#tf req

You open the package with your hands sweating, and inside you find only a pair of red boxer briefs. You pick them up and immediately feel that something is off: they don’t smell new, they carry a warm, humid, human scent, as if someone had already worn them for hours. You drop them onto the bed, say “I’ll never wear these,” but then you think about the money, the reagents, the cancer—and you put them on.

At first, nothing. Just the fabric, loose, too loose, and a warmth rising from your waist like a fever. Then the tingling begins. Inside your muscles. You look down and see the boxers filling out: your thighs are swelling, your quadriceps pushing against the red fabric like they’re carved from marble. You stand up and walk to the mirror. Your arms—your biceps grow as you watch, the curve rising, rounding out, becoming hard as stone, veins surfacing thick and dark like ropes. You touch them—they’re warm, pulsing. Your shoulders widen, you feel your bones crack, and your chest—God, your chest: two round, heavy, solid masses pressing your shirt until it tears at the shoulders. You stand there in front of the mirror, fabric hanging in shreds, staring at a body you’ve never seen before: wide shoulders, massive chest, eight carved abs, a damp lock of hair falling over your forehead. You’re big. You’re built.

Then you feel something under the red boxers: pressure, lengthening, heat rising from deep inside. Your penis is growing, stretching longer, thicker, heavier. You look down and the red fabric tightens, bulges, lifts like a tent. The erection comes hard, unstoppable, the tip dampening the cloth.

You grab your phone. You don’t speak. You open the camera. Framing your body in the mirror, you slide a hand over your hard chest, fingers pressing into the flesh, reaching a nipple, rubbing it, pinching it. A shock shoots from your chest straight down. The other nipple, the same. Your hands move to your biceps, you flex them in front of the camera—they swell, huge, as big as your head, veins throbbing as you squeeze and feel their hardness. Then down to your stomach, your fingers tracing each of your abs, one by one, down to the waistband of the red boxers. You pull it, release it. Finally your hand presses over your penis through the fabric, feeling the hardness, the shape, the damp heat, your fingers moving slowly up and down. Your breathing grows heavy, ragged. A low sound escapes you. You stop. You post. The money starts coming in.

Then the itching. Under your skin. You look at your forearm: dark hairs pushing through, one after another, growing in real time—short at first, then longer, coarse, thick. Your chest: hair sprouts around your nipples, then a dark line trailing down to your navel. Your stomach: those perfect abs now covered by a dense layer of dark hair. Your legs: thick, dark hair spreading over your thighs. Your back: a carpet rising from your lower back to your shoulders. Your armpits: dense, damp, already carrying a musky scent. Your beard: spreading across your jaw, your chin, thick and rough, fully grown.

And your muscles keep growing, slowly, deeply. Your biceps swell further, your pecs expand, stretching the hairy skin, your shoulders broaden even more, your neck thickens. You are huge. A wall of muscle and hair. And beneath the red boxers, your size has grown again—still hard, still damp.

You go live. You don’t speak. You frame your hairy chest, running a hand through the dark hair, stroking it, tugging lightly. A low sound. Your hand moves to your beard, fingers sinking into the thick hair of your face. Then lower: you grip the red fabric, pull it slightly down—just enough to reveal the start of your dark, thick body hair—then let it snap back. Your hand presses over the tight fabric again, feeling the pulse beneath, moving slowly up and down. The damp lock of hair on your forehead, the dark beard, your large, hairy body trembling slightly. Messages flood in, money rises.

You don’t think about the cancer anymore. You don’t think about anything.

You’re big. You’re hairy. You’re hard.

