ground, he was completely hollow.

I’m telling you I never stripped so quick in my life. I stood there, my chalky white beer gut and grey chest hair seeing the light of day for the first time in decades. I was twice the size of this little stud. It would be a tight squeeze.

I lifted his skin, still slick and warm with musky sweat, and looked for the port of entry. Smirking, I pulled down his damp cotton shorts and stared eagerly at his firm ass. A guilty sniff and some probing later, I took my time stretching his hole open. One arm, two arms... As I slipped more of my fat body into his, I could feel his skin stretching, distorting. The sound of his slick, empty body giving way to mine was almost orgasmic; slurping, creaking, squeaking, and bubbling. 

My arms finally found their way into his, and after that, it was easy-peasy. All I had to do was tug and pull. All said and done, it took 15 minutes to slip inside this bro. Adjusting my face like a mask, I began to take his memories. Quinn. My new name was Quinn. I’d known Jake since childhood. We are best friends. 

I opened my new brown eyes to immediate sensory overload. I could see 20/20. My hearing was better than it had been for years. I smelled the delicious sweaty musk pouring out of my sweaty pits & groin. Fuck, being Quinn was gonna be fun. To make a good situation even better, who should show up but Jake Rathbone, looking for his missing friend.

“Yo! You good? A bunch of people saw you pass out.” I flashed a million dollar smile, and grabbed my idol’s extended hand. 

“Fuck yeah, dude. Just needed a little snooze.” Jake raised an eyebrow, but eventually led me back to the competition. Completely unaware of what’s beneath Quinn’s sweaty, glistening skin; and I was going to take full advantage. I had forever to be with Jake. I’d be at his side day in and day out. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll put my new sexy body to good use. Jake gets so exhausted after skating. He might need a foot massage. Or a back massage. Or a little... cock massage.

There’s nothing more amazing than having possessed a body. Being dead gets kinda fuckin’ awful, bruh. You’re floating around, looking at others live their lives, knowing you’d live it better... I mean, that’s Emilio! Look at him. He’s got so much potential, and he’d rather be taking fuckin’ filter selfies on Instagram for his 300 followers. If only he’d have hit the gym for a few years, joined the football team... Woulda been a whole different story. He wouldn’t have needed my help. But, I mean, I can’t complain. Profits flow upward, bruh. I’m in charge now, so I get the gold.

Let’s see if I still got it, aight? Very important to reblog or like if you enjoyed it. 

Jamie walked through the doors of the UFC gym and sat down on a bench, waiting for Alex to come out. For years, Alex had been a shut-in, shy nerd who spent days on the computer; it drove his father nuts. Jamie reminisced of all the times neighborhood kids came to the house, asking for Alex to come outside and play, and every time being sent away sans Alex. Even years later, as a college student, he never once left his room outside of the occasional class. Jamie looked up into the ring with pride, as his reinvented son dominated his opponent, immediately pinning him to the ground. 

You see, one dreary September day, Jamie had had enough of Alex’s lethargy. Convincing his son that a gaming convention was in town, Alex needed no coaxing to rush to his father’s Mercedes. However, when he pulled up next to Iron Sweat Martial Arts, he nearly walked home. But after being promised whatever DLC he dreamed of, Alex reluctantly relented. Jamie drove away, as Alex walked in the doors and shook hands with Chuck, the owner. Six short hours later, Alex was unrecognizable. Jamie studied his son, now lean and packed with muscle, his greasy mop top now shaved off to a clean, mess free cut. His yellow taped hands pushed forcefully on his pinned opponent, full of power and might.

His opponent having tapped out, Alex pulled him up, and embraced him in a half hug. Jamie had never seen his son interact with others, let alone embrace someone. Alex sprang over the side of the ring, landing on his huge feet. Dripping with sweat, and stinking of testosterone, he ran toward his father, pulling him into a hug. He effortlessly lifted all 240 lbs of Jamie, and placed him back down onto the ground.

“Dad, I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me. I mean, look at me!” Alex spread his arms out, flexing his strong pecs and chiseled abs. “I’m a new person! I feel like I can conquer the fucking world!” Jamie, with watery eyes placed his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“My god, Alex. What happened?” Alex turned for only a moment, before handing his dad a pair of black boxing gloves. “What are these for?” Alex smiled and playfully punched Jamie’s shoulder.

“C’mon lemme show you what happened. Put em on and get in the ring.” Jamie stared at his son in hesitation, but the joy and spark in his son’s eyes was something he hadn’t ever seen before. It was too much to disappoint him. He looked down at the black gloves, warm from recent use. He slid his hands into the gloves, slick and wet with sweat. A shiver ran down his spine, as Alex pulled the cables apart and led his father into the ring. Alex gleefully jumped back and forth, full of a contagious, energetic spirit. 

“Okay, dad, now just watch me and try to do what I’m doing.” Alex slowly and methodically punched the air, watching for his father to repeat his movements. Jamie awkwardly watched and repeated, before he felt a rhythm within him. 1...2...3...4... 1...2...3...4... Each extension of his arm, surges of strength radiated down his biceps and into his curled fingers. Alex watched with bated breath as he witnessed his father’s flabby arms begin to firm and tighten. The sleeves of his polo shirt had stretched to capacity, and had begun to tear.

Next, Alex kicked straight out with his right leg, his massive sole parallel to his body. This was particularly difficult for Jamie, as he could only raise his leg so far. Though, the more he did it, the higher it lifted. His gut melted away with every kick; quads, hamstrings, and calves bulked and spasmed, growing in strength. His feet burst from his wingtip shoes, the streams of leather falling like confetti to the ground. 

