TF-Vigilante

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Paul struggles to maintain the level of professionalism that has always done so well by him. “Look, Stacy, I’m sorry if my words are harsh but, well the project is unpolished and a little juvenile. I mean even the title, Juan Carlos: Latin Lovermano? Work with me Stacy, how am I supposed to give a note on that besides toss it and try again?”

Looking up at the ceiling to slow her sobs, surely to save some tears for the next poor fool she’ll weaponize crying at, Stacy tries to salvage anything. Sniffling, “So you just don’t like the title then.”

“Among many, many other things, no.”

“Daddy said people love puns? It’s camping or something, you must not get it…”

Paul wasn’t past the point of diplomacy, but eager to move on with his day he opts to just go scorched earth. Lining up the biggest issue he has with the book in his sights, the protagonist, he prepares to shoot. Stereotypical, vaguely racist, and lacking any motivation beyond whatever smutty thing Stacy sees fit to move the ‘plot’ forward, Juan Carlos was not a man you care to follow unless you’re actively masturbating. 

“I just think Juan Carlos leaves a lot to be desired, Ms. McClure.”

Pouting, she relents, “What do you even know! I swear all my gay friends are just like him! Literally spend five minutes talking to a sexy Latino hunk and tell me again how I don’t know how to write!”

Narrowing his eyes, at this he’s had enough. Obviously she doesn’t respect him enough to know a thing about him, daddy’s daughter be damned he’s not going to take that. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that I am both gay and my gra- abuela is columbian.”

“So what, you’re an eighth? And like so- do you want a trophy? You’re not the sexy kinda beefcake my audience wants to read about.”

“Stacy, first off you can’t say that. Second your math- Never mind that. You don't even have an audience.”

This strikes a chord. “Fuck you! Jesus! You don’t know how hard I worked to write this. It’s the culmination of my life’s work.”

“Well, I’d suggest in the next life to try to maybe spend a little more of that time learning how to write if you want to do anything other than waste my time.” Paul’s face freezes in a grimace of pain as the words fly out even sharper than he had intended. 

So used to dealing with harsh layout designers and demanding photographers, the kid gloves simply fell off as his patience waned. Keeping his eyes shut for a beat, he takes a deep breath in the silence before opening them to find Stacy’s face a mask of rage.

Tears have evaporated entirely as her eyes seem to almost burn with a palpable anger. “Y’know Paul? Funny you don’t think JC is realistic enough. Because the way I see it, you’re just like him.”

Rolling his eyes at this he can’t help but dig his grave deeper, “Really now? I don’t quite see it, given I’m your father’s best employee and Juan Carlos’ sole trait is thinking with his dick; Wishful thinking perhaps as that would indeed make me the ideal for this slop you’re calling a book.”

Paul feels something snap in the room as the fire leaves her eyes to be replaced with a simpler disdain. He assumes their meeting is over and prepares to apologize when Stacy grabs the edit marked manuscript and just tears it in two. Shocked at the act of strength, Paul stares stunned as she gets the last word. 

“You win, bitch. This was supposed to be fun. Hope you enjoy your last few days working here JC. I am so going to your boss.”

Annoyed, Paul immediately starts an email to HR to preemptively complain about his meeting and Stacy’s complete lack of professionalism. Laying the facts of the confrontation on the table, he ensures they know she was homophobic and racist only so they don’t can him when she tries to work her nepo-magic.

Still slightly reeling from just how poorly that meeting went, Paul tries to keep busy for the rest of the day. Unfortunately for the editor, his to-do list is quite sparse given he was supposed to be going through Stacy’s book through the end of the week.

Skipping ahead, McClure Sr’s next task for him was to do research on this influencer they’re optioning for a cookbook. Apparently he’s supposed to bring ‘alpha bros’ into their market. Paul doesn’t believe in the idea so to him this is more an opportunity to find receipts that prove Bryce Bentley is not a good fit for their brand.

Immediately searching ‘Bryce Bentley Apology Video’ the expert is soon privy to the content creator’s litany of scandals. Quickly jotting down the what, when, and where of a few tasteless jokes done by a man who shall certainly not get a book deal, Paul prepares to send his short take in an email before he glances back at Bentley’s instagram.

The man is pretty hot. No, he’s being unfair. The man is an absolute stud. How do you even get a body like that? Minimizing his email, Paul sets to just scrolling through Bryce’s feed. It’s important that he gets a full picture of the man after all, see what all the hype is about. 

Quickly do his eyes glaze over as he carefully inspects every shirtless and sweaty image of this man in the gym and at the beach. Tuning out his douchey chatter and paying extra close attention to his gay baiting, despite his usual composure, Paul’s hand sneaks under his table towards his pants.

Unable to stop staring at the fratty, surely illiterate bro’s biceps, Paul’s mouth falls ajar as he begins to feel a little sweaty himself. When his hand finds purchase on a package throbbing just a hair larger, there’s suddenly a sharp itch burning under his arms. 

No idea what at all could be causing this, the editor quickly yanks up his shirt’s sleeve to find a markedly hairier pit. Visibly wet with sweat he must’ve worked up during his spat, Paul can’t quite believe just how much thicker his usually manscaped pits have become. And yet, despite telling himself how gross the unmanicured patch is, he can’t tear his eyes away.

His nose twitches as his neck reflexively leans closer to the bramble of curls that seemingly grows thicker under his attention. His neck begins to crane down as his free hand abandons any decency to snake into his pants. Scratching through a similarly less tamed grove of pubes, in no time the employee of the quarter is fondling himself at his desk. “Whuh- what am I doing?”

Moaning to himself as his eyelids feel heavier, that he’s behind a desk is perhaps his only saving grace as his department head decides to stop by and check on him after his meeting with Stacy. Kindness in his eyes, Davis assumes his favorite underling’s visibly frazzled state must be due to that trainwreck of a meeting. Looking past the panting and messy hair, the strange rolled up sleeve and- is he sniffing his hand? 

Clearly Paul just needs a day. 

“Hiya there kid. Seems Stacy got ya all worked up huh?”

Bolting to attention, Paul’s hand slams into the desk as he tries to appear like he wasn’t seconds away from masturbating at work. Chest heaving from the anxiety of nearly being caught with said hand in his pants, Paul’s mind is scattered as he only just now realizes that he had his hand in his pants at work like some horny troglodyte. Smelling his sweaty fingers his eye twitches and he quickly and calmly clasps hands on his desk to feign normalcy as his semi still strains his pants. 

“Yes sir Mr. Davis,” one of Bentley’s thirst traps still loops on Paul’s monitor. Not quite showing print as much as every vein on his cock while doing pull ups, Paul can barely stop his eyes flitting over as he explains himself. “She did more or less tell me to hit the dicks- My god. Di- Bricks. Bricks. So sorry sir.”

“Don’t you worry about it Paulie. Why don’t you finish up what you’re doing and head out for the day.”

“Thank you so much Davis sir. I swear I’ll be back and better than ever tomorrow!” Stress melting off him, when Paul reclines in his chair it allows his monitor to reflect in the window behind him. Davis can’t help but see the softcore porn and does a doubletake before wishing Paul well and rushing back to his own desk. Kid just needs a break, shoot as far as he knows that smut was straight out of that hellion Stacy’s book. What is McClure going to do with her?

Free to leave, Paul rushes to do so as swiftly as he can. When his attention is immediately sucked back to the faceless sweaty torso and sweat stained gym shorts on his monitor, Paul grits his teeth and forces the machine to shut off. Gathering his things and standing, despite knowing how his soft cock should have more than enough space in his pants, he feels his package strain. 

Having gone through great lengths to appear professional, Paul is shocked when he can see his own visible dick print. Under his gaze it twitches slightly larger as the idea of having a thicker dick excites him. And yet, this is far from the only change as he grabs his coat and rushes out the door. 

Desperate to get home as fast as possible, he refuses to acknowledge how every item on him is slightly too tight. Never one for exercise beyond making sure he can do twenty push ups every once in a while, Paul’s stunned when his chest tugs against his increasingly sweaty top.

The sleeves of his shirt begin to pull, then hug, then strain against his arms as they rapidly put on weight. Rushing down the sidewalk, the editor assumes he’s simply been too negligent on his diet recently. Maybe he ruined his clothes in the wash? He’s just put on weight and not noticed. That makes sense. But he cannot hold onto this delusion as he looks to see muscle visibly twitching as he swings his arms.

And then it begins affecting his mind.

Shiiiitt Papi, my arms are looking killerrr

His arm tries to raise itself into a flex, Paul’s blood goes cold. Blinking quickly as this stops him dead in his tracks, the editor is accidentally bumped into by a mousy man on the phone carrying a tray of coffees. Turning to apologize, Paul promptly freezes again when he locks eyes with the embarrassed gofer still on the phone. Every muscle in his body tenses and throbs as he feels a dull static fill his mind.

He can do nothing but feel as he watches the twink walk past him with a nod. Blood rushing in his ears, Paul stares at the man’s tight ass swaying as he hurries back to work. Fuckkk I need that ass. Now. Locked onto the bouncing butt as it makes haste, Paul stumbles forward. He feels his body try to pursue him. Get his number, get him. 

Unable or unwilling to fight the desire, the need, Paul is only stopped from his chase as when he takes his first wholehearted step forward his pants tear. Looking down at his tight dress pants, he’s honestly surprised this is the first rip as they almost appear painted on. In the deep recesses of his mind some muted voice shouts that they should not be so built.

When more and greater tears lance down his thighs and grow longer with every step, he shakes out of his horny stupor. Almost drooling from the slightly tanner skin exposed from the gashes trailing up towards his pendulous cock that sways even more than that bitch’s hot ass, Paul steels himself and realizes he needs to just get home. This takes more effort than it ever should. Distracted by every man with a pulse he passes, some bestial Id within him keeps trying to rise and take over.

Shit that fucker’s fine. We have the time for a quickie. Que paso? Can’t we have some fun? That bar on sixth is open already…

Each time he bats it down, shakes it off, the next time it returns slightly louder. Needier. More dominant. Needing to physically shake his head and murmur “No.” to maintain control, under the beating late afternoon sun, his tan seems to be quite a bit darker. Obviously his rational mind will say it’s just from walking to work more often than driving these days, he’s just been out more.

But as the sunkissed skin stretches under the sleeves of his shirt, as his seemingly tea stained thighs are revealed to be even tanner through the tears in his pants, Paul knows this cannot be the case. Why am I wearing these shitty pants anyway? Fuckin hiding my peak muslos… Muslos? What does that even mean?

Long neglected Spanish begins to trickle into his mind as he arrives home and slams the door shut behind him. Usually so courteous and quiet a neighbor, with the chaos of the day weighing on him, the path of least resistance is simply too great.

Tearing his pants and boxers the rest of the way off, Paul stumbles into the bathroom looking to hop in the shower or throw on some much needed deodorant. Sniffing himself as he arrives, his plans are halted by the one two punch of his heady musk and seeing his shockingly muscular reflection.

Mierda… No one will be able to resist me.

Hungry eyes take in his bicep as he raises it into a flex. Turning to bounce his ass, he feels itchy stubble prickle onto his face like it never has as a cocky smirk forces its way onto his face. The shirt that has been suctioned to him since he stepped out of the office begins to give way to his burgeoning new bulk as he can’t help but imagine everything he can do with his growing new body. Faces flicker through his imagination of all the new eye candy he’ll be able to bed. Pre begins to pool at his feet as drool trickles down his stubbly new jaw as his thoughts are more and more displaced by the new rising voice.

Maybe I should start clubbing again? He needs to show this off. No, he needs to figure out what’s going on. To figure out his best angles. Fuck like he’s got any bad ones. His smirk grows darker as his heavier hand reaches down to fondle his excitable dripping dick. Leaning against the wall on his brawny new forearm, he starts fully masturbating.

Huffing his b.o. as he grunts and snarls. Paul imagines topping for the first time in his life. He sees a snatched waist and bubble butt bouncing on his prodigious uncut cock. One he can scarcely recognize. One he can scarcely imagine as he swears he can feel that little coffee runner’s tight ass hugging his cock as his hips rut into his meaty hand. 

Fuck take it bitch. Take Juan Carlos’ fucking horse cock. Tell all your- Tell your- Wh- What? Juan? Juan Carlos?

Not slowing his thrust for a second, the name Juan Carlos hits him like a train. Staring at his darker arms as veins trail their whole length, as darker hair prickles across his forearms, he realizes what is happening. Too little too late as he feels his heavier balls pull and his mind goes even hazier.

Stumbling back to the sink, Paul’s cock bounces in the air as he tries to slow, to stop the storm of cum about to fly into the bathroom. Catching his reflection, he sees his focussed horny expression instead shift to a cocky gleaming smirk. Juan Carlos is sex. He is sex.

And then he loses control “FFF- Mierda!” His spotless bathroom is painted with a load larger than he’s ever seen before. Rocketing across the room, he shoots string after string across the mirror, into the sink, onto his toothbrush. And then his shaky knees give way as he falls to the cold tile. 

Exhausted, barely able to lift his heavy new arm, he pushes himself against the bath before losing consciousness. He feels the last few spurts of his load dripping through the thick new curls on his thigh. No es- this isn’t possible…

When he awakes he cannot recall what his steamy dreams are about, but he knows the cum stains in his pubes and pooling on his thicker new abs cannot be from his session last night alone. In an action that would be previously unthinkable to the orderly man, he scratches his face with his similarly cum-splattered hand to find his facial hair has grown thicker. 

Pulling himself up to standing, Juan is slightly woozy as he makes his first moves in a body far larger than he’s ever had to manage. Apathetic to the wretched state of his bathroom, he pulls back on his dirty boxers and exits to his living room. 