It was a hot summer day. I, my cousin Jack, and our uncle Bill were on a road trip in an old truck. Bill, a solid but kind man, drove carefully, his large hands gripping the wheel firmly. Jack, a 23-year-old man, tall and muscular, sat next to him, while I, at 22 years old, was in the back, trying to find a comfortable spot among the bags.We were heading to the beach, a journey that promised fun and relaxation. After hours of driving, Bill stopped at a truck stop that seemed abandoned. The place was eerie, with faded signs and rusted fuel pumps. The cracked asphalt and heavy air made it feel like a forgotten corner of the world. Around it, massive trucks were parked, and huge, hairy truckers wandered aimlessly.Bill turned off the engine without a word and walked toward the men. Jack and I, slightly uneasy, stayed in the truck, watching the scene. The men had rough faces and piercing eyes. Some smoked cigars, others spoke softly, and all seemed to watch us with curiosity.Bill started chatting with a few of them, and soon one offered him a cigar. Bill, who was usually against smoking, hesitated for a moment, then took the cigarette. As he inhaled, something incredible began to happen. His already robust physique swelled further, muscles growing larger and more defined. His arms became thick, his biceps bulging with raw power. A thick layer of dark hair spread across his chest, arms, and back, adding to his imposing presence. His face morphed, features broadening and hardening into a more rugged look. His jawline sharpened, and a wild, dark beard grew thick around his face, almost untamed. His clothes, once snug but fitting, now strained against his expanding form, the fabric stretching over his new bulk. His shirt, already torn at the seams, was now a tight, faded piece of fabric barely holding on. Even his demeanor shifted. The once cautious and disciplined Bill was now replaced with a gruff, carefree man who smirked with a rugged, almost predatory charm. In just a few minutes, Bill had transformed completely into one of them: a real trucker—big, tough, and unapologetic, with a beer belly, a wild grin, and a presence that commanded respect.

After completing the transformation, Bill returned to the truck with a strange smile. He offered us a cigar, but Jack and I firmly refused. He laughed, a deep and raspy laugh, and returned to the group of truckers.Fear gripped us. It felt like a nightmare. We needed to leave, but first, I had to use the bathroom. I gathered my courage and stepped out of the truck, heading toward the dilapidated building. As I walked, I felt an intense sense of unease, as if I were being watched.Suddenly, Bill appeared behind me, transformed into the trucker he had become. With his new deep voice, he ordered me to stop. At the same time, I heard Jack scream from the truck. His voice, raw with pain, echoed through the air. Bill had forced him to smoke, and the transformation was taking hold. Jack’s body began to grow, his muscles swelling and becoming more defined by the second. His chest expanded, his arms thickened, veins bulging as his once slender frame now looked like a force of nature. A thick, dark blonde hair spread rapidly across his body, covering his chest, arms, and even creeping up his neck. His face contorted, features hardening, and his jawline became more chiseled. A full, dark blonde beard emerged, covering half of his face, completing his terrifying, powerful new look. He was no longer the man I knew—he had completely transformed.

Inside the bathroom, horror reached its peak. A giant tattooed man, with a filthy long beard, stood leaning against the sink. When he saw me, he smiled and blew a cloud of smoke directly into my face. I couldn’t react. The smoke entered me, wrapping around me like an invisible weight. I tried to spit it out, but I couldn’t. It was trapped in my throat, my lungs, as if it had become part of me, unable to be released. A burning sensation shot through my body, and I felt my body surrendering to an incredible force.My muscles began to swell, my biceps and triceps exploded, revealing a mass of defined muscles. My chest became broad and muscular, while a thick, black hair started to cover my body. My skin grew rough and thick, and a long, wild beard sprouted quickly on my face. I looked in the mirror and saw a larger, more imposing version of myself. My body was completely different now—muscular, hairy, tattooed and with a rugged, wild appearance.

You returned home after work, like every evening. The street was the same, the streetlights just flickering on, the asphalt still warm. And yet, that alley—you had never noticed it before. Narrow, dark, with a single crackling neon sign: Esoterica – Rare Objects.

Driven by a curiosity that didn’t entirely feel like yours, you stepped inside.

It smelled of old incense and dust from distant worlds. The owner, a man with slow gestures and eyes as clear as glass, watched you without hurry.

— Looking for something you don’t yet know you want? — he asked.

You didn’t answer. But your gaze fell on a velvet-lined case, deep red, and inside it lay a ring. It looked like ancient gold, thick and heavy. The old man handed it to you without asking.

— It’s the Ring of Substances. It takes what you are and trades it for what you see. Every exchange is irreversible. Be careful who you look at.

You put it on. It fit perfectly, warm like living flesh.

That evening, at home, you scrolled aimlessly on your phone. An old classmate had posted a group photo. And there, in the middle, was him: your high school bully. You hadn’t seen him in years. Time had been kind to him.

In the picture, he was at a pool party, standing near the edge. He wore only a pair of red boxer briefs, tight and low on his hips. His body had changed: broad shoulders, a right arm covered entirely in tattoos of dragons and flames, sculpted abs, full chest. His dark mullet fell to the nape of his neck, his expression confident, almost arrogant. He smiled like the world owed him something.

You stopped to look at him. Not out of envy. Out of anger. Old humiliation. That secret desire to have his body, his presence, his boldness.

