To be Continue

HR complaints of sexual abuse were not to be taken lightly, and Carli Atkins had video proof that Austin Bradford had inappropriately touched her, made lewd comments, and even attempted an upskirt photograph. However, HR was in a bit of a conundrum. 

“Ms. Atkins, we fully understand and empathize with your complaint, and do not take it lightly. However, Mr. Bradford has been the top seller at our company for quite some time, and he has an important client base. If we let him go, then the business will be ruined.”

“So, you’re letting some white guy go scot-free just because ‘it’s best for the company’? I’m fucking leaving!” Carli announced, in a huff. 

“Ms. Atkins, please sit back down. We have another solution that is promising.”

“What is it?” she asked the HR lady, sitting back down. “Do I still have to work with him?”

“Yes, but not for long. A company that sprung up in the post #MeToo era, Office Himbos, is on retainer for our company. We haven’t had to use them yet, but this seems like a prime opportunity.”

“And what do they do? And what’s a himbo?”

“A himbo is a male bimbo, and they slowly but surely change men into himbos. One of the hallmarks of a himbo, much like a bimbo, is their dumbness. So, in the early stages, you’ll have to deal with him, but rest assured, he’ll be on the most accelerated path possible.”

“And then he’ll have to be let go?”

“Eventually. The himbo powder, or pills, will cause his IQ to drop well below average.”

“Great! What else do I need to do on my end?”

“The cost will be deducted from your paycheck, but they’re honestly not too expensive. And you need to sign a waiver saying you’re okay with the sexist and demeaning things continuing for a little bit until the himboification starts to take effect.”

“Deal!” Carli practically screamed. Yes, she would have to deal with that treacherous leach of a man for a few more days, but it would be well-worth it in the long run. And her current boyfriend could afford to pick up a few more shifts to make up for her “slacking”. 

A couple days later, Carli received a ping from HR. “It’s begun.” A private email detailed that some of Austin’s pills had been replaced with himbo pills. There would be no harmful side effects, only a change into a himbo. Austin didn’t notice too much of a change at first. He was still focused on his soon-to-be conquest, Carli. He swore her pussy throbbed when he attempted to take that pic of her panties. And what woman wouldn’t want to date a stud like him? 

The first change was the selection of pornos he watched. He was scrolling through a random selection when he came across a guy that looked fucking hot. That meant a fucking hot girl was soon to come, but Austin quickly found it was a gay porno. That Alam Wernik hunk was damn hot, and he bet he could look like that someday. He mindlessly jerked off to it, but went back to solely straight porn afterwards. 

Then came the change in his workouts. Normally, Austin just worked out to maintain a steady weight. He liked having pecs and a clearly delineated six-pack, but he couldn’t be fat. “But now I want bigger and juicier muscles,” he told his personal trainer, who looked at him oddly. A grown man like him should never say juicier, but Austin got put on a new workout routine. 

Back in the office, Carli was all but rid of her problem. Yes, Austin did comment on her breasts once, but she purposefully dressed very slutty. Heck, even one of her gay coworkers was drooling a bit at her exposed cleavage! She reported that it was a success to HR, and they informed her that the process wasn’t over just yet. Austin still had a ways to go before he would become a full himbo. 

The changes weren’t noticeable from the outside, but he was getting really horny, all the time. He found himself thinking of men more often than women, but that wasn’t the problem. It was that he wanted to jerk off at work. Austin constantly found himself rushing to the bathroom and rubbing one out. At first, he was quiet, but then he got more brazen, moaning and groaning in the stall as he jerked his meat. The other men who walked in didn’t dare look, as a.) they didn’t want to see another dude jerking off or b.) they knew that taking a shit could be that loud. 

But soon enough, Austin couldn’t make it to the bathroom. He had to rub his cock through his pants while he worked, or he couldn’t function. A few more HR complaints were made, but all of them were informed of the himboification he was going under. But the moment Carli had been waiting for for quite some time finally happened. Austin just whipped out his cock and began jerking off in the office for everyone to see. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as he began to beat his meat.

They really didn't expect it and looked genuinely surprised when I pulled them out after suggesting to get changed for a swim.

It was supposed to just be a small tattoo. The first one he would get.

Ethan had never been the intimidating type. He was thin, nervous, the kind of person people accidentally interrupted in conversations and ignored because of his weak appearance. At twenty-three years old, he never had a girlfriend and was the guy everyone talked over, the guy who apologized even when he hadn't done anything wrong. So when he finally decided to get a tattoo, he wanted something simple, something that would make him look a little tougher.