Clean as he left it, when Juan steps in it begins to adjust to the life he is soon to live. Stomping his heavier feet with no care for the unlucky souls used to the far more cordial upstairs neighbor, Juan yanks open the fridge and yawns as the glass bottles in the door clatter against each other. 

Scratching his ass and smirking as he feels his fingers claw into the fat and muscle therein, Juan is surprised to find neatly organized prepped meals. When he does a double take, the growing sex-fiend finds it far more to his temperament. Leftovers abound, shoved in between containers of eggs left open and protein rich meals he can just throw in the oven and forget. 

Grabbing a full blender pitcher he just threw in the fridge to drink from today, Juan almost starts chugging it before he decides to toss a couple more eggs in. Gotta hit his goals. Gotta look like the fuckin king he is. Juan makes no effort to quiet the voice as it returns to his head, rumbling with the same morning weariness that plague his own morning thoughts. Though at this point there is little at all separating the two.

The few remaining differences between who he once was and Juan fade even further as he starts chugging straight from the blender like an animal. Gulping down almost half a gallon of protein slurry, the horny editor feels some of the silty sludge miss his mouth and stream down his salt-stained cheeks.

Wiping it off with his meaty bicep, he proceeds to just lick the mix off his arm. This brings his face so close to his exposed and still dripping pit, Juan smirks as he gets a whiff of his new morning musk. Surprised at how intense it is, some inkling of the neat-freak hiding within him returns. “Shit have I gone weeks without fuckinnn deodorant or what?”

He can hardly believe it when the voice rumbling out of his chest sounds just like that voice in his head. Some weak part of him knows that’s not him, that's not who he should be, he shakes his head. He’s not Juan Carlos. He- He’s? He can’t remember his name. When the realization hits him he gasps only to feel pressure rising within him.

Feeling his stomach bloat slightly from the heavy shake, the man tries to recall his name and stop himself from a humiliating burp at once. Mind divided, both attempts swiftly fail as he unleashes a burp longer and louder than he’d believed possible. Worse than the straight assholes he’d always wanted to put in their place.

Buuuuurrpp- “Shittt if only they’d see me now. Huhuh. Shit they’d probably find themselves on my dick too. Nadie… uhhh no one can, uh? whatever…”

Tired of thinking about anything that’ll rile him up, Juan forgets about forgetting his name and instead channels all his energy into getting a morning pump. It’s just the path of least resistance. Piles of manuscripts and a bookshelf full of classics he had dreamed of one day adding to clatter to the floor as wood shines to a metal and heavy tomes become heavier weights.

Guffawing as he sees the impossible and only thinks about what a sweet home gym setup he’s got, Juan saunters over to the bench and starts pumping free weights. Looking down at his chubbing dick twitching in overfull briefs as he gets a pump in, he grunts as he imagines how ripe his aura will be in here when he’s done with his morning workout. 

Throwing reggaeton on to blast away his morning delirium and keep his mind thinking about anything other than his needy dick, Juan Carlos pounds iron well into the late morning. When ten rolls around his phone starts blowing up as his boss wonders why he’s late for work without letting them know.

“Que..? Oh shittt-” For some reason the idea of being late fills him with overwhelming dread. Furrowing his heavy brows he doesn’t really understand, it’s just a job or whatever? Surely they need JC more than Juan needs them. Still, he groans and prepares to run in, that is, until he sees his reflection. More than anything he needs to relish in his pump.

Flexing in his cum and spit stained bathroom mirror, Juan Carlos delights in the sweat tricking down his veiny arms. Drooling at his package and ass bouncing in his stained briefs, JC starts groping his dick before another call from work comes in and he relents to just handle his bestial need later. “Pinche- boss man don’t know what’s coming…”

None of his clothes seem to fit right. Instinctually he reaches for a neat button up before crumbling it into a ball and throwing it to the floor. Why’d he even buy such boring threads? Shit he needs to wear something flattering, something sexy. 

Searching high and low for some skin-tight streetwear and a baggy jacket to hide his pump, Juan eventually finds something adequate. Even as he throws it on though, when he sees his reflection the clothes grow that much tighter as he turns himself on. Meaty arms strain against sleeves that should be baggy, cock so visible he might as well not be wearing pants at all, and a cocky smirk surrounded by stubble he obviously doesn’t care enough to shave.

Despite the small shred of himself shouting to rush to work, he takes his time sauntering down the street. Prowling and scanning every person in case they’re looking to fuck, it’s a miracle he doesn’t bump into a single twink en route. Instead he just allows the sun to bake him, evening out his dark tan and cooking up some even danker musk in the hoodie.

Hidden beneath his sauna of a hoodie, disparate patches of his skin darken as his skin begins to stain with tattoos. Many of which are promptly hidden as the previously inactive follicles covering his torso suddenly go into overdrive. Lured out by the atmosphere of sweat blooming beneath his heavy jacket, fertilized by his salty stench JC feels his scratchy fur coat thicken out of sight.

Perfectly highlighting his rows of abs and connecting his cum-covered pubes with his sweat-dripping pits, JC feels up his hairy chest and struggles to ignore the rising boner at the idea of all the horny bitches that’ll be all over him at the club. Twinks, jocks, and bears oh meirda he can hardly think for salivating about all the needy men that crave his cock as much as he craves giving it to them.

Reaching his arm up his shirt, exposing his hairy abs dripping with sweat, Juan Carlos is stopped at the entrance to his workplace by security. “Ayy what’s the problem guey?” His words are dripping with a thick Mexican accent that sounds natural and correct to his ears, just like it always has. 

Frowning, the guard requests to see some identification. Annoyed, JC doesn’t let it show as he instead plays up his sex appeal. Reaching into his back pocket, standing at an angle that allows the guard to see his thick ass, Juan Carlos produces a loose driver’s license and takes a look at it himself. 

Seeing the same sexy self as always, Juan sees some gringo ass name for a second before it’s replaced with his own. Juan Carlos Hernandez. Careful to ensure their hands connect as he hands over the ID, JC waits to be waved through to get to a job he doesn’t quite remember. Gotta be a model or something? Equis…

The guard returns the license with a grunt and nods him through. Juan Carlos shoots him a wink and makes sure he struts slowly so the guard can watch him go. He knows where he is if he wants a particularly brusque lay later. For now he just needs to figure out where he’s going.

Feeling his stubble fill out into a beard to match that on his license, he scratches its final touches as he sneaks into his office. JC’s mouth hangs open as he sits at his desk and tries to remember what he’s supposed to be doing. Failing to remember his log in, he struggles to understand how to log on as a guest.

Oft distracted by his reflection in the dark monitor, when he at last brute forces his way into the computer his lust takes over once more as he decides he’s been so diligent as to earn a treat. Doesn’t he deserve a little break? Given an inch his needy cock takes a mile as it instantly begins working its way to the hem of his tight shorts.

Quickly opening a browser, JC is shocked to see the computer blocks him from watching porn at work. “¿Qué carajo es esto?” Clicking his tongue, he resolves to just content himself on his own reflection. Cupping his thick pecs and removing the heavy jacket to bathe his office with his heavy musk, JC immediately begins working his cock over his shorts only to be interrupted by a pair of visitors.

Shocked beyond belief, his boss Davis stands stunned. As if he were expecting someone else, confronted with the beast of a man that is Juan Carlos, he can only gasp as the man actively masturbating shoots him a nod and a wink. Though when the horny stud sees who’s with him he gives his meat a break, remiss as he is to.

“Heyyyy chica, you ready to hit the clubs?”

Though knowing she set this into motion, Stacy is similarly surprised by the hunk before her. As if he walked straight off the page, it’s Juan Carlos himself. Though, it clearly worked too well. As she takes him in she completely forgets that she had ever written him into existence. Juan’s her GBF IRL? He always ahs been. The one who’ll fuck anything that moves. The chicano hunk that drags her to after afters and dingy gay clubs she wouldn't dream of finding herself in.

“It’s literally 11 AM babe. And you know Dave said if he catches you slacking again you’re done!”

“Ahh que sera sera you know chica~ Sides, I think Dave has bigger fish to fry than getting rid of Juan Carlos.”

When Juan Carlos rubs his hand through his hairy abs to get Dave’s attention, the boss just sighs and pinches his temples. Workload having almost doubled as his best employee has been unknowingly converted into a man who lives, breathes, and stinks sex, he does indeed have bigger concerns. “Look, Hernandez. Just try and keep it in your pants- Or at least lock the door, I mean Jesus Christ this is a workplace…”

Unable to question why their esteemed publishing house seems to have an employee whose sole purpose seems to be manwhore, for some reason he can’t focus on the idea long enough to dispute it. He’s sure this is somehow Stacy’s fault.

“Anything else, boss man? Quires un- Ah, you want a one on one later?”

Davis clears his throat, “No that uhm, won’t be necessary Juan Carlos.” Blushing he pawns this situation onto his boss’ daughter, “Stacy, if you wouldn’t mind helping Mr. Hernandez get started, I’ve got to handle some upstart influencer who’s threatening to sue us.”

“You got it Davey~”

Thoughtlessly slamming the door behind him, Stacy’s beside herself with excitement. “Juan Carlosss~ So what’s the move tonight, babe?”

Scratching his beard with his trademark smirk, Juan Carlos spins an office chair that can barely handle his weight as he recalls the litany of men he’s lusted after and tempted since he last busted a nut. “You know, I can get what I want anywhere. Why don’t you pick chica?”

Flopping onto his desk, Stacy starts shooting texts to her rolodex of fellow rich chicks and their horny twinks to figure out their nightly plans. Seeing reflection in the wide monitor as it goes to sleep, Juan Carlos flexes at himself and feels his easy dick start to rise. “Ay Chica, I’m gonna go cruise. Esta bien?”

“You got it bestie! See ya tonight!” 

“High fade,” Daniel said.

Paul smiled. “Of course. Sit back.”

The shop smelled of bay rum, warm towels, shaving cream, and wood that had absorbed a century of conversations. The chair creaked when Daniel settled into it. Paul fastened the cape around his neck, then reached for a pair of heavy brass clippers resting beside a yellowed envelope marked FOR THE NEXT BARBER.

“These belonged to my mentor,” Paul said as the clippers glinted.

Daniel felt the warmth before the blades touched him. At first it was only a pulse against his scalp, then a hum through his bones. His shoulders broadened under the cape. His arms pressed thickly against the chair. Hair bristled across his forearms, dark and dense. In the mirror, his jaw squared; faint lines gathered beside his eyes, and the sandy brown of his hair was slowly replaced by silver at the sides.

“Hold still,” Paul said gently. “Let the cut finish.”

Daniel tried to speak, tried to protest, but the buzzing drowned him out - calming his mind. His hairline receded at the temples, dark curls giving way to silver waves combed neatly back from his forehead. His cheeks hollowed and sharpened. Lines folded themselves beside his eyes and across his brow with the calm authority of years. His chest strained beneath his shirt as coarse gray hair climbed above the collar.

Then came the mustache: heavy, full, curled slightly at the ends.

Daniel stared at the mirror, but his own face was gone. Paul the barber stared back at him from the glass.

“That’s real,” Daniel whispered in a deeper voice, touching the mustache with trembling fingers.

Behind him, Paul exhaled, long and relieved.

When the clippers stopped, the shop was quiet. Paul cleaned the lose hairs and fiddled with the cape on Daniel’s shoulders, but his hands were changing as he worked. The age thinned out of them. The veins softened. The silver hair above his brow darkened and loosened into Daniel’s curls. His mustache shrank back into the younger face Daniel had brought in from the rain.

By the time Paul reached for the yellowed envelope and handed it to Daniel, he no longer looked like Paul at all - he looked exactly like Daniel.

Daniel rose unsteadily from the chair, broad and older now, dressed in Paul’s shape as completely as if he had always worn it - envelope in hand.

“Read it,” Paul said, with Daniel’s young voice.

Daniel opened it with hands that no longer looked young.

If you’re reading this, the shop has chosen again. No one knows who the first barber was. Every few years the chair passes the skill, the face, and the work to someone new. The old barber leaves young. The new barber stays. When your time comes, you’ll know who to seat in the chair.

Daniel looked up slowly. “What about you?” he asked.

The younger man smiled with Paul’s familiar patience, though it looked strange on Daniel’s face.

“I kept the chair warm,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”

Memories that were not Daniel’s settled behind his eyes: tapers, straight razors, hot towels, the exact pressure of a steady hand against a nervous customer’s shoulder. He remembered men coming in young and leaving old. He remembered old barbers stepping out into the rain with new names, new hands, new lives waiting for them somewhere beyond the glass. He remembered, dimly, that Paul had once asked the same question.

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as the old barber in Daniel’s body stepped out into the rain - and into his new life.

Daniel watched him go. For a moment, his old face paused beneath the striped awning and looked back through the window. Then Paul lifted one hand in farewell and walked into the rain, carrying Daniel’s youth with him.

The shop settled around Daniel like a well-made suit. The next morning, a young customer stepped through the door.

“Morning, Paul,” he said. “Same cut as always.”

Daniel turned toward the mirror. The mustache lifted with his smile.

“High fade and a beard trim,” he said, reaching for the clippers. “Leave the top longer. Bay rum after.”

The brass clippers rested heavy and warm in his hand. Around him were the chair, the portraits, the tools, and the life waiting for him. Someday the envelope would pass from his hand to another. But not today.

But walking into a bar alone? Holding eye contact with a man with a thick beard and cowboy boots? Taking up space around the kinds of guys who seemed born knowing how to lean, laugh, lift, flirt, and fill a room? That was harder.