The ring tightened slightly.

A warm shock started from your ring finger, climbed your wrist, spread like mercury beneath your skin. Not pain. Just a deep pressure, fibers shifting, tendons realigning. You felt your shoulders broaden on their own. Your arms grow heavier. Your hands larger. Your jaw changing shape.

You ran to the bathroom.

You looked at yourself in the mirror and held your breath.

You weren’t you anymore.

You were him. The dark mullet brushed your neck. Your left arm was covered in the same dragon-and-flame tattoos. Your chest was hard, defined, your nipples small and dark. Your abs stood out, one by one. And the red boxer briefs—something you had never owned—now clung to you like a second skin.

Ti sei girata di lato. Hai visto la curva dei tuoi glutei, sodi e rotondi, stretti dal tessuto rosso aderente. Hai flesso un braccio: il bicipite si è gonfiato, i tatuaggi si sono estesi sulla pelle.

You touched your new face. The square chin. The high cheekbone. The smooth forehead.

— This is the body of the one who made me suffer — you whispered.

But the voice was different. Deeper. Fuller.

You ran a hand through the longer hair at the back of your neck. The sensation was strange: silky, heavy. Then you looked at that hand—tattooed, veined, strong.

And you smiled. For the first time in years.

You left the house that night. You walked differently. Every step pulsed through your calves. The red boxers under your jeans were a promise. People glanced at you sideways. You pretended not to notice.

But inside, a small voice whispered: You took his body. Now who’s the bully?

L'anello brillava.

---

Il giorno dopo, un parco che non avevi mai visitato. Una panchina di legno sotto un platano. E lì, seduto con un braccio appoggiato allo, un uomo sulla trentina. Non aveva la stazza del tuo bullo, ma era scolpito: addominali perfetti, petto pieno e, su tutto, una folta chioma di capelli scuri e morbidi, quasi selvaggi. Sembrava riposare, ma ogni respiro faceva ondeggiare i capelli come erba al vento.

You sat on another bench, at a distance. The ring didn’t need proximity. Just looking at him with desire was enough.

The second shock was less violent, but deeper.

You felt the muscles in your chest merge and reshape, your nipples darken, grow larger. Then an itch everywhere: abdomen, sternum, shoulders, even your lower back. A layer of hair was growing beneath your shirt, smooth and warm.

Ti sei alzato, hai camminato fino a una fontana e ti sei chinato per guardare il tuo riflesso nell'acqua immobile. Il taglio di capelli a triglia era ancora lì. Anche i tatuaggi. Ma ora il tuo torso era una fitta macchia di seta scura. Hai infilato una mano sotto la camicia e l'hai tirata fuori: le tue dita portavano l'odore di muschio, di un corpo maschile vivo.

You stroked your stomach. The hair bent under your fingers, rough but yielding. Beneath it, your abs were stone hard. Your left pectoral twitched on its own.

Sulla panchina, lo sconosciuto si grattò distrattamente il petto. E tu ti rendesti conto che quella sensazione – i peli contro il palmo della mano, il calore che si accumulava sotto nell'aria fresca – ora era tua.

---

But it still wasn’t complete.

You decided you wanted more. Not a young man’s body, not a thirty-year-old’s. You wanted presence. You wanted dominance. You wanted something that would stop people in their tracks without needing tattoos or poses.

So you went to a gym.

Not the usual one, filled with kids in crossfit gloves. You chose an old one, on the outskirts, where the air smelled of rubber and sweat and steel. Where real men trained.

You sat on a bench press, pretending interest in a barbell. And then you saw him.

He was in the cable corner, alone. A very muscular man, older. Around fifty, but the kind shaped by a lifetime in his body. Shoulders like a wardrobe, arms thick as thighs, forearms lined with bulging veins. Hair everywhere: chest, shoulders, back, even his hands. A full beard, gray at the chin, still dark at the sides. But his head—barely any hair, shaved close, what remained gray and coarse like wire.

He was pulling low cables with animal focus. Every movement slow, controlled, unintentionally threatening.

He didn’t speak to anyone. But the air around him was different: heavier, slower. The others—even the big ones—gave him space.

You stared at him. The ring vibrated like a running engine.

And then came the third shock. The strongest.

You felt your bones creak, widen. Your shoulders compress upward. Your ribcage expand. Your neck thicken, shorten, your jaw harden. Something in your scalp: the mullet hair fell away in seconds. Not baldness. A natural shave. What remained was short, gray, dense stubble, like an old soldier’s or a woodsman’s.