He finally gathered the courage to get one and went to a tattoo shop.

The tattoo artist stood tall behind the counter, broad-shouldered and heavily built. Tattoos covered both arms, crawling up his neck and disappearing beneath the sleeves of his black shirt.

The guy noticed he was nervous and immediately asked: "First time?".

And Ethan nodded, embarrassed by how obvious his fear was, as the artist opened a book of designs.

"Looking for something small?" the artist asked. Ethan nervously nodded. The artist smiled and said: "I think I have just the thing".

And there it was: A dragon. An oriental style dragon. Powerful. Fierce. Exactly the meaning he wanted to be associated with. Ethan stared at the design for a few seconds. It was bigger than what he had originally planned but he was tired of seeming weak and something about it felt right.

"Yeah", he finally said. "Let’s do that one".

The artist’s smile widened. "Excellent choice".

A few minutes later, Ethan was sitting in the chair, trying not to tense up as the machine buzzed to life.

The moment the needle touched his skin, he felt a strange jolt in his arm. It wasn’t exactly painful, but it was noticeable enough that he flinched.

"Is that normal?" he asked.

"Depends on the ink", the tattoo artist said with a small smile. "You never know how the body will react".

Ethan frowned, immediately feeling ridiculous for worrying.

Once finished, the tattoo looked incredible. It had a lot of detail and looked imposing. A black dragon in his right bicep.

As Ethan was about to leave, the tattoo artist called out to him.

"Hey. Don't forget to take care of it"

Ethan stopped and turned around. "Uh... what?"

The artist pointed toward the counter. "You forgot the aftercare kit".

"Oh. Right". Feeling slightly embarrassed, Ethan grabbed the small bag containing the cleaning supplies and left the store, returning to his apartment. As he walked down the street, he glanced at the dragon on his arm. For a moment, he could have sworn the ink seemed darker than before.

The next morning, he woke up with a strange heaviness in his arm. Something about it felt different. He tried to shake off the feeling and stepped in front of the mirror.

The tattoo looked bigger.

At first he thought he was imagining it. The tail seemed longer. The scales seemed to cover more skin than before. Then he noticed something else. His arm looked bigger, his bicep was straining against the sleeve, harder and thicker than ever. And not only that. He could feel a strength in his arm he had never felt before. Ethan spent several minutes flexing in front of the mirror. He knew he should be worried, but every time he looked at the size of his bicep, he worried less and less.

By the end of the first week the tattoo now covered a larger part of his arm. His arm looked defined like those of a professional bodybuilder, even though he hadn’t lifted a single weight in his life. It looked absurd compared to the rest of his body.

Days later one afternoon he felt the same tingling sensation as always traveling across his shoulder. He looked at the tattoo and noticed new black scales were appearing near his chest. Minutes later, his shirt began to tighten.

He looked down watching how the fabric of his shirt was slowly stretching as his pectorals pushed against the tight shirt. His pecs were swelling relentlessly, massive slabs of muscle ballooning outward. The pressure built until –pop– the buttons flew like gunfire, leaving his enormous pectorals completely exposed. Two thick rock hard mountains rising and falling with every breath, glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

And so, over time, each new blot of black ink brought with it a new wave of energy, a strange jolt under his skin that stimulated that area, making it progressively more pleasurable. His shoulders already widened, his chest thick, his other arm also massive. His shirts became too tight, so he decided to start wearing more tank tops in order to show off his muscles. Ethan loved his more rugged gym bro appearance.

Next came Ethan's once soft, unremarkable midsection. It has transformed into a rock-hard, deeply etched six-pack that now commanded worship of its own. V-lines appearing that framed his lower abs and pointed toward his thick, throbbing cock.

He remembered what the tattoo artist had said about taking care of the tattoo. The strange thing was that every time he looked at it, he felt an urge to do something. Massage it. A few push-ups. A quick workout. Anything. As if the tattoo disliked staying idle.

He spent long periods looking at it in the mirror, massaging it and running his fingers over the scales, admiring how they spread across his body. Over time, his life revolved around the gym, working out constantly and eating more protein. He knew the dragon would reward him for it, every workout becoming easier than the last, each new muscle giving the scales more space to claim. And the pleasure of watching his muscles grow became better and better.