Finally, as the tattered remains of his clothes fell from his sweaty, glistening body, Alex knew it was the final moments of what used to be his father. Alex rushed Jamie, throwing a punch right past his cheek. Dodging it by seconds, Jamie smirked at his new opponent, surprising him with an uppercut. Taking it on the fun, Alex smiled joyfully as the two sparred. For a good 20 minutes, the evenly matched pair fought blissfully, laughing and sweating together. In the final seconds of the match, Alex flew into a jumpkick. His foot collided with Jamie’s rock hard chest, as he flew against the post. The force of the collision slammed his head into the padding, and within moments, he sat slumped on the ground. 

Alex smiled, and offered his hand to his defeated opponent. With a hearty chuckle greeting him, the sexy, cocky, and youthful glance of a new and improved Jamie brought a cheeky grin to his face. 

“Got me this one time, bitch. But I’ll get ya next time.” Alex pulled his best friend to his feet, a familiar athletic musk wafting from his sweat-glistening body. Jamie tightened his gloves in his typically flirtatious manner, biting and pulling. “Down for round two, bro?”

For the amazing @amalianetwork, on the special occasion of his twenty second birthday. :)

“My god, haha! Look at me, bro!” Your friend spoke with an unfamiliar lush and velvety voice. Demarcus stood laughing uncontrollably at his abrupt transformation. The mystic boardshorts glowed a bright flourescent green, as he flexed his new ebony muscles. A stirring in your pants brought you back to earth. You walked up to him, flabbergasted, and felt the muscles under his beautiful black skin: strong and shiny as diamonds. “I told you it’d work!” He grasped you in a bear hug, his newfound height aided him significantly in raising you a foot off the ground.

“You mean, your aunt wasn’t joking? She really is a voodoo queen?” Demarcus dropped you onto the ground, your bum landing hard on the old wooden floors. An eyebrow raised, he crosses his arms, waiting for you to finally concede. “Alright. Fine. You were right, I was wrong. Now gimme the damn briefs!” He smiled that joyful grin, and spun around, rummaging through his backpack. You plopped backwards onto the bed, head spinning. Moments ago, Demarcus was the shortest and lankiest guy in the gym. It seemed fitting that you two were drawn together. From your perch on the elliptical machines, you two longingly gazed at the penultimate goal: bulging biceps, thick calves, abs pulsating through the tight under armour shirts. So, when Demarcus dropped the fact that his aunt claimed she was a voodoo queen, and she was in town, you two had made a bet. Either she was legitimate, or she was not.

“Here ya go, brutha. Try them on for size.” Tossing you the damp compression shorts, he lounged against his old wooden desk, now dwarfed by his incredible stature. You didn’t believe in such ridiculous hooplah. But, here was the proof! Standing before you! Demarcus looked as if he was inflated with a bike pump, muscles bulging from every ounce of his being. It seemed second nature to swipe the clothes from the fittest guy in the locker room, albeit a bit creepy, but to sprinkle the strange grey dust on it? And then to sport the oversized and filthy workout gear? Absolutely ridiculous.

Yet, as you held the moist and fragrant undergarment in your hand, an uncontrollable thirst overtook you. The curiosity of your end destination. The lust for a perfect body. The overall alluring nature of the situation... It was too much. You had to at least try.

You tossed off your pants and boxers, and slipped on the sweat-moist compression shorts. A patch of particular wetness at your balls made you shiver. Being so close to another man, his sweat literally on you. You took a deep breath. Demarcus watched impatiently for you to inflate with muscle as he did minutes before, but was instantly disappointed. Nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. You sat there, holding the XL compression shorts around your waist, looking like a complete dumbass. Just when you were about to slip them off, you felt a rumbling in your stomach. Demarcus grinned that shiteating grin as a bubbling sound emitted from your stomach. As if being stretched like taffy, your torso grew and stretched, while your legs followed suit. In seconds, you had grown to a substantial 6′6: just a touch above Demarcus.

The grumbling sound, sounding similar to gas flowing through your bowels, only grew louder, as you felt tightness and pinpricks all across your body.

“It’s working! It’s working dude!” Demarcus’ shorts tented as you began to inflate. Slowly at first, but steadily growing in vivacity and pace. It felt as if every muscle in your entire body was spasming simultaneously, locking your body in place. Sweat poured from your expanding skin, as if to lube itself to stretch even further. Until this moment, Demarcus had expected this outcome; however, he would soon witness something he did not expect. Your skin began to darken and tan, hair curling quick as lightning into tight, skintight curls. Stubble burst from your chin and upper lip, all the way down to your pronounced adams apple. A tattoo sprawled out across your upper arm of Jesus, and across your back spelled the words “unlimited.”

You opened your dark brown eyes, now at eye level with Demarcus. His expression was momentarily indescribable, eventually settling on excitement. You felt heavier, as if you had fifty pound weights tied to your ankles and wrists. Your knees buckled, and you collapsed under your own weight into his arms. 

“Fuck, bruh. It’ll take a minute to get used to the weight.” Within seconds, you rose again, feeling empowered and lithe. The sensation of twelve red bulls wouldn’t come close to the energy you experienced. Demarcus opened the door to his closet, exposing the full length mirror within. You were shell shocked at what you saw.

A beautiful man stood before you, unrecognizable. He stood an adonis, his musculature and build unsurpassed by any magazine model. From your impossibly handsome face to your gigantic musky feet, you were a perfect specimen of masculinity.

“Lookin’ good, bruh. Gonna need a new name. Guess I poured a lil’ too much of that dust on your shorts bruh, you don’t even look at all like you used to. A completely different person!” With a confident stride toward the mirror, and strong pose, you uttered your new first words:

“Im Jamal, Demarcus. Your new roommate. And we’re late for training.”