The body hair exploded: from your chest it spread over your shoulders, down your back, curling along your forearms. You felt it sprout between your toes, across your ribcage, even around your nipples, now large as coins.

The bully’s tattoos? Faded, warped, almost gone. Your thicker, darker skin had swallowed them.

Hai visto il tuo riflesso nella porta di vetro scuro della palestra. Niente taglio di capelli a coda di rondine. Niente tatuaggi vistosi. Niente boxer rossi.

There was a man. Hairy. Massive. With short gray hair and a gaze that would make anyone look away.

You moved an arm. Heavy. Solid. A controlled tremor in the muscles, like steel cables under flesh and fur. Then you inhaled: your chest rose, and the hair rubbed softly against itself.

The man in the corner had finished his set. He wiped his nearly bald head with a towel and walked out without looking at you. He didn’t need to anymore.

You were the original now.

You went home without hurry. The stairs felt narrower. The door smaller. You entered, sat on the bed. The mattress felt like a feather. You weighed twice as much.

You stood, went to the bathroom, and stared at yourself for a long time.

The bully was gone. The hairy man from the park was inside you, fused into this final body. Now you were yourself: broad shoulders, short gray hair, full beard, hair everywhere, a gaze heavy as lead.

You ran a hand over your shaved head. The sensation was rough, warm, masculine. Then over your chest: your fingers sank into the thick fur and you shivered.

You were alone. But your solitude now weighed like a throne.

The ring was still on your finger. Warm. Quiet. There was no need to seek other bodies anymore.

You sat in the chair by the window, crossed your hairy arms over your chest, and looked down at the street. People passed by. Someone below glanced up and met your eyes—then quickly looked away.

You smiled. Slowly.

The arcade is loud, full of lights and sounds. We are here as friends, like always. Me, twenty-one years old, slim, short dark hair. Him, a few years older, slim too, with slightly curly red hair. We laugh, joke, nothing special.

Then he pushes me. As a joke. For fun. I stumble, my hand hits the machine. The button lights up.

🇲🇽 🔥 💪

The instant after, the world stops.

The first thing I feel is my skin. It burns. My pale complexion darkens, warms. It becomes a rich, deep olive-brown. Mexican, Latino skin, made of sun and passion.

I look at him. The same thing is happening. His light skin, with those hidden freckles, transforms into the same warm brown. His eyes widen.

Then the hair. Mine, dark and short, stays dark but becomes thicker. A lock falls over my forehead, damp, rebellious. His red, curly hair darkens slightly, becoming a deeper copper tone, and a lock falls over his forehead too.

The body. It explodes.

My slim chest swells. My pecs become two slabs of sculpted muscle, high, full, defined. Below, my abs carve into my stomach in a perfect grid. My shoulders widen, my deltoids round out. My arms swell, my biceps rise into high peaks.

He’s the same. His muscles define themselves, sculpt themselves, become perfect. His chest, his shoulders, his arms. We are two jocks, two gym-built guys, two Latinos.

The tattoos. On my right shoulder, black lines begin to appear. A tribal tattoo, intricate, covering my deltoid and running down my bicep. On him too, tattoos form, a symbol, something personal.

The clothes. What we were wearing, the shirts, the pants, disappear. We remain bare-chested. We both wear sexy Calvin Klein underwear, I have black shorts while he has red ones. Muscles on display, tattoos visible, the locks on our foreheads already damp with warm sweat.

He looks at himself, then at me. I do the same. Our eyes move over our new bodies, over the sculpted muscles, the dark skin, the tattoos.

“Holy…” he murmurs, his voice deeper now.

I touch my chest. Firm, warm. I move down, touch my abs. Perfect. He does the same, exploring himself, discovering.

Sweat begins to form. On our foreheads, on our chests, between our muscles. A new scent, warm, spicy, fills the space around us.

We look at each other. A slow, sexy smile crosses our faces.

We are two Mexican jocks. Two gym-built men. Two machines of muscle and sensuality.

But he doesn’t stop. He looks at me, then at the machine. A spark in his eyes.

“Again,” he says. “I want more.”

Before I can say anything, he presses the button again.

⌛ 🧔 🩳

The instant after, time flows over us.

Twenty-one, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five. The years pass, but we don’t age. We mature. We become men.