Texas was full of them. Frat boys in athletic shorts and backward caps crowding the coffee shop near campus. Fitness bros with damp hair and enormous gym bags crossing the street like traffic had agreed to wait for them just to see them cross in short shorts and tank tops. Cowboys who were mostly just men with good genes, expensive jeans and undeserved confidence, but who all seemed to possess the same relaxed certainty in their bodies.

Jake watched them more than he meant to. He watched their shoulders. Their forearms. The way chest hair curled out of an unbuttoned flannel. The way a mustache could make a man look older, rougher, more decisive. He watched the men who approached other men without the nervous pause Jake always felt in his stomach.

He wanted them - that part was obvious and easy to admit. The harder part was admitting he wanted to be them. Not literally them - but rather a version of himself more like them. And not forever - at least this is what he told himself. Just for long enough to know what it felt like to walk through the world with that kind of weight. Enough to know what it felt like for other men to look at him first. Enough to stop feeling like the thoughtful, slim, average grad student standing just outside the fantasy, with his sketchbook pressed to his chest, like a lost Disney princess before the inevitable glow-up and the arrival of the romantic prince.

Late one Thursday night, after a studio critique that had gone badly enough to make him skip dinner, Jake ended up on Tumblr. He had been following hairy-bothered for months.

The blog was exactly what the name promised: hairy men, transformations, captions about masculinity, frat boys, gym daddies, “before and after” edits that were just plausible enough to make Jake stare too long. The blog posted in a voice that felt teasing and patient at the same time. Daddy-ish, Jake thought once, then closed the app as if someone could see the word in his head.

That night, exhausted and irritated, he opened a message box to the author of the blog.

Jake: Weird question. Do you ever feel like you’re attracted to a type of guy because you wish you were that type of guy?

The answer came back fast enough to make him sit up.

hairy-bothered: Not weird, pup. That’s usually where it starts.

Jake stared at the word pup for a while before replying.

Jake: I’m not a pup.

hairy-bothered: Sure, if you say so. ;)

Jake laughed despite himself, embarrassed alone in his apartment. The conversation stretched past midnight. Jake told him more than he meant to. That he was twenty-five. That he studied architecture. That he painted, gamed, worked too much, hooked up too little, and lived mostly inside his own head. That he was single and tired of being nervous. That he liked frat boys and cowboys and men who looked like they knew what they wanted. Then, finally, after a long pause, he typed the thing he had not said out loud.

Jake: I wish I were hairier. Bigger, too, I guess. More masculine. More dominant. Like I could walk into a bar and actually do something instead of just hoping someone notices me and makes the first move.

There was no answer for almost a minute. Then:

hairy-bothered: Careful, Jake. Some boys get what they ask for and realize they were thinking too small.

Jake’s face warmed.

Jake: That sounds like a caption for one of your stories.

hairy-bothered: Maybe it was, maybe it will be, or maybe - just maybe - it’s advice you should listen to.

Three days later, the package arrived. It was small, plain, and addressed to Jake in blocky black handwriting. No return address. Jake opened it at his kitchen counter with his backpack still on one shoulder.

Inside was a padded black box and a folded note. The box held four glass vials, each nestled in dark foam. Two were filled with clear liquid and labeled RETURN. One held amber liquid and was labeled YEEHAW. The last one was cloudy pale blue and labeled BRO. Jake actually laughed out loud.

The note read:

Try one when you’re tired of imagining.

Return when you’re done pretending.

But don’t waste the version of yourself that finally fits.

He took a picture and sent it to Hairy-Bothered.

Jake: Okay, very funny.

hairy-bothered: You got them, I see.

Jake: Are these colored vodka shots? Am I supposed to drink mystery Tumblr alcohol from a stranger?

hairy-bothered: You wanted to know how it felt.

Jake: To be poisoned?

hairy-bothered: Drink the cowboy first. You’ve been staring at boots too long. Wouldn’t you like to fit into a pair of your own?

Jake put down his phone and closed the box.

For two days, he left it on his desk beside a stack of trace paper and pretended he was not looking at it every time he entered the room.

Then came Monday. His studio professor hated his revised concept. One of his basswood models snapped in his hands five minutes before review. A guy in his cohort, the kind of square-jawed ex-frat guy who called everyone “man” and somehow made it sound natural, offered help in a tone that made Jake feel twelve.

By the time Jake got home, he was hot with humiliation. He stood in his bathroom under the flat light, shirtless in loose shorts, staring at himself. Slim. Lightly cut. A little chest hair. A beard that was…fine, maybe even good, but not enough to change the shape of his face. He looked young in a way that irritated him.

On his phone, a message waited.

hairy-bothered: Bad day, cowboy?

Jake exhaled through his nose. He went to the desk, opened the black box, and picked up the amber vial.

“Not real,” he said to the room so that when nothing happened he’d feel less foolish. “Bottoms up…” he muttered to himself.

Then he drank YEEHAW.

It tasted smokey, with hints of honey, and lavender. For ten seconds, nothing happened. Jake sighed and let out a frustrated “of course not…”

Then heat gathered under his skin. Jake gripped the edge of the desk. “Oh,” he said, because it was the only word available.

The heat moved outward in waves. His shoulders ached first, a deep pressure pushing from inside the joints. The bones did not crack so much as settle into a wider arrangement, as if his body had been waiting for permission to take up more room. Muscle packed itself across his upper back and chest, not inflated or cartoonish, but dense and practical. His torso thickened. His waist stayed firm but sturdier, built less like a grad student who forgot meals and workouts and more like a man who carried heavy things because he could.

His shorts tightened at the hips. His thighs pressed against the fabric. His hands clenched on the desk, and Jake stared as they changed: broader palms, thicker fingers, veins rising, skin roughening faintly across the knuckles. They looked like hands that knew rope, tools, steering wheels, the feel of other men’s collars.

The thought made him swallow. The pain subsided enough for him to move to the bathroom - eager to see the changes he felt rippling through his body.

Hair spread next. It started as prickling across his sternum, then became an almost unbearable tickle. His light chest hair darkened and multiplied, filling outward across his pecs in a dense, natural mat. A thick line ran down the center of his torso where the hair was most dense, darker and heavier, pulling toward his navel and below.

Hair climbed his shoulders, dusted his upper arms, thickened on his forearms. He twisted toward the mirror and saw it wrapping around the tops of his shoulders, hinting at a back that was no longer smooth or boyish.

His skin deepened, taking on a sun-touched tan as if he had spent years outside instead of under fluorescent studio lights. His posture changed without his permission. His shoulders eased back. His stance widened. He stopped hovering over himself.

Then his face shifted. Jake felt it in the jaw first: a heavier set, a firmer line. His cheeks matured. The soft uncertainty around his eyes sharpened into something calmer. Lines etched lightly at the corners, crow’s feet that did not make him old so much as experienced. Laugh lines bracketed his mouth. His beard pulled back into rough stubble along his jaw while his mustache thickened, darkened, and settled heavily over his upper lip. His hair receded slightly at the front, sides tidying, top remaining short.

When it was done, Jake stood frozen in front of the mirror. The man staring back was him - sorta. That was the terrifying part.

He was still Jake in the softness around his eyes, still Jake in the angle of the mouth, still Jake somewhere under the stronger jaw and weathered skin. But he was Jake at thirty-five, maybe thirty-six. Jake after sun, work, confidence, years of being heard and seen. Shirtless, hairy, tanned, broad, with a thick mustache and hands that looked dangerous even resting at his sides.

“Cowboy Jake” he whispered in a deeper voice with a Texas drawl - flexing a swollen bicep.

He should have panicked. He did panic, technically. His heart hammered. His mouth went dry. He backed away from the mirror, then stepped forward again because he could not stop looking.

His phone buzzed.

hairy-bothered: Well?

Jake picked it up with his new massive hairy hand. The phone looked smaller.

Jake: What did you do to me?

hairy-bothered: I mailed you a choice. You drank it.

Jake: You didn’t say it would change my age! I look thirty-five!

hairy-bothered: You look like a man who doesn’t stand in the corner of bars watching the world dance by.

Jake looked back at the mirror. His mustache moved when he smiled.

He put down his phone and took a deep breath. “Moment of truth” he thought as he stretched the elastic of his grey shorts to see what had changed below his belt - hoping hairy-bothered had worked some magic on his average 5” cut dick. Jake peaked over his new pecs to see a massive bush of pubes and nestled within, like a snake in the grass, was an 8” semi-hard cock in his shorts. “Whoa…” was all he could mutter.

He picked up his phone.

Jake: BTW - thanks for the new 🍆

hairy-bothered: Don’t mention it. ;) Have fun! 🍆💦💦

Jake put down his phone, and as he pulled his shorts over his hairy bush his dick, slowly becoming visible, flopped out. “Yes…” Jake thought at the sight of his new member on full display. He reached a thick hairy hand down and gave his new dick a little tug, which coaxed his dick into a full erection at 9", thick, veiny with dense hair on the base.

He inspected how the weight of his new rod shifted, the way it responded. He reached behind and felt two golf ball sized nuts in a long dangling sack. He thought about how his new nuts were perfectly situated to slap against another man’s ass as he fucked them.

Jake grabbed his cock with one hand and started to pump his shaft. Softly, at first, but before long his pace shifted into a higher gear and he moved up to the head - sliding his new foreskin over his glans. It felt sensitive in a way his cut cock never did.

He looked at himself in the mirror. At his new muscles, at the hair coating his body, at the thick mustache above his lip that tickled when he pursed his lips. Gradually his pace quickened and he started thrusting into his hand.

He started visualizing the type of men he could dominate in this upgraded body. How they would worship his hairy pecs, dwell a moment longer sniffing his hairy pits, moan under the pressure of his new cock deep inside them.

After a couple of minutes visualizing himself fucking a twenty three year old frat boy from his design studio with a tight body and thick stubble, Jake felt the heat build up across his body and release in an instant with a deep moan as he ejaculated ropes of thick creamy cum on the bathroom mirror. “Whoa…” he muttered again before cleaning up. 

For the next few days, nobody noticed anything was wrong. That was almost worse than if they had screamed at the sight of him. Jake’s classmates greeted him like always. His professor called on him without hesitation. The barista wrote Jake on his coffee cup and did not blink at the fact that Jake’s wrist looked twice as thick and his mustache could have belonged on a rancher in a beer commercial. The world had edited itself around him.

His driver’s license and student ID showed his new face - and birthdate - July 12, 1990 putting him at nearly 36 years old. Photos on his phone had changed, too. There he was at a gallery opening with the mustache. There he was in a group project photo, broad-shouldered in a denim shirt. There he was on his couch holding a controller, looking like somebody’s hot older brother who had wandered into grad school by mistake.

Only Jake - and hairy-bothered - remembered him being smaller. Only they knew who Jake was in his core.

In studio, this new version of Jake was a problem. He did not fit at the narrow desks the same way - his knees bumped the underside. His fingers were thicker around the delicate knife he used to cut chipboard. His classmates looked briefly confused when he leaned over their models, not because they remembered him differently, but because the shirt stretched over his chest and forearms made him impossible not to notice.

Despite the litany of physical changes, the real change was Jake's voice - and not just his new drawl. He stopped apologizing for himself. He spoke with intention and confidence. He took space and started going after what he wanted.

When his professor questioned his structural logic for a project, Jake heard himself say, “No, that’s not the point of the load path,” and then calmly walked the room through it. His voice came out lower, slower, with no upward nervousness at the end. People listened. The ex-frat guy in his cohort nodded. His professor paused, then said, “That’s stronger.”

Jake should have been horrified. Instead, he wanted to laugh. He nailed the review. That night to celebrate he went to a bar. He told himself it was research. He told himself he needed to know how his new body moved in public, how people responded, whether the change held under pressure. Whether this was worth it. He put on jeans, boots, a white undershirt under an open plaid shirt, then stared at himself so long he forgot the excuse.

The shirt did not hide him. Muscles bulged. Hair showed at the collar. The mustache changed the weight and gravity of every expression. The jeans fit his hairy thighs in a way that made him understand why men leaned against bar counters.

At the bar - a gay western themed affair called the Rainbow Pony - he did not wait. He saw a man near the jukebox looking at him. Not glancing. Looking. Old Jake would have looked away and built an entire alternate life in his head. Cowboy Jake walked over.

“Evening,” Jake said.

The man smiled before answering. “Hi, I’m Dan.”

“Good to meet you, Dan. You here alone?”

“Yes,” he spit out before Jake even finished his thought, “Well...no. I’m here with some friends” he said pointing to a group of men at the other side of the bar.

“Ahh,” Jake replied. “Maybe I’ll catch you later his evening then?” And he made his way through the crowd.

That was new. Everything about the night felt new. Men moved around him differently. Some gave him space. Some stepped closer. He flirted without rehearsing. He made choices. He let his gaze linger and watched men react to being seen by him. His body seemed to know the timing of a slow smile, the weight of silence, the exact angle to lean so the hair at his open collar showed just enough to have men’s eyes linger.

The man from the jukebox had stayed close all night, laughing into his beer, glancing at Jake’s mouth whenever the mustache shifted with a smile. Old Jake would have spent the entire ride home wondering whether he was reading the signals correctly. This Jake did not wonder. When the Uber pulled up, he opened the door, gave the man one slow look, and said, “Get in, we're going to your place.”

The back seat was dark except for the passing streetlights. The second the door shut, the man turned toward him, still wearing that amused, challenging expression. Jake caught him by the front of his shirt and pulled him in. The kiss was not careful. It was warm, rough, confident — the kind of kiss Jake used to imagine other men giving. Now it came out of him naturally, like the new body had brought its own instructions.