Then, nearly a month after getting the tattoo, one night while lying alone in his bed, he was rewarded. Ethan felt a sudden surge of raw energy flood his groin. His once inferior, small cock began to throb and pulsate, forcing him to thrust his hips forward instinctively as a prominent, obscene bulge strained against the front of his boxers. Blood rushed hot and heavy into the shaft, stretching and expanding its length inch by inch with every powerful heartbeat, thickening it into a heavy, veined monster that curved upward aggressively. At the same time, his balls swelled dramatically, growing fuller and heavier as they dropped low between his spread thighs, forcing his legs apart to accommodate their new weight. The thin fabric of his boxers quickly grew soaked and sticky with thick streams of precum that leaked endlessly from the swollen head. Pleasure surged through him in waves, yet no matter how desperately his newly enhanced cock twitched and throbbed, he couldn’t release, not yet. The dragon wasn’t finished with him.

Over the following weeks the dragon kept expanding across the rest of his chest, back and legs. Reaching his spine, the change became impossible to ignore. A powerful stretch ran through his body. His back cracked. His posture straightened. He could feel himself growing as the dragon crossed his vertebra. The world seemed to shrink around him. His legs thickened with dense muscle. His calves expanded. His feet grew so much they could break a pair of sneakers. And it was no longer just confidence, he felt a strength that made him feel superior.

There was a new confidence dominating his body, and people noticed. People looked at him differently and treated him differently. Strangers seemed to respect him more. Some even stepped out of his way without thinking. Ethan found himself enjoying that feeling much more than he wanted to admit.

It was inevitable that his shy personality would begin to fade. His only focus became pushing his body further, seeing how far it could be transformed. He started admiring himself whenever he passed a reflective surface. He stopped caring as much about things like hygiene, often leaving the gym drenched in sweat and carrying the scent of his workouts with him. He found himself cutting people off in conversations, taking up more space, speaking louder. Before long, he was acting like an inconsiderate brute who believed everything belonged to him.

New desires surfaced as well. Once, the thought of being with a man would have seemed strange to him. Now it barely registered as worth questioning. More and more, he found himself drawn to showing other men where they stood beneath him.

The tattoo on his back now reached his neck. And with it he could feel his voice deepening, becoming more masculine. Grunts. Beastly sounds. The changes reached his face. His facial features became more symmetrical and masculine. His jaw grew broader, his features sharper and more rugged. He looked older as though several years had passed in only a few seconds.

The last change could feel penetrating his brain. Fogging his mind and his once intelligence. Memories disappearing. Thoughts that once came effortlessly now drifted away like smoke. His head felt heavy. Slow. A dull primitive warmth spread through his thoughts, smoothing away worries, questions, and doubts until there was almost nothing left. He couldn't recall his own name. His old life felt worthless. Why would a beast like him concern itself with the worries of a timid man?.

And just like that, the mental transformation reached its climax. His entire body seized as his newly massive cock surged, thick veins pulsing along its enormous length. A guttural, broken moan tore from his throat as he erupted violently, rope after heavy rope of thick, potent cum blasting out of him in powerful jets that splattered across his own carved abs and chest, painting the roaring dragon tattoo. With every devastating spurt, the last fragile memories of his old, weak self were violently wiped away, erased completely by the dragon’s overwhelming power. His eyes rolled back, mouth hanging slack and open as a thin strand of drool slipped down his chin, dripping onto his glistening pecs. His heavy balls continued to throb and tighten, pumping out the final surges of his old life. When it finally subsided, his body relaxed, now utterly transformed, completely owned.

Only the dragon remains.

Weeks passed. At first, it was enough to admire itself. Hours spent in front of mirrors, tracing the scales that covered its body and flexing the massive muscles beneath them. The Dragon had not transformed itself into such a magnificent creature merely to be ignored but just one man wasn't enough. The dragon demanded more attention.

He was satisfied posting pics online, watching the flood of comments and admiration pour in from strangers. But the dragon's hunger continue to grow. Before long, it found itself browsing apps like Grindr, inviting admirers into its place.

He stood at the center of the dimly lit room, his massive muscular frame gleaming beneath a coat of oil. Admirers gathered around him, hungry eyes fixed on the fierce black ink dragon tattoo that coiled across his powerful chest and shoulder. One man already eager on his knees. Various men, stripped, hard and trembling with lust, stepped forward carrying more bottles of warm, slick oil.