The beard. On my face it begins to grow, thick, dark, groomed. It covers the jaw, the chin, the cheeks. From jock to man. On his face, the same. His copper beard, mixed with slightly darker tones, frames his face.

The hair. The locks remain, but now they belong to men. Fuller, thicker, still damp on our foreheads.

The body. The muscles don’t disappear, they round out, becoming fuller, more mature. The pecs remain huge, but fuller. The shoulders still wide. The arms still swollen. But there is something more, something solid, something lived-in.

The clothes. What we didn’t have disappears. In their place, two swimsuits. Short, tight, leaving little to the imagination.

Mine is white. His is orange. And inside, something has changed. Grown. Become more evident.

The swimsuits outline shapes. Mine bulges outward, big, long, heavy. His too, maybe even more. It presses against the fabric, visible, imaginable. Obvious.

We look at each other again. Now we are two mature men. Thirty-five years old. Thick beards, sculpted but full bodies, swimsuits that hide nothing.

He touches his beard. I touch my chest, now even hairier, with those tattoos showing between the hairs.

The sweat. Still there, warm, dampening the locks, the beards, the chests. The scent deeper, more mature, more intense.

“Now yes,” he says, his voice even rougher.

I step closer. Our bodies brush. Chest against chest, hair against hair, swimsuits against swimsuits. What’s underneath presses, searches, finds.

The arcade around us no longer exists. There is only us. Two friends turned lovers. Two jocks turned men. Two Latinos with damp locks, thick beards, sculpted bodies, tight swimsuits.

Our hands begin to move. Over beards, chests, shoulders, lower. The swimsuits tightening, pressing, asking to be removed.

But it’s not necessary. What’s underneath can already be felt. Seen. Desired.

We stay there, holding each other, discovering our new bodies, enjoying every sensation. Warm skin, hair intertwining, muscles trembling, swimsuits that are not enough.

The arcade is full of lights and sounds, the usual Friday night chaos. He’s there with his friends, like many other times. Thirty-two years old, white, gay, average build, a bit of muscle but nothing special. Well-groomed beard, little body hair. Normal.

His friends push him toward the new machine. “Come on, try it!” “What is this thing?” “A roulette, transformations or something like that.”

He laughs, steps closer. Curious. Always curious. He looks at the screen, the button. “What is this thing for?” he says, almost to himself.

Then he presses it.

💪 💪 💪

The next instant, he understands what it’s for.

The first thing he feels is his shirt tightening. It wasn’t tight a moment ago. Now it is. Then it starts to stretch. The muscles underneath grow so fast that the cotton can’t keep up.

His chest. His pecs explode outward, two masses of muscle swelling, rising, becoming mountains. He feels the fibers stretching, pressing, searching for space. The shirt pulls so tight that the buttons begin to pop. One. Two. Three.

His shoulders. The deltoids round out, widen, push against the sleeves. The fabric swells, distorts, no longer enough. The seams creak.

His arms. His biceps explode into towering peaks, growing so much that the short sleeves roll up on themselves, climbing toward his shoulders, no longer covering anything. His forearms swell, veins surfacing, skin stretching tight.

His back. His lats expand, his traps rise. He feels his entire torso widening, becoming enormous, pressing against the shirt from every side.

Then, the sound. A long, final tear. The shirt can’t take it anymore. It splits open across the chest, rips along the back, falls to the ground in useless shreds.

But it’s not over.

His pants. The jeans he was wearing, comfortable a moment before, now stretch tight. His thighs thicken, his quads become trunks, his glutes swell. The fabric pulls, warps, the buttons pop. The zipper gives way. The pants fall to the floor.

He’s left in boxers. For a second.

His abs. Beneath the boxers, his abs carve his stomach wall like they were sculpted. Six, eight, ten, it doesn’t matter. They’re there, hard, defined, perfect. The boxers, already stretched, begin to strain. Not because of his abs. Because of what’s underneath.

Lower. It grows. It swells. It becomes enormous. The boxers aren’t enough, they can’t be. The elastic gives way, the fabric tears, falls.

È nudo. Completamente nudo. Davanti alla macchina. Davanti ai suoi amici.

The new body is there, exposed. Everything. The huge muscles, the sculpted chest, the broad shoulders, the swollen arms, the powerful legs. And there, in the middle, what was once normal is now something different. Enormous. Beastlike.

He touches himself. He can’t help it. His hands run over his chest, feel the hard, full, living pecs. They move down, touch his abs, one by one. Then lower, where everything has grown, and his fingers meet something he doesn’t recognize, something so big it seems impossible.