The man made a small surprised sound against his mouth, then kissed him back harder. That was all the permission Jake needed. He shifted closer, one broad hand firm at the man’s jaw, thumb brushing the edge of his beard while the other settled against his waist, holding him there like Jake had already decided where the night was going. The man’s hat bumped the car window. Jake smiled into the kiss, not apologizing.

For a moment, the old Jake flickered somewhere under the heat of it — shocked by his own certainty, by the weight of his hands, by how easily he took control. Then the man’s fingers tightened in his open plaid shirt, pulling at the white undershirt beneath, and the cowboy in him pushed forward again. Jake broke the kiss only long enough to murmur, low and close, “You’ve been looking at me all night.”

The man swallowed, eyes bright in the passing neon. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re hard to miss.” Jake’s mustache lifted with a slow grin of self-satisfaction.

“Good,” he said, and kissed him again before the car had made it three blocks.

Dan lived on the third floor of an older apartment building above a quiet street, the kind with narrow stairs, fluorescent hallway light, and doors that looked like they had been painted too many times over the years. Jake followed him up without saying much. He didn’t need to. The whole way, Dan kept glancing back over his shoulder, smiling like he was daring Jake to do something before they even made it inside.

Jake waited until the apartment door shut. Then he moved. Dan barely had time to set his keys on the table before Jake crowded him back against the wall, one hand braced beside his head, the other catching him firmly at the waist. He kissed him again, deeper this time, slower but no less certain.

The old Jake might have asked if this was okay in a nervous voice that made the question smaller than it needed to be. Cowboy Jake asked differently. He paused just long enough to look Dan in the eyes - seeing them screaming for attention and the touch of Jake’s hands.

The apartment was dim except for a lamp near the couch. Jake walked him backward through it, kissing him between steps, making Dan laugh once when he bumped into the edge of a chair. The laugh died quickly when Jake’s hands settled on him again, confident and possessive, guiding instead of asking. He liked the way Dan responded to that — the way the teasing smile slipped, the way his breath changed, the way he stopped performing and started following.

Dan reached to pull off Jake’s plaid shirt, but Jake caught his wrist and pinned it gently against the wall. Dan’s eyes lifted.

Jake smiled under the mustache. “Not yet, cowboy.”

The words should have embarrassed him. Instead, they came out low and natural, like he had always been the kind of man who could say them and be obeyed.

Dan swallowed, then nodded.

Jake let go of his wrist and took his time with the shirt himself, sliding his outer shirt off leaving his white undershirt for Dan to see the dark hair at the collar, the new breadth of his chest and shoulders. Dan stared, and Jake felt that look move through him like confirmation. This was what he had wanted in the bar. This was what he had wanted on campus, in the mirror, in every late-night fantasy he had pretended was only attraction…to be the man someone else could not stop looking at.

He stepped closer again and kissed Dan until the back of Dan’s head touched the wall. Then he leaned near his ear and said, “Bedroom, now.”

Dan laughed once, breathless. “You always this bossy?”

Jake pulled back just enough for Dan to see his grin. “No,” he said honestly. Then, after a beat, he added, “But I’m learning fast.”

Dan took his hand and led him down the short hallway. Jake followed, but only because he chose to. At the bedroom door, he turned Dan around, kissed him again, and shut the door behind them with one broad hand.

Dan’s bedroom was tidy and organized, with a queen sized bed pushed against the window, two nightstand and some photos on the wall. Jake removed Dan’s cowboy hat and put it on his head. “Mind if I borrow this tonight, partner?” he grinned.

He then proceeded to unbutton Dan’s shirt. While Dan returned the favor by pulling off Jake’s undershirt - leaving him in jeans and the borrowed cowboy hat.

Dan gave Jake a good look and said “Wow, I love how hairy you are. It’s so hot.”

Old Jake was beaming on the inside. Cowboy Jake took the compliment in stride by simply pulling Dan towards him and whispering “I know you do” in his ear while simultaneously unbuttoning Dan's jeans and pushing him onto the bed.

Jake unbuttoned his own pants and climbed on top of Dan - grinding their eager cocks against their thigh-tight denim. They kissed heavily while dry humping before Dan reached into his nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube.

“I want you to fuck me, cowboy” he whispered to Jake between heavy kisses with tongues intertwined.

“I was waiting for you to say that.”

Jake then pulled down his jeans and underwear releasing his dick, while Dan reciprocated by removing his pants and underwear.

“Hairy and hung” my favorite combination, Dan said.

Jake gave a little chuckle - remembering his former smaller dick and less hirsute body. He then lifted Dan’s legs and spit on his asshole before going in with his tongue - prepping him to take his 9" thick dick. Dan began to moan and writhe at the feeling of Jake lapping in and around his asshole - the bristles of his mustache teasing him.

Jake took the bottle of lube and rubbed some into Dan’s yearning hole with two then three fingers before smearing some over his own dick. He then pressed his cock again Dan’s asshole and slowly pushed in, the two men interlocked in missionary style, face-to-face.

“Mmm…” Dan moaned as Jake’s dick slide in further, stretching him out. "It's been a while since I've taken such a big dick."

"That's a boy, you're taking it like a champ" Jake whispered as he slide his dick further with each slow thrust.

Dan reached up and felt Jake’s hairy chest, kissed his mustached face, and then dug his hands into Jake’s hairy back - pulling him deeper into his ass. The attention drove Jake wild as he began to pump hungrily into Dan’s tight hole.

Jake began to lose himself in thought - here he was doing something old Jake would never have dared - fucking a stranger he met in a bar, being worshiped for his hairy body, stern broad face, and massive new cock.

Jake snapped back into the moment when he heard the tone of Dan’s moans shift. He felt Dan's tight hole begin to spasm around his cock as he came from the intensity of Jake's dick in his ass - cum splattering up on Jake’s hairy chest. Jake pulled his dick out, and pulled Dan to the edge of the bed - rising to his feet and reinserting his dick to get a deeper angle. He then rubbed his hand through cum-soaked chest and lifted it to his mouth - tasting it while increasing his pace.

“Where do you want me to cum?” he whispered to Dan.

“On me” Dan replied, still reeling from his orgasm and the feeling of Jake's dick still inside him.

Jake pumped a few more times into Dan then pulled out and jerked his rock-hard dick until he exploded all over Dan’s chest - with ropes of cum splattering all the way up to the man's face. Jake then collapsed onto Dan, his dick softening pressed against Dan’s cum-coated chest.

After wiping up the cum, Jake snuggled up next to Dan waiting for him to fall asleep so he could slip out before dawn. He did not become cruel. He did not become a caricature. He simply stopped asking permission to exist. He loved it - and that was the problem.

He loved the body. He loved the heft of it, the roughness, the way desire seemed to travel outward from him instead of trapping itself under his ribs. He loved how his own reflection every time he passed a mirror startled him and then satisfied him. He loved the mustache. He loved the hairy chest and shoulders. He loved being the man who approached what he wanted and took it.

But by the ninth day, unease crept in. At school, a first-year student called him “sir” and then flushed. Jake laughed it off, but it stuck. In the grocery store, a cashier guessed he was married. A guy at the gym asked if he had “been this built since he was a young man,” and Jake almost answered honestly.

At night, alone, he studied his face. Thirty-five looked good on him. Too good. But he was twenty-five. He had not earned those lines. He had not lived that decade. Somewhere under the tan, chest hair and steady gaze, the original Jake felt like he had borrowed a truck he did not know how to park.

He messaged Hairy-Bothered.

Jake: I like it.

hairy-bothered: I know, cowboy.

Jake: But it’s weird being this much older.

hairy-bothered: Older bothers you?

Jake: A little.

hairy-bothered: You wanted masculine. You didn’t say young. How many young men do you think are really that masculine? How many exude the confidence you now possess?

Jake looked at the black box. Two return vials. One blue vial.

Jake: The bro one makes me younger?

hairy-bothered: Younger. Louder. Fratty. Hairier than ever. Easier.

Jake: Easier - in what way?

The reply took longer this time.

hairy-bothered: Easier to stop overthinking.

Jake should have noticed the wording.

Instead, he thought about being younger, hairier and built. "Hairier than ever" - whatever that meant exactly. Hot in the way frat boys were hot: careless, physical, energetic, wanted. Maybe he could have the body and the confidence without feeling like he had jumped ahead ten years.

On Sunday morning, Jake drank one RETURN vial. The cowboy left him in reverse. His shoulders narrowed. His hands smoothed. The tan faded. The hair thinned and retreated from his shoulders, his arms, his stomach, his chest, leaving him with the familiar lighter pattern of pre-change Jake. His mustache softened back into his regular beard. The lines at his eyes vanished. His face became twenty-five again.

When it finished, Jake stood in the bathroom mirror looking exactly like himself. He should have felt saved. Instead, he felt reduced.

The bathroom looked bigger. His shorts hung looser. His hands looked delicate around the sink. Even his thoughts seemed quieter, less confident, less rooted in his body. Normal fit, but not comfortably.

His phone buzzed.

hairy-bothered: How’s normal feel?

Jake stared at himself then thought for a moment before replying:

Jake: Smaller.

A minute later:

hairy-bothered: Then maybe normal was never the goal.

Hair burst across him in a dark rush. Jake gasped as his chest filled, thicker than the cowboy version, darker and denser, a real pelt spreading across his pecs and down the center of his stomach. His arms grew hairier. Shoulders, upper arms, forearms — all of it came in heavy, masculine, almost shocking against his younger skin. His beard started to push out full and dark along his jaw, swallowing the careful uncertainty of his old face.

Jake’s face shifted into a version that looked slightly younger - undergrad age - twenty-three: handsome, fratty, broad-cheeked, approachable. His eyes looked a little brighter. His grin arrived before he decided to smile. When it ended, Frat Boy Jake stared back from the mirror.

He was ridiculous. He was so hot. Jake laughed. The sound came out louder than expected, an easy bark of disbelief. He ran to his bedroom and grabbed a baseball cap. He returned to the bathroom and put it backwards on his head. He flexed one arm and immediately laughed again because he looked like the kind of guy who flexed as a joke and knew everyone would still look. His chest hair moved with his breathing. His beard made his face feel heavier, his jaw framed in dark confidence. The backward cap should have looked stupid. Instead it looked like a part of his persona.

He messaged Hairy-Bothered.

Jake: Okay. This one is insane.

hairy-bothered: There he is.

Jake: I look like every guy I hated wanting.

hairy-bothered: You look like a good pup.

Jake’s thumb hovered.

Jake: Don’t call me that.

hairy-bothered: You sure?

Jake read it once. Then again. Then he locked his phone and told himself the heat in his face and the twitch in his pants was only embarrassment.

“My dick!” he shouted. “I haven’t even looked at what this new body is packing!” Just like when he changed to his cowboy persona, frat boy Jake slowly lifted the elastic of his pants to see what changes awaited him. At the base of a thick set of curly black pubes sat a stubby girthy uncut dick. Not as long as cowboy Jake’s, but much thicker with a large mushroom head and two perky testicles sitting tight underneath.

Jake reached a smooth hairy hand down and slid open the foreskin exposing the head. He ran two fingers along it wiping a bead of precum that pooled at the tip from all the excitement. He looked at his new hairy chest and thick beard in the mirror while starting to stroke his thick new monster cock. This was his favorite part of the change - discovering his new modified body, it's new needs and moods.

Jake started thinking about the same frat boy in his studio with thick stubble and a tight body that he masturbated thinking about as cowboy Jake. But whereas cowboy Jake’s thoughts had floated towards dominating men - frat boy Jake instantly thought about being used and fucked by his classmate. Regardless, he came too quickly for the thought to overstay its welcome - overstimulated in this younger, hairier, quicker version of himself. He chalked up the brief sub fantasy to the quick flood of hormones while he cleaned up the flood of cum on his vanity - putting his cock back into his pants with an unknowing grin.

Frat boy Jake fit campus immediately. That was what scared him, though not at first. People treated him like he had always been this version of Jake: louder, friendlier, more physical. A guy from studio slapped his shoulder and asked if he was coming out Friday. A girl in his seminar borrowed a pencil and said, “Thanks, bro,” like it was a shared joke. The ex-frat guy invited him to lift.

Jake went. Of course he went. His body wanted movement. It wanted noise, sweat, contact, protein shakes, laundry left in the dryer too long, men laughing too loud in locker rooms. He still liked painting. He still loved architecture. But his attention kept sliding sideways. He doodled elevations beside cartoonish Greek letters. He showed up to studio in gym shorts. He said “bro” once, ironically, then twice without thinking.

His work changed, too. It got messier but bolder. His models lost some of Cowboy Jake’s practical severity and gained strange, aggressive forms — cantilevers, open courtyards, social spaces meant for bodies instead of quiet observation.

His professor looked at one and said, “This is less refined, but more alive.”

Jake grinned. “Hell yeah.” Then he heard himself and winced.

Hairy-Bothered messaged every night. At first it was teasing.

hairy-bothered: How’s pledge life?

Jake: Not a pledge.

hairy-bothered: Backward cap says otherwise.

Then it got warmer.

hairy-bothered: Hitting your protein goals, bro?

Jake: Weirdly yes.

hairy-bothered: Good. Big boys need fuel for their daddies.

Jake liked that too much. That was the thing about this new iteration of himself: he liked things too easily. Cowboy Jake had wanted. Cowboy Jake had chosen. Cowboy Jake had looked at men and decided whether to approach.