He raised his arms, flexing slowly, letting his enormous pecs bounce. The tattoo stretched and shifted with the movement, scales gleaming as the thick streams of oil poured over his shoulders, his bulging biceps, and heavy slabs of pecs. Hands being everywhere, lips and tongues traced every cut and curve of his muscle. One of them let out a desperate moan and buried his face hungrily between the massive, sweat-slicked mountains of his pecs, pressing deep into the warm sweat.

They all moaned against him, entranced and lost in the heat of his scent.

He grabbed one man by the hair and forced him down to his knees, then the next. They had fed his hunger. Now it was his turn to feed theirs.

One admirer was bent over the wide bench, oiled ass up, while he drove him into him in long, punishing strokes, his massive chest pressed against the man’s back, the dragon tattoo rubbed against sweating skin. Another was pulled up into his arms, legs wrapped around his waist, impaled as he bounced him like he weighed nothing. The remaining ones made to kneel and lick every drop of sweat and oil from his flexing muscles while he fucked their friends senseless, tongues dragging desperately over his pecs, sucking on his nipples, kissing the dragon’s roaring maw. Every thrust, every moan, every slap of flesh pleasing the beast, then rewarding them with his own seed while they begged for more.

Finally, standing in front of the mirror, the Dragon ran his now thicker, more sculpted hand over the black scales that wrapped around his body. A faint, meaningless echo of the weak creature he once was passed through him and faded almost instantly. He took a progress pic, knowing that the tattoo would grow even more, spreading beneath his skin and slowly claiming more of him with every passing day. Soon the Dragon would cover everything, and he could hardly wait to see what he would become.

The dragon rests, satisfied… for now.

——————

“I heard you got your Christmas bonus Bill,” Dave said as he looked over to his smiling coworker from his seat.

Bill took a moment from rubbing his ass and held his hands out, “Hey, what do you expect from one of the hardest workers here.”

“Oh please. We all know The Boss has the hardest work ethic of all.” He chuckled before rubbing his head. Both men were hit with a headache. 

“You got a headache too Devin?” The sitting man looked up to see Bill in his skin tight clothing.

“Yeah. It’s gone now though. Anyway, I think the whole building heard you get your Christmas bonus, Will. Who knew you could make so much noise while sucking cock.”

The youthful Will smiled, “Hey you gotta have fun with it when you get rewarded. I’m so happy I got picked to be his date to the corporate Christmas party out of all the hot guys here.”

The man now called Devin had to laugh, “There are only hot guys here. Too bad we are all bottoms.”

“Yeah. What are the chances we end up at an all gay company with a hunky boss and all our coworkers are bottoms.”

I woke up before my alarm for once, that alone should've tipped me off that something was wrong. Normally every morning began with the same dull routine. My shoulders ached from hunching over a desk all week, my neck protested the cheap office chair, and I would spend the first ten minutes staring at the ceiling trying to convince myself to get up. There was always another meeting, another spreadsheet, another email marked "urgent" that somehow wasn't actually urgent.

Today, though, was different. He felt different, no stiffness, no sore back, I just felt light. My whole body was loose, like I was a wet towel that had been wrung out after a late night swim. The room smelled strange, not the usual stale air and carpet cleaner. But of sunscreen, salt and something he couldn’t quite place, a faint hint of fruitiness.

After a long minute, I opened my eyes. The ceiling above me was whitewashed wood instead of cracked apartment plaster. A surfboard was mounted across one wall, old concert posters and beach photographs covered another, and a pair of sandy flip-flops sat beside a dresser overflowing with boardshorts.

"...What?"

I sat bolt upright or at least I tried to. Instead of the usual strength it took to heave myself off the bed, I practically launched myself off the mattress. By muscles that practically pulsed with an athletic ease I hadn't possessed since high school. My hands caught me before I hit the floor. My hands, they were younger, tanner, calloused in different places; but they weren’t by hands. 

I scrambled to the mirror across the room and a stranger stared back. The man in the mirror couldn't have been older than twenty. Sun-bleached blond hair hung into bright blue eyes. His skin was bronzed from countless hours outside, and his lean frame was all defined shoulders and swimmer's muscles instead of the soft body I'd accumulated after years behind a desk.

"What the hell..." My voice was different too. Lower and more relaxed, a voice that matched his new body. 