His friends are silent. Mouths open. Eyes traveling over his new body, stopping where they can’t help but stop.

Someone, the quickest one, pulls off the gray shorts he’s wearing over his jeans. He hands them to him. “Put them on. Now.”

Li prende, li infila. I pantaloncini sono normali, per un uomo. Su di lui, sono qualcosa di diverso. Stretti. Allungati. E davanti, un enorme rigonfiamento sporge, evidente, impossibile da nascondere. Delinea una forma che non lascia dubbi. I pantaloncini grigio chiaro sottolineano il tutto.

He looks at himself. He looks at his huge chest, his swollen arms, his broad shoulders. He looks at the shorts and what’s underneath. Then he looks at his friends. Their eyes. Where they go. How they look at him.

A slow smile crosses his face. He’s no longer shy. No longer normal. He’s a beast. A muscular, enormous, endowed beast. And he knows it.

He runs a hand over his chest again. Feels the muscles. Feels the stares. Feels the air changing around him.

The arcade is a strange place for a date, but they like it that way. Thirty-two years old, a clerk in a men’s clothing store, he loves his job. One meter eighty, size 46, slender build, long dark hair, glasses. The classic type who recommends the right clothes, never the one who wears them.

His partner, beside him, looks at him with that smile he knows well. The one that says, “Do something stupid, please.”

“Come on, spin it. Just to see.”

He laughs, shrugs. Why not? Something silly, a laugh, and that’s it.

He slips in a coin. Presses the button.

🏃 💪 🍆

The next instant, the laughter dies in his throat.

The first thing he feels is his clothes tightening. The shirt, the one he had chosen carefully, begins to stretch across his chest. But there was no chest a moment ago. Now there is. And it grows.

His pecs explode outward. Two masses of muscle swelling, rising, becoming mountains. He hears the buttons of the shirt beginning to pop. One. Two. Three. The fabric stretches, distorts, no longer enough.

His shoulders widen. His deltoids round out, full, powerful, pushing against the sleeves. The seams creak, give way.

His arms. His biceps explode into towering peaks, swelling the sleeves, making them roll up on themselves. His forearms thicken, veins rising like ropes.

His back. His lats expand, his traps climb. He feels his whole torso widening, becoming enormous.

Then the sound. The shirt can’t take it anymore. It opens across his chest, tears along the back, falls to the floor.

But it’s not over.

The pants. Those elegant clerk’s pants are now stretched tight. His thighs thicken, his quads become trunks, his glutes swell. The fabric stretches, the buttons pop, the zipper gives way. The pants fall.

He’s left in boxers. Or maybe shorts? Black. It’s hard to tell what they are, tight, clinging. But that’s not the point.

The body. His whole body has changed. It’s a mass of muscles. Not runner’s muscles, lean and narrow. Big muscles, full, swollen. Enormous pecs, wide shoulders, thick arms, sculpted abs but covered by that mass, powerful legs.

And yet, something doesn’t quite match. He has the face of an athlete. The kind of face a runner has, endurance, distance. But the body is that of a bodybuilder. A weightlifter. Something different. Strange. Fascinating.

The black boxers. Or shorts. Tight. And there, in the middle, something has changed. Radically.

A long, thick bulge pushes out, obvious. You can’t quite tell if it’s boxers or shorts, but what’s underneath is visible. Suggested. Imagined. Long. Thick. Heavy. Pressing against the black fabric, stretching it, distorting it. Drawing a shape that leaves no doubt.

His partner in front of him has his mouth open. Eyes running over the new body, stopping where they cannot help but stop.

He looks at himself. He touches his chest, huge, hard. His hands move across the pecs, slide down over the sculpted but full abs. Then lower, where the black fabric is tight, and what’s underneath is much more than before. Much more than he had ever imagined.

The sweat. It begins to bead on his forehead, run down through his long dark hair, wet his neck, his chest, his abs. His skin shines, muscles polished by sweat looking even bigger, fuller, more alive.

The smell. New. Strong. Masculine. The scent of muscles working, skin sweating, a man.

He removes his glasses. They’re no longer needed. His eyes are younger, more alive, more intense. He runs a hand through his long hair, pushing it back from his damp forehead.

Then he looks at his partner. The smile his partner had before, the one that said “do something stupid,” is now something else. It’s astonishment. It’s desire. It’s hunger.