Frat boy Jake wanted to be chosen. It took Jake a few days to understand the difference. He first noticed at the gym. An older man with a thick neck and graying beard corrected his form on a lift. Nothing overtly flirtatious. Nothing dramatic. Just a hand hovering near Jake’s elbow and a calm, “Slow down. Control it.”

Jake’s body obeyed before his brain decided to. The man nodded. “Better, son.”

Jake felt the praise hit him so hard he nearly dropped his dumbbell. The weight of the word "son" at the end, in the older man’s deep bass voice caused his dick to spring to life. His voice cracked as he replied with a shaky soft “Thanks.”

“No problem, son” the older man said as he gave Jake a little wink and began to walk off. “I’ll be around if you need me.”

Jake kept an eye on the man throughout his workout. Eventually, he saw him gather his items and head towards the locker room. Jake paused before his new impulses got the best of him and he followed the man back - which was not unnoticed.

In the locker room Jake found a flimsy excuse to approach asking about a technique he saw the man use. The older man laughed, briefly explained, and then touched Jake on the elbow to demonstrate. Jake leaned back into it and met his gaze with soft eyes.

“You’re very handsome” the older man whispered to Jake while still holding his elbow. “I bet you like a hard cock in your ass.”

Jake briefly paused. Cowboy Jake would have revolted at the inclination. Normal Jake would have been curious but too cautious and awkward, but this iteration of Jake could not resist. He replied with a simple “Yes, sir” behind bedroom eyes.

“That’s a good boy.” Let’s take this somewhere quieter. After a few more gentle touches and soft compliments Jake found himself lead by the man into a family use bathroom stall.

The older man pulled down his pants, releasing a half-hard 7” cut dick and two pendulous balls from their sweaty confines. As if on autopilot, Jake moved forward got on his knees and took the man’s dick in his mouth.

The man’s bush and dick smelt of sweat and musk - and Jake loved it. He loved the feeling of the man’s cock slowly engorging in his mouth. He loved the way the older man pet his hair and called him a “good boy” as he eagerly sucked his cock. He loved the sounds of pleasure he heard when he hit just the right spot with his tongue.

Jake pulled down his own pants and began rubbing his cock as the older man was growing closer. After a couple minutes the older man pulled his cock out of Jake’s mouth and slapped him in the face with it.

“Do you like that, pup?” he said.

Pup….there was that word again. “Yes, sir…”was all he could spit out before his mouth was filled with dick again.

“Good boy. I’m getting close. Are you ready?”

Jake deep throated the man's dick and mumbled a soft “uh-huh” just before the man pulled out again and sprayed cum all over his thick beard. This pushed Jake over the top - the feeling of being dominated, being used for another man’s pleasure - which he could now feel cool and damp on his face and beard. Jake came with a loud deep moan into his hand, cum splattering on the tile of the bathroom floor and on the older man's shoes. Then, as if by instinct, Jake leaned forward and licked his cum off the top of the man's shoes.

"Kinky" was all he heard from the older man while lapping at his cum. "You are a good pup, I see."

Later, he sat in his car gripping the steering wheel, horrified. “I wanted to be more dominant,” he told his reflection in the dark windshield.

His reflection looked back almost laughing at him - with a huge beard, dense chest hair visible at the collar of his tank, and eyes that seemed less horrified than eager. This body was everything he hoped for, but it came with a price - was he willing to pay it?

The next message from Hairy-Bothered arrived as if he had been watching.

hairy-bothered: Figured it out yet?

Jake did not answer.

hairy-bothered: Cowboy wanted to take charge.

Still Jake did not answer.

hairy-bothered: Bro wants a man who knows what to do with him. He wants to please.

Jake threw the phone onto the passenger seat.

Then picked it up again thirty seconds later.

Jake: It’s just the vial. It’s not really me.

hairy-bothered: Of course not, Jake.

Jake: I can go back.

hairy-bothered: You have one return left - do you want to live your life as you were?

That sentence settled in Jake’s stomach. One return. He could go back. He should go back. He had tested it. He had learned the difference. The cowboy body had been a fantasy of control. The bro body was becoming something else, something that made his thoughts warm and stupid around certain men, something that made the word daddy feel less like a joke every time Hairy-Bothered typed it. Something alien enough from who he thought he was in his core that the perks of his new hairy body maybe - just maybe - didn’t outweigh it.

Friday night, he put the final RETURN vial on the bathroom sink. He stared at it for ten full minutes.

Frat Boy Jake stared back from the mirror, shirtless in the same homely bathroom where this had started. But the room looked different now. There were gym clothes on the floor, a cap on the towel rack, a fraternity rush flyer tucked into the mirror frame like it belonged there. His old sketchbooks were still visible on a shelf, but they looked like artifacts from a quieter roommate.

Jake uncorked the vial. His hand was bigger than it used to be. Hair darkened his wrist and climbed the back of his fingers. His grip felt strong but strangely careless, as if the body trusted force more than precision.

“Just drink it,” he whispered.

His phone buzzed on the counter. He should not have looked. He looked.

hairy-bothered: Nervous, bro?

Jake’s stomach tightened.

Jake: I’m going back.

hairy-bothered: If that’s what you want, pup.

Jake hesitated at the sight of that word again. Feeling a twitch in his dick at the thought of being dominated - of being led around on a leash for the pleasure of another more important man. He shook his head and typed.

Jake: It is.

hairy-bothered: Good boys can make their own choices.

Jake’s breath caught on the words "good boys." He hated that. He loved that. For one clear second, old Jake rose inside him — the observant Jake, the careful Jake, the one who understood rooms and traps and thresholds. He saw the whole shape of it. The first vial had not been the trap. The cowboy had been bait. Hairy-Bothered had let him taste dominance so he would trust the magic, then let his own insecurity push him younger, louder, easier.

Jake felt manipulated. How could he be so stupid? He grabbed the vial tighter. Too tight. It slipped. Glass hit porcelain. The sound was small and final. The clear liquid splashed across the sink and vanished down the drain before Jake could move.

He stared at the broken pieces.

“No,” he said.

His voice sounded wrong. Too deep with the beard, too young with the panic.

“No, no, no.”

His phone buzzed. He looked down.

hairy-bothered: Clumsy boy.

Jake’s eyes burned with anger, fear, and something he did not want to name.

Jake: Send another.

hairy-bothered: I don’t think so.

Jake: This isn’t funny.

hairy-bothered: A little funny, pup.

Jake gripped the sink. His chest rose and fell, heavy hair shifting with each breath. He looked at himself in the mirror and tried to find the original version of himself. He could see traces: the eyes, maybe, the mouth when he stopped grinning, the shape under the beard. But the rest of him was pledge-bro bulk and thick hair and a body that reacted to panic by wanting direction. Reacted to desire by wanting a dick in his ass and cum on his face.

Another message appeared.

hairy-bothered: Pack a bag.

Jake laughed once, sharp and disbelieving.

Jake: No.

hairy-bothered: Are you sure, son?

Jake put the phone face down. A few minutes later, he picked it back up. An address was waiting. For a while Jake did not move. He stood in the bathroom, both hands on the counter, broken glass glittering in the sink, his reflection trapped between the yellow light and the mirror’s dark edges.

Then he went to his room. He did not pack much. Gym shorts. Jeans. A few shirts that accentuated his muscles and showed off his chest hair. Toothbrush. Charger. Sketchbook, after a pause. The black vial box sat near his bag, empty now except for foam impressions shaped like choices he had been naive enough to make.

He looked around his rewritten room. SEC flag. Protein tub. Paints still stacked by the window. A controller on the bed. Architecture drawings pinned beside a photo that now showed frat boy Jake with his arm around men he did not remember meeting.

He caught himself smiling at the photo. “Stop,” he said softly. The smile faded. Then came back, smaller. His phone buzzed.

hairy-bothered: Good pup.

Jake closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked in the mirror one last time. The man staring back was twenty-three, bearded, broad, hairy, and bright-eyed under a backward cap. He looked friendly. He looked eager. He looked like every guy Jake had once watched from across campus with a complicated ache in his chest.

He looked nothing like the anxious grad student who had opened the package. Or maybe, Jake thought, he looked exactly like what that grad student had been circling all along.

He zipped the duffel. On the way out, he paused at the door, keys in hand, trying to summon the part of himself that would turn around.

Instead, his thumb opened the message thread.

Jake: I'm coming, but not coming because you told me to.

The reply came almost immediately.

hairy-bothered: Sure, Jake. Good boys can pretend.

Jake stared at the words until they blurred into something warm and impossible to resist. By the time he locked the apartment door behind him, he had almost stopped thinking of it as being trapped.

"Coach, I don't think..." Johny stammered.

"I need you, Johny," Coach interrupted, his eyes locking onto the younger man with an intense, heavy gaze. "My best wrestler, Dane Mercer, just dropped out of tonight's intercollegiate match."

Johny’s eyes widened behind his invisible anxiety. "Dane Mercer? As Dane 'The Anvil' Mercer? Coach, he’s a beast! He competes in the heaviest weight class. How could I ever replace him? I weigh next to nothing."

Coach stood up, towering over Johny, casting a massive shadow. He placed a heavy, warm hand on Johny’s shoulder, sending an unexpected spark of heat straight down the boy's spine. "Don't worry about that. You can handle it. Go to the locker room, put it on. The match is about to start. Trust me." Dazed, Johny took the singlet and retreated to the locker room. He pulled off his baggy hoodie and jeans, feeling acutely vulnerable in the chill air. He stepped into the wrestling boots and pulled the red singlet up over his thin shoulders. The fabric hung loose, sagging against his flat chest and slender thighs. The boots felt like clunky buckets on his feet. He looked down at himself, feeling utterly ridiculous, his mind racing with panic about the humiliation awaiting him on the mat.

Then, a strange, suffocating heat flared in the center of his chest.

Johny gasped, clutching his stomach as a sudden, violent surge of raw energy ripped through his veins, hot as liquid fire. His vision blurred, the sterile grey tiles of the locker room swirling into streaks of light and shadow.

Thump. Thump. His heart hammered against his ribs like a heavy war drum, echoing in his ears, drowning out the distant ambient noise of the gym. It wasn't just a pulse; it felt like an engine turning over, pumping something potent, thick, and unfamiliar through his entire body.

Suddenly, the floor seemed to drop away as profound dizziness took hold. Johny gasped as his narrow, boyish skeletal frame began to violently stretch. It started with a deep, internal ache in his marrow. His joints popped, clicking loudly in the quiet room as his bones lengthened at an impossible speed. He watched, terrified yet mesmerized, as the lockers appeared to shrink around him. He was shooting upward, his perspective shifting rapidly as his head rose higher and higher toward the ceiling tiles, forcing him to look down at surroundings that suddenly felt incredibly small. He kept growing until he finally stabilized, a towering, giant shadow of his former self, looking down from a staggering new height.

Before he could even fully process this vertigo-inducing vertical growth, his flesh began to swell, responding to the immense new skeletal frame. It started as a deep, primal ache, a stretching of tissue that quickly turned into an intoxicating rush of fullness. Beneath the loose crimson spandex, his once non-existent muscles began to balloon with explosive power. Lean, sharply defined lines carved themselves into his torso, but they didn't stay slender for long; they were immediately buried under thick, dense slabs of hyper-masculine mass that seemed to pack themselves onto his frame by the second.

His collarbones elongated, forcing his shoulders out into a massive, wide V-shape that completely redefined his silhouette. His chest erupted outward, expanding exponentially to form huge, thick pecs that pushed hard against the thin fabric of the singlet until the seams groaned and cried out under the strain. Down his arms, the transformation was just as fierce. His biceps surged, knotting into hard, heavy peaks of solid muscle that flexed instinctively. Below his waist, his slender legs exploded with new mass; his thighs thickened into powerful, solid trunks, packed with heavy muscle that filled out the wrestling boots perfectly, stretching the leather until it gripped his ankles with absolute, unyielding support.

The singlet was no longer baggy. It was stretched to its absolute limit, plastered tight against his massive, muscular body, highlighting the absurd thickness of his new physique. He was a heavyweight titan.

Then sharp short headache hit him. His head started to feel different. He reached up, his large, newly calloused hand brushing against his hair. The floppy, unkempt nerd strands were gone, replaced by a sharp, aggressive, clean-cut fade. His hand slid down to his face, his fingers tracing a massive transformation—his soft, receded jawline had hardened into a heavy, square, ultra-masculine chin, thick and rock-solid.

But the physical transformation was only half of it. Inside his brain, something was being rewritten. The anxious thoughts, the library catalog numbers, the complex mathematical formulas – they were violently overwritten, burned away by a flood of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. In their place rushed an instinctive, flawless understanding of leverage, takedowns, pins, and physical dominance. His shy, submissive nature vanished entirely, evaporated by a sudden, intoxicating rush of supreme confidence.

He didn't feel like Johny the nerd anymore. He felt like a god. A cocky, dominant alpha predator.

A slow, arrogant smile spread across his newly chiseled face. He flexed his massive arms, feeling the terrifying, raw power coiling tightly in his chest. He looked down at his tightly clad, hyper-masculine body, his chest heaving with anticipation.

He knew exactly what he was going to do to his opponent out there. He knew how he was going to dominate him, pin him to the mat, and hear the crowd roar his name. Tonight's tournament wasn't going to be a disaster. It was going to be pure, thrilling fun.

These days that’s mostly his assistant, Marcos, who just walked into his office with the higher up’s new projects for Sinclair. “At least they’re letting you choose, right boss?” 

Somehow sighing and scoffing at the same time, Sinclair’s having none of it, “Sure kid. You spend a decade of your life pouring your blood into a typewriter for them to say ‘why dontcha pick between sports reporting a little league game and touring the new sewage treatment plant’ and get back to me.”