Before I could panic any further, the bedroom door opened in a burst of shouted "Dude!’s” as three blonde boys piled into the room without knocking. One tossed me a towel and another picked up the surfboard leaning beside my bed.

"The waves are firing, bro!" The tallest laughed. "You seriously gonna sleep through this?"

"I..." I blinked.

They all stared. "You good?" One said

"I think so," I really was not. 

"You look like you got hit by a truck." 

"I kinda feel like I did." I said, and they laughed. It sent an unfamiliar trill though me, impersonating this boy, wearing his skin. 

"There he is." The boy who grabbed the surfboard said, already one foot out the door. 

"That's our boy." One of the others whooped. 

"C'mon, man. Tide's perfect." The last guy said, pulling me to my (tan!) feet.

I should've asked who they were, but, somehow, their names floated into my head before I even thought about it. The tall one was Joe, his boyfriend Kai was the one who pulled me up, and Kade was already gone, affixing the surfboard to his truck. 

Joe clapped me on the shoulder. "Wake up on the wrong side of the bed this mornin’ dude?"

"...Guess so." I got out, thankfully the boys didn’t notice the tremors in my voice.

"You'll be fine after a surf." He replied, and for reasons I couldn't explain, that sounded completely reasonable.

The old truck bounced along the coastal highway with all four windows down, music blasting from the speakers. In the bed my board rattled gently alongside everyone else's. I sat squeezed next to Kade in the back seat, watching the ocean glitter beside us. The effect was beautiful, a far nicer view than my office cubicle. Yet I couldn’t get thought of work out of my mind, there were reports due, a meeting at nine.

"What?" Joe asked from the driver's seat.

"...Nothing."

The beach parking lot was already filling up. Everyone jumped out before the truck had completely stopped, the asphalt hot against our bare feet. Without thinking, I grabbed my board out of the truck. My feet carried me effortlessly across the sand, the ocean stretching endlessly ahead. Waves rolled in with perfect glassy faces.

Kade grinned. "Race you out."

Before I could answer, he sprinted into the water. I followed, the cool water splashing at my ankles. Pure instinct took over, My new body knew exactly how to duck beneath incoming waves, how to paddle, and where to wait. None of it made sense to me, as if this body was completely taking over and I was along for the ride. 

A wave lifted beneath me and I had spun, paddled, and popped to my feet in one smooth motion, and before I could even realize it I was riding the wave. It felt like the board came alive beneath me and the rush was indescribable. I carved across the face of the wave without thinking, spray exploding around me.

Hours disappeared to wave after wave. The office, my apartment, my entire old life, it all just seemed impossibly distant whenever I was in the water.

I was done before any of the others finally called it a day, my arms felt pleasantly heavy, a strange film of salt water over me. I walked to the truck, loading my board in the back. For some reason, a quick nap sounded amazing. I stretched out beside my board, the warm plastic liner had been baking in the afternoon sun, the breeze smelling like salt. I rested one arm beneath my head. The last thing I remembered was watching seagulls drift overhead.

"...Dude." Someone nudged my foot with their own, and I blinked awake. I had switched places, now leaned against a window inside the truck. The truck was slowing down through a neighborhood lined with palm trees.

"You alive back there?" Kai teased from his place up front. 

"Yeah..." I said, sitting up slowly. The sun was lower now, had I really slept the whole ride? 

As we turned onto another street, something strange happened, a memory surfaced. One I hadn’t revealed before, had never actually happened…Did it?  But I remembered skating down this exact hill when I was fourteen, falling and laughing, despite breaking a wrist. I looked down at my wrist, a faint scar still showing. But this wasn’t my body, wasn’t my memories, right?

More alien memories followed, learning to paddle from my…dad, an unfamiliar husky blonde man. Bonfires on this beach every summer, senior skip day, winning a local surf contest. Each one felt completely real. I squeezed my eyes shut, telling myself, No, I worked, work, in an office, didn't I? I...what company was it again?

The house was loud before we even walked inside, full of people, I felt a vague sense of comradery too. Someone handed me a cold beer almost immediately. Music echoed through every room, and people wandered in and out carrying pizza boxes and bags of chips. I even saw someone rolling a joint on the coffee table.

"Long day," Kade laughed. "The best kind."

I nodded automatically. "It really was." I said, and we spent hours talking about waves I'd somehow remembered catching. Trips I apparently went on and people I supposedly knew. Every few minutes I'd recognize someone I shouldn't and a memory would answer a question before I finished asking it. It was the beer, beer blurred everything together and the smoke made the rest feel warm.