He steps closer, slowly. Muscles moving under the skin, the body swollen with power, that bulge in the black boxers swaying, obvious.

“Do you like it?” he asks in a new voice, deeper.

His partner nods, speechless.

He smiles. Runs a hand over his chest again. Then over his abdomen. Then lower, where the black fabric is tight.

5'10", pretty average build with a little softness from long hours sitting and grading essays, dark slightly messy hair, a smooth face because I can’t really grow a beard no matter how long I try, and big size-13 feet in worn sneakers.

Honestly, I pressed Spin because I was avoiding work. I’d been staring at the same unfinished lesson plan for an hour, my brain completely fried, and the flashing free token felt like the perfect tiny distraction. One quick spin seemed easier than going back to grading another stack of papers.

The desk is full of papers. Essays, essays, lesson plans. A thirty-year-old adjunct professor of literature at a community college, he spends hours sitting and grading papers. He's five feet seven inches, medium build, a bit soft from long hours sitting. Dark hair is slightly unkempt. His face is smooth. He can't grow a beard, no matter how hard he tries. Big feet, size 11, in worn-out sneakers.

He's been staring at the same lesson plan for an hour. Brain melted. Then he sees the free token flash on the machine someone left. Perfect distraction. A quick spin is easier than grading another pile of papers.

He presses "Spin."

🧔 📿 🐻

The next moment, the lesson plan is gone.

The first thing he feels is his face. It itches. It burns. Where nothing has grown for years, now something is exploding. His beard. Thick, full, dark. It covers his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his neck. Like a man. Like a bear. Like something he could never be.

Then his hair. The dark, slightly unkempt hair remains, but thicker, fuller. A few gray strands, barely visible.

Time. The years pass him by. Thirty, thirty-five, forty. Ten years in a matter of seconds. But it's not aging, it's maturing. Becoming.

The body. The softness transforms. The muscles emerge, swell, and become covered. The chest broadens, the pectorals becoming two full, powerful masses, covered in hair. Dense, dark fuzz, covering every inch. The hair on the pectorals is thick, thick, warm.

The belly. The soft, sedentary teacher belly hardens. It becomes a muscular, full belly, covered in hair. Like a bear.

The shoulders broaden. The deltoids round out, full, covered in hair. The arms swell. The biceps explode into masses of hard, hairy muscle. The forearms are bundles of tendons and hair.

The back. The lats expand, the trapezius muscles rise. It becomes that powerful, hairy V.

The height. 1.78 meters remains, but now he's broader, more imposing, more present.

The feet. Big, size 11, they remain. But now they're bear feet. Heavy, strong.

And then the clothes. The ones he was wearing disappear. In their place, something new.

Naked torso. Completely naked. The hairy chest in plain sight, the hairy belly, the broad shoulders covered in fur. And then the straps. Leather. Dark brown, shiny. They wrap around his shoulders, slide down his chest, wrap around his torso. They don't cover, they accentuate. The leather straps on the hairy skin, on the hairy chest, are erotic, primitive.

Another strap, thinner, encircles his neck. A necklace. Resting on his hairy chest, which moves with every breath.

And then the suspenders. Leather, too. Starting from his shoulders, going down, crossing over his chest, and fastening to his pants. Simple black pants, tight on his powerful, hairy legs.

He looks at himself in the mirror. The man he sees is no longer the thirty-year-old professor with the smooth face and soft belly. He's a bear. Forty years old, with a full beard, a hairy chest covered in hair, a muscular belly, and thick arms. The leather straps encircle his torso, the necklace rests on his chest, the suspenders hug his shoulders.

He touches his beard. Thick, soft, real. Finally. It reaches down, touches his chest. His hands sink into the thick hair, the hard pectorals beneath. The leather straps creak slightly with every movement.

It moves further down, touching his belly, hairy, muscular. Then further down, where the pants are tight. And there, inside, something has changed. Grown. Fuller. The pants form a clear, heavy shape, pressing against the fabric.

The leather straps tighten, envelop him, enhance him. The necklace thumps against his chest with every breath. The hair, everywhere, warm, alive.

The sweat. It begins to bead his forehead, wet his beard, run down his neck, his hairy chest. The hairs dampen, become shiny, slippery. The leather straps creak.

The smell. Strong. Musky. Warm. A smell of bear, of man, of skin, of fur. A smell that fills the space, that attracts.

He runs his hands over his chest, through the hair, under the straps. He feels the warm skin, the hard muscles, the necklace moving. He looks at himself in the mirror. The bear. The bear. Finally.