Glancing at said typewriter, Marcos holds his tongue from insulting his own boss’ performative proclivities; ones that result in him having to retype each and every article into a word processor. But his boss is right, they’re shafting him. He just needs to stay in the reporter’s good graces long enough to get a rec letter, “I get that Sinclair, but they did kinda tell me this is some last chance stuff. And I know you don’t want to do it, but I think they really found heat this week!”

Grimace plastered on his face, Sinclair awaits his options. Clearing his throat, Marcos does his best to sell them, “For starters, that new arena everyone’s been asking about is finally done and they need someone on the scene to interview the hockey team.” 

“Hockey!? Well there are worse sports I suppose. Could be outside, ugh.” He can only imagine the mouth breathing, barely literate goalie he’ll be forced to parley with. “What’s the team?”

“Oh! Uhhh, looks like the Pleasant Valley Pistols.

“Ugh, awfully militaristic isn’t it? Just what small towns need, more gun themed branding …”

“Uhh yeah haha, well you’re not gonna like the next one either boss. Seems they’re converting the old high school into some kinda base? Fort Pleasant they’re calling it.”

Dumbfounded, Sinclair just stares at Marcos. Surely you can’t just do that right? They voted to build the new school, should there not then be a vote on what to do with the old one? Clenching his jaw, while he hates dealing with the military he can smell a story there. 

“I can just cross that one off boss-man. Next is more like your old stuff, seems there's a new Pan-Asian community center opening near the park. Little wild since Pleasant Valley’s so well- you know.”

White. Honestly it was the biggest hang up on him moving here from the city. He hadn’t noticed an uptick in Asian locals enough to justify a community center, but hey not like he’s looking out for that stuff. Happy change as far as he’s concerned, and if he can do his part in bolstering that, well Marcos is right. Broken clocks and all that, he’d honestly be happy to. 

Nodding Sinclair takes all this in, “Right. I suppose I agree this could have been slightly worse. Could have just canned me. They must not want me gone nearly as much as I thought!”

Marcos thinks about simply not mentioning the final task listed but in the end he can’t help himself, “Well there is one more option, uhm. One that would let you stay in office even.”

Interest piqued, Sinclair motions for his assistant to continue.

And he does, carefully. “Rather than going out they want you to know you can also take the opportunity to uhhhm,” he throws up his guard, “help develop new talent at the paper.”

Sinclair’s blood runs cold as he stares at his long-suffering assistant. Twice now he’s denied Marcos’ request to be promoted citing lack of experience and lack of professionality. Obviously he lied and told his assistant the hangup was elsewhere. “And I take it that you’re the new talent?” He makes no attempt to hide the venom in his voice. 

“Look, sir, I wasn't going to mention it. I just figured you might prefer helping you know, the only coworker not ignoring you rather than wandering around a military base or whatever but it’s your call.”

And it is his call. “Of course, Marcos. Apologies for the implication.” Looking at the options, Sinclair makes up his mind with the haste of a man who doesn’t know he’s about to have his life and form wrest from him. “I’m gonna go with…”

The Hockey Team - Should be easy

Fort Pleasant - Something’s fishy over there

The Community Center - Think I could help their cause

Marcos. - Ugh, I do owe you something. I guess.

Pleasant Valley Pistols:

“Go ahead and let the coach know that I’ll be stopping by, Marcos.” Running the numbers, Sinclair decides this should be the simplest and easiest task offered to him. Well, besides mentoring Marcos, but the surly reporter certainly isn’t going to be training his replacement. Of this he is sure. 

One routine email and a quick car ride later, Sinclair finds himself outside a robust new ice skating complex. The large construction zone had been slow-going for months and everyone in Pleasant Valley had been placing bets on just what it’s to be. Strange given someone in town must have had some prior warning that there’s an ice rink coming to town.

If not city planners then construction workers, Sinclair can’t help but speculate as he watches a crane lower a large hockey stick over the front entrance. Perhaps there’s meat on this bone yet. Crossing his arms the journalist looks at his scrawled plans to interview a player or two and publish profiles and crumples it.

This is connected to everything else, he bets. The Pistols must be connected to that shady company coming to take over Pleasant Vall-

“Hey there! You must be from the local paper eh?”

Sinclair almost jumps out of his skin as a hand the size of a baseball mit pounds him squarely in between his shoulder blades. Turning with fear in his eyes to find the source of this assault he instead finds a beaming man who clearly just intended to pat him on the back.

Apathetic or clueless to the clear grimace on Sinclair’s face, the bear of a man reaches out his mitt to shake, “Coach Whitlow, you must be Sinclair eh? Your bosses told me you were comin’ and to give you a Warm Pistol’s Welcome!”

Begrudgingly meeting Coach Whitlow’s hand, Sinclair frowns and does a poor attempt to butter up the man with all the power here, “Yes! I’m quite excited to learn of and spread the good word about Pleasant Valley’s new superstars. How’d you land on ‘Pistols’ anyhow?”

Notepad out, he prepares to take notes before instead watching a somehow even blanker look croses Whitlow’s face. Confusion seeps from the corners of his friendliness as he makes what is at best a guess, “Well it’s certainly fun to say right? Pleasant Valley Pistols! Nice and literar-ative like all you booky-boys say.”

“Right.” Eyes on the prize, “Well Coach I’m sure I’ll stop by for an interview before I depart. Would it be alright if I looked around the facilities first? My readers are simply dying to learn about your state of the art facilities!” He didn’t know he had this level of bullshitting still in him.

“Oh, great idea there son! Might as well stop by the weightroom while you’re at it, awfully scrawny for a sports writer. Should call you Shrimpclair, HAH!”

Indignant at being called a sports reporter moreso than the dig at his scrawny form, Sinclair flashes a smile and motions for Whitlow to lead him inside. Which the Coach promptly does, “Now don’t have too much fun poking around there Mr. Reporter, not unless you wanna stick around heh heh!” Turning towards his office while repeating Shrimpclair and giggling to himself, Whitlow leaves Sinclair to explore.

Spoiled for choice, the journalist is shocked at just how pristine this arena is. He was under the impression that this was some kind of below collegiate level team but the sheer size of the place alone that can’t be the case. Shoot he’d swear it’s bigger than some of the NHL arenas he’s seen- Of which he’s seen none. Obviously.

Sneaking around looking for proof of foul play or corporate espionage, it’s not long before he smells something suspiciously alluring in the air. Taking deeper and deeper breaths of the strange scent, Sinclair’s oblivious to his chest rising higher with every one. Exhaling slightly less with every inhale, he quickly finds his baggy shirt starting to awkwardly pull at his skin as he continues walking. As if he were beginning to inflate.

Quickly realizing he’s been following his nose like a dog, the proud reporter shakes off his stupor and scoffs. Scratching at his suddenly itchy jaw, Sinclair does his best to ignore the haze and focus on the sure scoop here. Unfortunately every breath continues to vie for his attention. 

There’s gotta be some proof somewhere that this is owned by the same assholes who bought the paper. Gosh smells like new pads doesn’t it? His feet kinda hurt, why’d he wear such small shoes today. Shit for an ice rink it’s kinda warm in here isn’t it. 

Prideful about his attention span as he is about anything else, Sinclair can’t believe how much he’s struggling to keep his train of thought on track. He doesn’t hear his fingers scritch in stubble that prickles underneath his chin as he looks at his notepad. 

The only thing scrawled, in sloppier handwriting than he’d ever humor, is ‘Pistols = Gud?’ 

“My God!? I didn’t write that!?” Taking another quick sniff just to breath, the reporter feels a new itch in his pits and ignores the urge to give them a sniff. Shaking his head his dark hair begins to shorten into something sportier, Sinclair’s neck cracks thicker. Below the belt he feels his legs begin to balloon with every struggled sniff.

Feeling his jeans begin to strain against his legs as he notices he can somehow see his pale midriff exposed, Sinclair clutches at his mouth. It’s the smell, it must be. Ignoring the scratch of a stubbly mustache poking at his hand, he does the only thing he can think to stop smelling something. He breathes through his mouth.

Obviously this does not go his way. 

Taking a far deeper breath through his mouth than he ever could with his nose, his body expands in every way it can. Arms that only ever strained from typing away at a keyboard suddenly rise like dough as biceps force their way onto his bones. Bulging against the sleeves of his shirt, slightly tanner skin is quickly visible through a number of tears. 

Kicking off his shoes as soon as discomfort rises enough to register in his foggy mind, he finds feet so large he can’t even imagine finding shoes to fit them. Above ankles now prickling with thick hair his jeans are strained at the calves as well as his lower body grows even more impressive than his meaty arms and his chest still twitching larger. 

Even more pronounced than the physical changes are those wreaking havoc in his mind. Mouth-breather is an insult the reporter had oft leveled at Marcos and anyone else he viewed as less intelligent than himself. And as his higher thoughts begin to dissolve into sand, it’s clear that uh, well nothing’s really clear to him anymore. 

Besides hockey, duh. Smirking as the memories him shooting through the rink rush into his mind, he stumbles up to the locker room’s entrance on much larger feet. Taking heavy steps as his jeans tear more with every stumble, Sinclair quickly pushes open the door and enters his favorite place in the world, the Pistol’s locker room.

Taking the deepest breath yet, he feels the air, stagnant with the stink of sweat and industrially cleaned uniforms, fill him from head to toe. Scratching his chest as a manly coat of curls etches across pronounced pecs, his rough hand yanks off the rags and tosses them to the floor. 

Looking to the mirror he’s surprised to find his pants have also completely fallen away, leaving him cock out in his locker room. Not that his teammates mind of course huhuh. Seeing his gleaming white smile reflected, his foggy mind tries to recall that he doesn’t have teammates but the thought shifts to confusion at his teammates simply not being here with him. No puck bunnies or twinks either…

Scratching his pubes and pits and barely abating an urge to helicopter his twitching dick, Sinclair figures he’s here for one on one practice or somethin. Hockey ass bouncing with every lumbering step, the Pistol’s new piston falls onto the bench and starts pulling on his pads commando. No time for that shit, not like his pads’ll stink any less after. Sides, Coach’ll be pissed if he’s late again.

Feeling the scratch of hard plastic on his thighs he feels his last sense of self struggle. Looking at meaty hands and feeling his defined abs twitch with every breath he tries to remember being a reporter. His deeper, thoughtless voice does little to help. “I’m not a, not a fuckin’ hockey… I’m a journaler, uh? I write, uhh, stuff. I’m Sink? Sin- uh?”

“Sinner!? That you in there boy? Should be out on the ice by now, I swear!” 

Yanking his pants up to his sternum and shoving his sweaty feet into somehow already sweatier skates, any fight fades from his eyes as Coach’s voice reminds him who he really is. Leaning against the cold wall as Whitlow strides into the locker room, he smirks and awaits the reprimand. 

“What am I gonna do with you… Shit you been using the new weight room eh Sinner? Settin’ a good example. Give me a flex there boy.”

Like he needed the command. Raising his arms into a double bi he takes a deep breath as the complexity of the world fades. He’s just a hockey star, and soon everyone in Pleasant Valley’s gonna be a fan.

Fort Pleasant:

“There’s something weird afoot over at the old high school right Marcos?”

His assistant shrugs, “I mean for sure, but the bosses want an, uh. Well it’s sorta an ad?” Marcos winces preemptively.

“An advertisement!? For the military?”

“They’re technically private security I thin-”

“They want me to- Well! I’ll tell you what Marcos. I’m going to go report on what I find and if the Pleasant Valley Paper’s not interested I’m taking all my fans and finally going indie! You just stay mum and look busy, I’ll be back before you know it.”

Watching his boss storm away, Marcos sighs knowing he certainly has no ability to stop Sinclair when he’s got his mind on a story. Good kid Marcos is he’s not even going to snitch on the turncoat, not like he wants a private militia kicking around town. Wordlessly wishing Sinclair pulls something off here, the assistant just hopes his overeager boss doesn’t just make his situation worse.

Nearing the base, Sinclair flashes back to his breaking expose of his university’s ROTC when he was in school. He can’t hold back a laugh at the memory, those wannabe schmucks never knew what hit them! This’ll be another walk in the park. Flashing a press pass at the gated entry, Sinclair grins as he’s just waved on through, already planning his brutal take down of the place.

Illegal appropriation of public land and goods. Lax security at best. That glorified doorman’s probably just jacking off in between dapping up his brainless coworkers. 

Far off in the remains of a football field, Sinclair can see a few men clad in camouflage doing some exercise drills. Shuddering at the thought of whatever poor sods have been tricked into working for some shoddy soon to be bankrupt private security firm, Sinclair rolls his eyes and hopes they enjoy the paid workouts while they last

Collecting himself and his journalistic materiel, Sinclair sets a small recorder to just tape every moment of the next half hour. The first sound recorded is a muttered ‘Shit!’ as Sinclair immediately drops his notepad. Leaning down to pick it up, his blood runs cold as he hears a gruff voice shout- 

“Ateeen-shun!”

His hands freeze just before grabbing the notepad as he feels his bent spine straighten. Eyes locked on the booklet, he feels his body shoot up to standing. Arms forced to his side, thumbs stuck to his shirt's seam as if they were magnetized. Puffing up his thin chest and fighting against raising his chin, Sinclair freezes in this pristine pose for a full second before breaking free.

Gasping, he stares dumbfounded at the man clad in fatigues. Stubbled chin wide and dimpled, tucked shirt straining against a lat wingspan Sinclair wouldn’t think possible, there’s a smirk clear on his face at his words having such an effect on some petty annoyance. The soldier watches as Sinclair collects his notepad and clears his throat. 