At one point someone asked where I'd learned that cutback I'd landed earlier and without hesitation I answered. "My dad taught me." The words come out confidently, Why had I ever questioned that? Of course he did.

Later that night I stumbled into my bedroom, high and drunk. I looked at the surfboard against the wall, my vision blurred. There was wax still clinging to the deck from today, from yesterday and all the days before. 

I rubbed my eyes, exhausted, there had been something important. Something I had told myself not to forget, fuck it, it’s fine. 

I crawled into bed still smelling faintly of sunscreen and seawater, the waves outside lulling me to sleep.

I stretched, the sunlight that poured through the window warm against my back. My shoulders were sore from surfing yesterday. I smiled, the urge to crawl back in bed making me feel like a cat, a very salty one. 

Before I could fall back asleep, my phone buzzed beside the bed

Kady Boy Oo🐟: Waves are pumping bro. Five minutes.

I laughed. Typical Saturday, well typical day really. Plus the forecast had called for a clean swell all weekend. I pulled on my boardshorts, grabbed my keys and my board, and headed for the front door. There was nowhere else I'd rather be after all, the sun, the salt, and the sea— gah, I sound like some fucking poet. Nothing some waves and weed wouldn’t fix, maybe Joe and Kai were down for another three way. 

The house was bigger than any of them expected. It sat right on the edge of Clearwater Bay, a pale stucco construction with wide glass doors opening onto a deck. White sand began where the deck ended, and beyond that, endless crystal blue water shimmered beneath the Florida sun. Frank, Walter, and Dennis stood on the deck looking out at the horizon. The three couldn’t believe their luck.

“Hell,” Dennis said, adjusting his glasses as he looked out. “Hard to believe we got this place so cheap.”

Frank chuckled. His gut strained against his polo shirt, his shoulders still wide though gone soft in retirement. “Owner must’ve been desperate. Maybe it was a foreclosure.”

Walter, the oldest at seventy-one, gave a dismissive grunt. “Don’t matter how. Point is, it’s ours for two weeks.” He stretched, his back popping audibly. “Beats freezing our asses off, back in Michigan.”

They pulled their suitcases out of their rental suv and lugged them up the weathered wood stairs. Inside, the place smelled faintly of salt and the must of being shut up for a while. The living room had a TV and sagging couches. In the corner, a heap of flip-flops, towels, and other. . .more pg-13 objects were piled. Evidence of previous tenants.

Dennis wrinkled his nose. “Looks like some kids stayed here last. Teenagers, maybe. You see the writing on the fridge? Someone scratched ‘Bro Code 4 Life’ into the paint.”

Frank laughed. “It’s not that trashed. For how cheap it is, we were lucky not to find the place full of mold. Let’s just enjoy it.”

They settled in. Days melted into sunshine and beer, the three of them dozing in beach chairs or walking the shoreline. But they couldn’t shake the feeling that the house still belonged to someone else. In the bedrooms, faint smells lingered: cologne and sweat. On the nightstand in Frank’s room, he found a cheap bracelet woven from red cord, initials scratched into a seashell charm. He swore to his friends that the nightstand had been empty, save his medication bottles, the night before. Walter discovered energy drink cans in the kitchen cabinets.

 And Dennis noticed a trio of baseball caps hanging on a coat rack by the door. They looked almost arranged there, as if purposely left out. He pointed them out on their third morning. “Guess the last boys forgot these.” 

Frank picked one up. A Bass Pro Shops cap in khaki. He chuckled. “Reminds me of my younger days. Haven’t been fishing in years.”

Walter slipped on another, a plain faded-blue one with a stitched orange fish. “Ugly, but shade’s shade.”

And Dennis grabbed the third. White with scribbles on the brim. “Says ‘Texas Tech’ on the back. Not bad.”

They laughed at themselves: three retirees trying on teen boys’ hats like souvenirs, yet for some reason they didn’t take them off. They headed out for a walk along the sunny beach. By afternoon, it had burned them into squinting, sweating shapes.

Frank felt it first. His scalp warmed beneath the Bass Pro cap, but instead of discomfort, a pleasant focus bloomed in his mind. He found himself staring out at the waves, imagining what lurked beneath. Snapper, grouper, tarpon. His lips twitched into a smile. He could almost feel a fishing rod in his hands again.