He smiles under his beard. A slow, confident, erotic smile.

Thinks about essays to correct, lesson plans, hours spent in a chair. They no longer exist. There's only him. His new body. His straps. His beard. His body hair.

He adjusts his suspenders, an instinctive gesture. His hairy chest rises even further. The necklace swings. His pants are tight.

The arcade is gone. There's only him. The bear. Ready to be looked at, touched, desired.

The arcade is a chaos of lights and sounds, but his friends are too absorbed in Street Fighter to notice him. Twenty-eight years old, blond, mustache, medium-length hair, a bit short. He wanders aimlessly, as always when he gets bored.

Then he sees the machine. Strange, different, in a dark corner. Dim lights, no writing.

He probably shouldn’t. But why the hell not?

He inserts a coin. Presses the button.

🦍 🩲 🐻

The instant after, the why the hell not becomes perfectly clear.

The first thing he feels is his skin itching. Not a normal itch. A deep, warm itch that starts from his back and spreads everywhere. The hair. It explodes.

On his shoulders, on his chest, on his back, on his arms, on his legs. A dense, dark, incredibly thick layer. Not normal hair. Fur. Like a gorilla. Like a bear. Thick, warm, alive. It covers every inch of his body.

The beard. The mustache he had merges into a thick, wild beard that covers his entire jaw, chin, and cheeks. Dark, dense, animal-like.

The hair. Those blond, medium-length hairs darken, becoming a thick, messy dark mane.

Then the muscles. They explode.

The chest swells as if someone is pumping air into it. The pecs become two mountains of muscle covered in hair, enormous, disproportionate. Underneath, the abs disappear beneath the fur, but they can be felt, hard, sculpted, covered.

The shoulders widen. The deltoids round into balls of pure muscle, covered with hair. The arms swell. The biceps explode into huge peaks, covered in that dark fur. The forearms are bundles of muscle and hair.

The back. The lats expand into wings, covered with fur. It becomes that absurd V-shape, animal-like, beastly.

His height. It grows. From being short, he becomes enormous. Imposing. One meter ninety, maybe more. The arcade seems smaller.

The clothes. What he was wearing, the t-shirt, the pants, cannot hold. They tear apart, falling to the ground in shreds.

He remains in underwear. The underwear he had. Short. With yellow decorations, absurd, almost ridiculous on that beastly body. But they are there, the only things that remain.

And the socks. White. Like a boy’s. Sticking out under those enormous, hairy legs.

The itching. It continues. But it isn’t unpleasant. It’s pleasurable. Warm. Every hair that sprouts, every follicle activating, is a small wave of pleasure running across his skin.

He touches himself. He cannot help it. His hands sink into that new fur, thick, warm. He feels the muscles underneath, enormous, hard, alive. He scratches his chest, and the itch turns into pure pleasure. He closes his eyes, a groan escaping him.

Then he looks at his arms. Enormous. Hairy. He flexes them, watching the biceps swell even more beneath the fur. He smiles. A goofy, empty, blissful smile.

“Nice,” he murmurs with a new voice, deeper, more animal. “Nice muscles. Nice hair.”

He looks at his legs, huge, hairy, with those absurd white socks. He scratches one thigh, more pleasure. He touches his belly, covered with hair, hard underneath.

He thinks. Or rather, something inside him thinks. But the thoughts are slow, heavy, confused. Only one thing is clear.

Muscles. More muscles. Hair. More hair. Becoming bigger.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the machine. The image he sees is a beast. A gorilla. A bear. Covered in fur from head to toe, enormous muscles pressing under the coat, only a pair of yellow underwear and white socks reminding that he was once human.

He touches himself again. The chest. The belly. The arms. Every touch is pleasure. Every stroke of his own fur is a shiver.

“Bigger,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Want bigger.”

He turns toward the machine. He looks at it. He doesn’t really understand what it is, but he knows it made him like this. Maybe it can make him even bigger.

He presses the button. Nothing. He presses it again. Nothing.

He remains there, confused, his hands continuing to touch himself, to scratch, to search for that pleasure. The enormous muscles, the thick fur, the yellow underwear, the white socks.

His friends, on the other side of the arcade, are still playing Street Fighter. They haven’t noticed anything. They don’t see the beast he has become.

He doesn’t think about them. He doesn’t think about anything. He only thinks about his muscles. His hair. How to become bigger.