Before he can get a word out, the burly, brusque man issues another order. “Follow me, recruit.”

“I think you’ll find I’m here for an interview, s- sir.” Sinclair scrunches his nose at the reflexive honorific, swearing himself to not utter one again. “Obviously I’m not one of your muscle-brained, violence hungry, lunkeys. The Pleasant Valley Paper sent me to find out exactly what this operation’s all about.” 

Following behind the sergeant, what difference does it make if he’s doing so because he was commanded or because that’s the quickest way to get to the bottom of this mystery. Ensuring that his shirt is tucked in, as anyone would! Sinclair doesn’t notice as the edges of the cotton top seem to be staining a light green.

“What’s your name, soldier?”

“Sinclair, Sir- Ugh. If you wouldn’t mind, could you stop calling me soldier? I’m not-”

The man quickly turns with his arms crossed and stares down at Sinclair. Silenced by his steely gaze alone, Sinclair feels his lips trying to move as his body freezes into attention once more. This time his back is even straighter, he feels it straining his impeccable tuck as his shoulders seemingly raise higher. Hidden from sight as army green stains creep further up his shirt, his chest that was once but skin and bone begins to subtly widen.

Clenching his jaw until there’s an unmistakable cracking sound, Sinclair grunts as he finds his voice. Unwilling or unable to acknowledge the power this buffoonish jarhead cosplayer has over him, he tries to attack logically. Ignoring how his eye twitches as he even mentally insults the sergeant. “Look, obviously I’m too old to be of use as a soldier, just give me a couple quotes for the paper and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Rubbing his tight high-top, the sergeant smirks as he watches the army green fabric of Sinclair’s shirt continue to rise. At the same time the long sleeves begin retracting to reveal thin, hairless arms still stuck at attention. “Too old eh? Wouldn’t say you’re a day over 23 there soldier.” 

Beyond stunned, Sinclair stands there in shock as the words sink in. “Th- nnn-” When he tries to speak the air is knocked out of him as a decade of his life is simply erased from his body. The wrinkles beginning to creep out around his eyes and on his forehead are ironed away as his skin tightens. 

The slight paunch hiding under his regulation issued shirt is converted into rows of youthful abs as his hairline ceases retreating before rejuvenating altogether. Catching a reflection of himself in the floors polished to shine, Sinclair can’t recognize the man he’s becoming. 

“And before you say it, I do believe you’re more than fit enough. You’ve been hitting the gym since high school, far more than you ever hit the books soldier.”

Breaking out of the trance enough to shake his head, Sinclair feels his arms begin to bulk up in their frozen state. Quickly piling on pounds enough to strain the sleeves of his shirt, he feels them darken with hair as the mop on his head curls into some G.I.’s coif. Thick sideburns creep down his cheeks as far as they’re allowed. 

“S- Sergeant.” His voice cracks lower as the know-it-all timbre of the reporter gives way to the vocal fry of a younger man who’s ecstatic not to think for himself, “Ssssir. I swear, you don’t have to this. L- let me get back to the office. I know the perfect recruit for youuuu-” 

Sweating from the stress, Sinclair feels his underarms stain sweat as his hairy arms lead to even hairier pits. The trimmed bush that usually hid under them gives way to a wild-straight patch of pit hair designed to collect musk. Trying to worm his way out of these changes only accelerates them as by the time he even attempts to throw Marcos at his sergeant’s feet his memories of being anything but a soldier begin to drain.

Irritated at the man’s pathetic scrambling as he watches Sinclair continue to fill out his uniform, jeans finally corrupting into a heavier camouflaged fabric, he barks orders to his newest recruit. “Go sit until I decide what to do with you maggot. And take that fucking shirt off, you’re sweating like a pig.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Twitching desperately with every ordered movement, Sinclair obeys the command as every reason not to begins to rapidly disappear. Tearing off his shirt he feels dog tags fall back onto his chest, square between his enticing new pecs. His widening nipples harden as he pristinely folds his sweat-stained shirt and stows it under a wooden chair that creaks when he sits down.

Feeling his balls throb, Sinclair’s got a good guess where his thoughts and personality are draining to as he stares ahead. Trying to hold on to wispy memories as they fade, it’s not long before he can only assert what he knows he isn’t. He’s not a soldier. He’s Sinclair, he works for Fort Pleasant. No. He was here to? He’s not a soldier. He’s twenty- No he’s thirty- uh? No, he’s twenty three. Yeah.

The sergeant watches as his soldier at last begins to settle, pupils twitching with resistance slowly fade as he tosses around potential new posts for this handsome little lap dog. Not like they don’t have enough officers to guard every business in town. Why shouldn’t this one be just for him.

“Soldier, what’s your position?”

Sinclair bolts up, his back somehow getting even straighter as his feet lance out to their perfect 45 degree position even when sitting. “I’m your assistant, sir!” 

“Very good, at ease.”

The sergeant watches as, for the first time since stepping foot on For Pleasant’s grounds, the new soldier finally relaxes. Performatively sitting back so his sergeant can appreciate every new bulging muscle on his exposed torso. He exists to serve this man above all else.

“Put your arms behind your head, soldier.” 

Beautiful. He’ll need to send thanks to the Pleasant Valley Paper. Though the way these things work he wonders if even their most diligent of records have any trace of ever having a ‘Sinclair’ on staff, after all, he’s never been anything more than a soldier. 

Hidden in his fatigue pockets, ever so close to a thick cock doing its best to hold back pre that will stain them, a journalist’s tape record finally stops rolling. And oh what a scoop Sinclair found after all, shame the soldier's going to turn that into his superior as soon as he remembers he’s even wearing pants.

Pan-Asian Community Center:

“Screw it, if I’m being muzzled I might as well raise some funds for a community center right?”

Marcos genuinely smiles at his boss’ optimism, “I think that’s a great idea boss!” 

“Yeah whatever. Hold down the fort then, I imagine I’ll have something typed up for you by the end of day.”

Sighing as he looks to the pile of other stories he still needs to type up and submit himself, Marcos prepares for a long day of trying to get any of his boss’ work approved as he watches Sinclair depart. “Huhhh… He’s been recommending me for promotion, it’ll all be worth it one day…”

For his part, Sinclair’s sure this is going to be a nice and easy trip. What fledgling foundation would be opposed to free press right? Evidently this one. 

Walking past a small gated outdoor gym, Sinclair mutters judgementally to himself as he enters the lobby. “Who wouldn’t want to walk by a sweat factory to watch some foreign cinema…” Putting his attitude away, he forces a tight smile on his face as he approaches the receptionist, a younger woman who’s clearly bored out of her mind.

Dubbed Setsuna by her name tag adorned with a small Japanese flag, she looks up to Sinclair when the center’s front door slams shut. Frowning and rolling her eyes, she begins her spiel, “Konnichiwa and welcome to the Pleasant Valley community center. What can I do for you today.” Though it was ostensibly a question, her tone makes it clear that she is not here to help.

“Yes! Hello, I’m Sinclair from the local paper!” His smile creaks as his patience already wears thin.

“Okay?”

“And I’m here to help with your Community Center?” After she blankly stares he continues, “I mean, we both know that the town is as white as it gets. I guess my bosses figured you could use some help with fundraising?”

“Right. Well you can go ahead and let your bosses know that we’re doing fine on our own. Thanks.”

“Heh. Well, Miss. I think you’re being awfully blasé to the best reporter the Pleasant Valley Paper has.”

“死ね! I’m sure we’re really missing out.”

Sure whatever she just said was an insult, Sinclair goes for an old favorite, “Well! I’d like to speak with your supervisors.”

“Oooh so sorry, they’re busy, yeah. I can go ahead and summon security if you’d like?”

“Why I-”

“Thank youuuu~ Buhbye now.” Waving at Sinclair as he holds his tongue, the receptionist waits for the door behind him to close before getting back to scrolling on her phone. Were she anyone else she might wonder if Sinclair would be back sooner rather than later with a different name and nationality. But she’s certainly not paid enough to care.

Someone who cares even more than he’s paid is stomping away from Pleasant Valley’s latest community center. Steaming like he hasn’t since his last heated argument at work, Sinclair’d usually have worked himself up into weariness. For some reason, today the engine just seems to keep going. Each passing moment just fills him with more irritation and more energy.

Almost seeing red, the reporter looks to the outdoor gyms and spitefully decides to work off some of his newfound rage at this public resource. That’ll show them! Unsure what instinct he’s following, Sinclair is apathetic as he gets on something he thinks is supposed to exercise the shoulders and starts pushing.

Grunting as he quickly sweats up a storm, Sinclair grits his teeth as his arms burn with exertion he hasn’t felt since high school. Immediately finding himself dehydrated as he’s started working out in the sun having had nothing to drink today besides coffee, Sinclair figures his pathetic point made. 

That is, until he sees a large water bottle sitting right by his feet. That he’s even humoring drinking from it should be proof enough he’s not in his right mind. Covered with stickers, he knows it can’t be his and yet scrawled on top of it is his name: Sonclair. In no time his sweaty hand brings it to his mouth as he enjoys the ichor of ice cold water.

Standing from the machine, the irate reporter finds the sweaty shirt sticking to his skin incredibly irritating. In further proof of his rapidly teetering state of mind, the journalist who’s so body shy that his chest hasn’t seen the sun since childhood begins to remove his shirt. It clings to his body like a second skin as it tears away to reveal an upper body far more impressive than it should be.

Still entirely untrained, there is raw power pumping through his limbs like it should not be. Sitting back down at what he now mindlessly recognizes as a chest press, he begins pumping at it until failure. With each heaving thrust his arms throb larger as his chest realizes that it can hold muscle as well as fat.

Under the afternoon sun his pallor begins to give way to a tan. Having to continually readjust his position as his arms creak longer and his back expands to completely hide the seat behind him, Sofclair watches as his hands are decidedly darker than his skin tone could be in any light.

Breaking him free from his ire-induced haze, Sofclair takes in what his arms have become. Even as he watches they continue to expand, veins trail down their length, throbbing with each beat of his racing heart. He should feel horror, calloused hands that are not his own feel the warm bronze skin that now make up his bulky forearms. 

Looking down to a chest for the first time graced with pecs, he cannot hide the grin twitching onto his face. Darker, wider nipples point askew above a core designed for strength. Flexing his heavy new arms, Soflier takes another deep gulp of his water jug. Feeling it splash onto his face, he smirks even wider as he feels a thin mustache suddenly prickle onto his upper lip.

Discontent with his progress he splashes some of the icy liquid onto his face and feels as his whole face reconfigures itself. His jawline sharpens as his new tan finally creeps up his neck. Hair that has only been styled by barber’s hands thickens into a style that Soflier sees on all his magpinsan- uhh, cousins?

Shaking off whatever that strange fake word was, as Soflier’s eyes darken from their tepid blue into a brown darker than coffee, the journalist influencer scans the gym for his next machine. Scowling down at legs not nearly as impressive as his herculean chest and bis, Soflier stomps over to the leg press. 

Pumped in a way he can hardly understand, with each step he grows all the more impressive. Rows of abs bulge through a gut maintained more for strength than aesthetics. Biceps bloat even larger as sweat streams off his bovine shoulders and drips down his sides from pits muskier than any two of his bros put together. Dreamily wondering where they are, he sits on the next machine and starts pumping.

At first embarrassed at the stick thin legs barely able to hold up his titanic torso, each rep packs pounds onto his thighs and calves. From the feet up his lower body changes to match its better half. Feet burst free from his cheap leather dress shoes before they’re promptly covered once more by ostentatious tennis shoes four sizes larger. 

Shocked that he’s been working out in pants his whole time, when he blinks he finds he’s wearing his favorite gym shorts. Malinaw naman… Uhh, obviously, he never hits the gym without them! Probably slept in them after his sesh last night. Shamelessly giving himself a sniff as continues thrusting his legs larger, they quickly outpace even his upper body’s growth. 

Sofiel bites his lip as he feels soreness burn deep in his thighs. Hungrily staring, he almost starts laughing as they fill his shorts to their breaking point. Only just formed socks slide down his calves as veins trail up from his feet to his heavy crotch. “God, sexy ako…” He moans to himself as the sun overheats his already steaming body.

Rubbing hands up and down his body, feeling the throbbing veins trailing across his form and the warm skin struggling against the growing muscle underneath, Sofiel’s shorts struggle against the new package within. Having bulked to as close to human perfection as he cares to, Sofiel’s feet slam to the floor as he closes his eyes and begins rutting into the air. 

His publicly indecent reverie is interrupted as some mysterious force pours the rest of his ice cold water right onto his head. “Ayy what the fuck!?” Bolting up on the machine, the new Filipino gym bro sees none other than the Japanese receptionist who kicked him out.

“Answer your fucking phone next time! Jesus Sofiel, they’re gonna fire you if you don’t get your shit together.”

“Ahhh and I bet you’d hate to lose this eye-candy huh Suna?”

Rolling her eyes and yanking out her phone to performatively scroll at the accusation she goes on, “As if I’d wanna be with a dick who couldn’t find his way out of a finger trap”

“Ahh, ripping it in half counts! You’re just jelly…” Waiting for a response that doesn’t come, he looks up to see Setsuna gesturing inside.

“Did you not hear me, you oaf? Your horde of elderly women are getting impatient for their Zumba.”

“Ah shit! I owe you another one!”

She can’t help but stare at his ass and back as he leaves. Again she’d never bite but shit, if he isn’t hot. How’d he even get a body like that…

Marcos:

Though it’s the furthest thing from what he wants to do, perhaps ‘developing future talent’ will allow him to get Marcos more under his thumb. Maybe he can even get the kid to tag along when he’s inevitably fired by the end of the month. Sinclair’d hate to train another assistant up when he’s got an entirely passable one in Marcos. 

“So, Marcos, what precisely did you have in mind for me to help you develop?”

Stunned that his bitchy boss is for the first time showing interest in him, Marcos accidentally crumples the list in his hands. “Really!? You wanna help me sir!?”

“Well don’t get so hysterical about it. It’s the least shitty option available.” Staring at his assistant, he’s already begun to second guess that. Marcos was never his first choice. The year before last the paper decided to hire all three of its summer interns as staff for the department heads, and while he’s been shafted out of that role his provided assistant remains.

That summer Marcos only applied to have something accompanying soccer and a high school degree on his resume. Taking an initial gap year before applying for college, the short internship has turned into a cushy enough gig and he’s long been angling for a more permanent role on staff.

While diligently working under the most obnoxious man in a relatively toxic workplace for two years and a bit now, Marcos has always known there’s a lot he can learn from the writer. If he could just catch him on a good day. And finally, he will get his chance to do just that.

“I mean, well, I guess what’s a day in the life like, right?”

“Wh- You know that Marcos, you’ve been working under me for years yes? Why don’t you tell me?”

Changing strategies, Marcos tries to shift the onus on him. Doing his best not to stoke an ever-rising temper, “You’re right, sorry boss. I guess, if you had any notes for me we could work on those together today?”

“Notes hm? Well for starters you could certainly care more about your appearance.” A shocking statement from someone wearing a coffee stained shirt to an assistant who clearly hits the gym regularly. Yet he takes it in stride. “Right, that’s fair. Dress for the job you want right?” Oop, shit-

Sinclair’s eye twitches at this, “Right. The job you want. And what job is that? Marcos.” 

Obviously aware what Sinclair’s asking, Marcos tries to salvage it, but one cannot simply wrangle this genie back into the bottle. “You know I don’t- I wouldn’t still be here if I wasn’t okay working under you Sinclair.”

“Okay?! Just okay, is that right? Vouching for you to stay on as an assistant even after my position was erased. I- This is exactly why I tell them you’re not ready every time you apply for promotion.”

Marcos was prepared to walk everything back immediately until Sinclair confirms something the young man never even suspected. After everything he’s done for the jerk. Ignoring every spiteful comment and shitty assignment tossed his way so he can be near a writer he has always respected despite himself.

All this time it’s been Sinclair holding him back. His eyes well with tears as he feels his face burn with embarrassment and rage, “You what?”

“Oh don’t look at me like that, you weren’t ready. I was just the feather that broke the camel’s back.”

Biting his lip, Marcos has been deliberately holding something back from Sinclair. He’d explicitly told Sinclair that these jobs were a last chance, and that includes this one. He just didn’t think Sinclair would be such a callous asshole. His boss had always treated him like a tool. Well, Marcos is going to give him one last chance or he is going to literally become one. 

“Say sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Sinclair. I would appreciate if you apologized for, on multiple occasions- no fuck that, for day in and day out making my life more difficult than it needs to be.”

So up his own ass he takes offense to the implication that he’s done anything of the sort, despite explicitly confirming he’s stopped Marcos from promotion just moments ago, Sinclair scoffs. “Now I’m sorry if you find the meager workloads I assign you too demanding, kid. But that’s life.” The writer eyes Marcos fingering something in his pants, “Go on, share with the class.”

Retrieving a small button Marcos has a severe look on his face as he presses it. “They told me to use this when I gave up on you.”

Laughing at the hysterics, Sinclair struggles to take someone he views as so lesser seriously. Before he can get out a full sentence chiding him however, he’s wracked with pleasure “Come now Marcoohsshit!” Suddenly every inch of his skin is burning hot. He feels his heartbeat in his head. 

“Whuh, what did that- What did you just do to me Marcos!?” Staring at his boss with wide eyes, the assistant reaches towards his crotch as he is similarly filled with pangs of pleasure.

“I- I don’t know?” Reaching down to adjust his package as he is immediately rockhard, when his fingers manhandle his cock Sinclair again contorts in his desk chair.

“Gaahhhd Damnit Marcos! Stop?!” Pent up more than he can understand even as he starts cumming in his pants, Sinclair stares daggers at his assistant while drool begins pooling in his mouth. 

Struggling to swallow the spittle rising more and more as he continues to rut and unload into his jeans, Sinclair feels his clothes sear against his skin as everything just feels too much. Face burning up, moving his limbs is suddenly more difficult as he looks down to find clothes that were already slightly too big for him draping across his thin body even more dramatically. 

His shoulders slump slightly more as he sees his sleeves fall even limper. Taking another deep, struggled swallow, the reporter notices that his fingers are suddenly barely visible through the ends of his sleeves. Similarly when he shifts his weary legs his shoes just fall to the floor. Despite getting warmer by the second, it seems as if Sinclair has lost the ability to sweat everywhere save his legs which have already stained through his jeans with sweat.

Giving up on swallowing the still increasing pool in his mouth, the reporter allows himself to openly drool as he looks to Marcos. Lost in a reverie clearly more pleasant than Sinclair’s own, his boss has no qualms about interrupting, drool dripping down his cheeks he shouts. “Earth to fuuuhhking Marcos!? Help me get thesesh schlothes off!”

Taking his hands from his crotch Marcos quickly moves to help, shaking his head all the while “Right, sorry! I don’t-” He easily removes Sinclair’s top, though as it drags against his boss’ stomach, the man can’t help but cough up some drool as pins and needles tickle his every inch. Thicker than it previously was, the reporter begins to notice a distinct salty, acrid taste as it refuses to slow down. 

The jeans give more trouble as they catch on his thighs which are for some reason bloating slightly. After a tug that dislodges another wave of spit from Sinclair’s mouth, the pants are off. Falling back into his chair as he feels his legs give out, they both apprise the empty crotch hanging between his still growing thighs. But Sinclair feels nothing from this, there’s a far more pronounced vacancy coming from his ass. 

Sinclair’s mouth falls open and no matter how hard he tries it stays that way. He feels a pressure deep in his stomach, no lower- His legs are throbbing. It’s rising. Across his body he feels massive veins begin to throb larger. Arteries, blood vessels, and nerves once vital for him to move and think and act are instead being converted into nothing but sacks to hold blood, to make him feel more pleasure, to make him harder. 

Liquid from his mouth gets cloudier as he feels his neck get tighter, bloating larger, racing his shoulders to match his torso growing more cylindrical. Throbbing up from his balls, from his legs, he sees the beginnings of a thick tube in the center of his stomach. Barely noticeable at first, he sees it getting more prominent as something seems to course up through it. Higher with every throbbing pump.

Gurgling for help he looks to his assistant who is yet again preoccupied with his own cock- No, even though it’s in his hand, Marcos’ attention is indeed squarely on Sinclair. Hunger in his eyes, it’s the only thing he can understand. Humping his hand, Marcos can’t help himself as he rushes to his boss and flips him over. 

Pressure races through Sinclair as he feels his neck tighten and throb. He doesn’t even notice Marcos fucking him. He fails to produce anything besides wet heaving moans as he spits up more viscous pre, and then he hears nothing but blood rushing as every single faculty remaining within him tenses. He feels his legs pull and gags as he spews his first load as Marcos’ cock before blacking out.

When he comes too his vision is hazy. He feels a tickle on his ass that must be the jungle of Marcos’ pubes, straight and untrimmed, unlike his own. Looking down as much as he’s able with a neck that no longer moves he sees his skin tone has drastically darkened, even more than his assistant’s warm tone.

He doesn’t remember having arms to not have as he looks to see his legs balls have grown hairier. They look so big! He’s glad he’s given Marcos such impressive balls. At the thought he feels his skin get a little tighter as he gets excited. At the same time he feels two hands reach to hold him.

Slowly they start rubbing him up and down, “Shit… S*******? You awake?” Marcos' thoughts are so loud. The cock hears him say a word it doesn’t really understand, someone’s name maybe. It doesn’t care. It focuses everything in Marcos on what matters how horny he is.

“Ngggh, no Ssin- you- cock, When I cum again- When we cum again that’s it… I’ll get your, uhhh fuckin’ skills or whatever but you’ll just be…” Flexing its mobility, as Marcos slows down, the cock yanks the man’s heavier balls up as it forces itself to bounce. It can only imagine the quivering look on Marcos’ face as it yanks tight and spews pre in waves.

Looking down as thicker hairs begin to grow at the base of his cock, Marcos watches as whatever pale skin of Sinclair remains is washed away by that dark skin of his cock. It’s so much bigger than his used to be. Cupping his balls as he struggles to masturbate with one hand he sees his cock fully spurting pre as a foreskin quickly grows to fully cover his cockhead before being displaced as his cock gets even harder.

“Noooouh- You don’t understand if I cum that’s it!” But his oh so needy cock doesn’t care. It needs release. It has one button to press, and it is pressing it. Horny. Horny. Horny. 

What remains of a boss Marcos can’t even remember is splattered on the door of his new office’s private bathroom. Shaking off a migraine he looks down at his ever so slightly hairier chest and tighter torso before pulling up his underwear. Filled with the pride of a man too cocky for his own good, Marcos looks down at his cock with the smirk of someone who will be a far more pleasant employee of the Pleasant Valley Paper.

“Good one little buddy, now let’s get some actual work done.”

Stephen Cunningham wasn't supposed to be on that bus.

He rarely took the bus to school. His roommate usually picked him up, but today his roommate went to visit his parents, and Stephen's alarm didn't go off. He overslept. He got ready in a hurry, rushed out of the dorm at 8:47, threw an unwashed hoodie over his shoulders, and ran to the bus stop.

The bus pulled up a minute later.

Steven didn't pay attention to the number or the route. He was looking only at his phone, opening a lecture on quantum physics he hadn't finished yesterday. He hopped up on the step, swiped his student ID card at the validator, and plopped down in the nearest window seat.

The bus pulled out.

Only a minute later did Stephen look up and realize: the bus was empty. Absolutely. Not a single passenger. Just him, the driver's cabin behind the tinted glass, and the cloudy, scratched windows.

"Strange," he muttered. "An empty bus at rush hour?"

He wanted to get up and go up to the driver, ask where they were going. But then he felt something strange: his legs wouldn't obey him. Steven looked down. His legs and arms were starting to tingle and go numb.

Steven had time to think, "Cramping? I need more potassium." And then his spine cracked. He let out a cry of surprise. Steven watched as his height increased, his hands changed right before his eyes. His thin, pale fingers thickened, the skin on his palms became rougher. Veins stood out on the backs of his hands. His calves and thighs strained against the fabric of his skinny jeans, and the fabric dug painfully into his crotch—Steven felt himself growing bigger there too. He felt his muscles begin to bulge and grow larger. Not enormous, but still, he was becoming more athletic. His biceps and deltoids grew, straining against the fabric of his hoodie. His back broadened. Rounded pectorals and six-pack abs appeared.

His buttocks rounded out, straining against his jeans so tightly that he could hear the fabric crunch.

"What... what the...?" he choked out in a strange voice. Low. Hoarse.

He jumped up. The pants were his favorite jeans. On his feet were some white sneakers with dirty laces. A bomber jacket replaced his hoodie, and a necklace appeared around his neck. A ball appeared in his hands instead of a phone...

And then he realized: this strange bus. He had to get out...

He ran for the exit. His body was unresponsive. It felt heavier. Broader in the shoulders.

The bus stopped at a traffic light. The doors opened. Stephen tumbled out, sprawled on the pavement, scraping his palms. He jumped up. He ran. He tripped over the curb and fell to his knees in front of a flower shop window. He raised his head. And he saw his reflection in the glass.

A stranger was looking back at him.

Steven had never had red hair. His was dark and long. A boy with a short, sporty red haircut stared back at him in the reflection. A pale, frightened face. The face was still his, but now it looked slightly more masculine.

Steven touched his cheek. The reflection repeated the gesture.

"No," he said. "What happened? How?"

Then Steven felt a slight twinge in his neck, dizziness, and caught a glimpse of two uniformed figures above him.

INCIDENT SUMMARY

Date: May 17, 20■■, City of [DATA EXPUNGED]

A subject named Steven Cunningham was found by agents monitoring the STR-793 anomaly immediately after his transformation. He was tranquilized and brought to the facility. He was interrogated. The subject is fully aware of his personality and memory. He expresses deep concern and anxiety about his new appearance. He notes behavioral and cognitive changes, namely a desire to exercise, a craving for light alcohol, and a desire to get onto the field to play football. He actively suppresses these desires, successfully. He was informed of the threat of information dissemination. Protocol 47 was used to contact civilians. He was released for observation.

RESEARCH PROTOCOLS

[DATE: 08/14/20■■]

SUBJECT: D-4472 (female, 34 years old, weight 72 kg, height 163 cm)

METHOD: Subject instructed to enter STR-793 to test the selectivity hypothesis.

RESULT: After 7 minutes, a man 188 cm tall and weighing ~102 kg of muscle mass exited the bus. When asked, "Do you remember your name?" he replied, "My name is... Margaret," after which he burst into deep baritone tears. After 20 minutes, the subject began performing voluntary push-ups, commenting on his condition.

DURATION OF OBSERVATION: 3 months. Referred to the PSI Threat Unit for further research. Report pending.

4. TECHNICAL DEPARTMENT CONCLUSION

Object STR-793 cannot be destroyed without risk. Two detonation attempts resulted in [DATA EXPUNGED] being released to all personnel within a 500-meter radius. Containment is safe unless the anomaly is interacted with.

Containment protocol recommended: secure parking in Zone [DATA EXPUNGED].