Walter lagged behind, sweat dripping into his eyes. His head felt… fuzzy. Not bad, just simple. Words seemed harder to string together. He grinned dumbly at the gulls swooping overhead. “Haha. Birds are soooo dumb.” The thought startled him. 

Dennis jogged ahead a few steps, startling the other two. He never jogged. His knees were bad, his breath usually wheezy. But today, his legs felt light, his chest broad. A competitive spark he hadn’t felt since varsity practice surged inside him. He laughed and broke into a sprint, sand kicking behind him.

“Hey, slow down!” Frank called, but his eyes stayed fixed on the water, imagining his first catch in twenty years. 

That night, the house felt different.

Frank stayed up late, rummaging in the garage until he found an old tackle box. He sat cross-legged on the deck, polishing rusty hooks and untangling line. He muttered about bait and tides until his beer went warm beside him.

Walter sat in front of the TV, but the words of the program slipped past him, so he just checked out the hot bodies in the program. At some point, he stuck a spoon in his mouth and forgot to take it out. Dennis found him like that and teased, “You look like a kid playing airplane.” Walter just grinned, dimples deepening, spoon bobbing.

Dennis, meanwhile, couldn’t stop stretching. His arms, his legs, twisting his torso. The mirror showed leaner muscle than he remembered. His shoulders looked squared. He pulled off his shirt, flexing experimentally, his heart racing with teenage arrogance.

By the next day, their transformations were undeniable.

Frank woke before dawn, excitement pounding in his chest. He ran barefoot to the surf with a rod he’d pieced together from garage scraps. He cast clumsily, grinning like a madman. His gut had shrunk, arms taut with youthful vigor. He was unbothered by sunburnt skin which felt smoother and more comfortable. Every splash made him cheer, even if he didn’t catch a thing.

Walter stumbled after him, wearing swim trunks so loose they slid off his narrower hips. His belly had flattened, chest smooth. He laughed at the waves nonsensically, then plopped himself on a towel, “sit’n pretty” he said. Ass up, as if someone would be looking. 

Dennis followed, carrying a football he swore he’d found in the garage though none of them remembered seeing it before. His body was different now: taller, tanner, carved with young muscle. He sprinted up and down the sand, spiking the ball, whooping.

They didn’t talk about the changes. It was as if their minds smoothed over the impossibility.

It was on the fourth day that Dennis caught a glimpse of them all together in the bathroom mirror. Three boys, not men, not retirees. Teenagers, bare-chested, skin bronzed by the sun. Caps that hadn’t come off in days, tilted just so.

Frank, maybe sixteen, sharp-eyed, obsessed, wanting, even now, to be on the beach, rod in hand. Walter, even younger-looking, with a sultry grin and vacant gaze, making kissy faces at the mirror. And Dennis, a handsome, cocky, athlete in his prime.

“Damn,” Dennis whispered, voice cracking with youth. “Did we look. . .different before”

“Naw, I’ve always been this beautiful,” Walter squealed excitedly.

From that day on Frank spent every waking hour fishing off the rocks. His room smelled of bait and salt, posters of marlins and bass materializing on the walls as though they’d always been there.

Walter’s door was always shut, whether he was inside, getting his ass pounded, or out at a bar trying to attract an ass pounding. He was well known as the easiest lay in the small beach town, even Dennis had visited once or twice. 

And Dennis or just “Denny”, became undisputed captain of their little household. He jogged every morning, tossed the football, strutted shirtless through town. Girls stared, and he basked in it, certain he was destined for glory.

The house itself seemed to bend around them. The sagging couches straightened, the fridge filled with sodas and pizza rolls. Music blasted from a Bluetooth speaker that hadn’t been there before. The boys never once questioned it, The memory of being old faded like a dream.

The flyer had looked cheap, printed on thin yellow paper with black ink that bled faintly at the edges. “Volunteers needed. Compensation generous. Experiment on physical rejuvenation. Discretion required. Apply below.”

Most people would’ve crumpled it and tossed it away. But three middle-aged men, tired of their own sagging reflections, found the promise too tempting.

First was Daniel, forty-seven, with a soft paunch pressing against every shirt he wore. Once a high-school athlete, he now couldn’t climb two flights of stairs without his knees creaking. He had convinced his friends Marcus, a fifty-two year old divorcee who spent too many evenings drinking in front of the TV; and Stephen, who was balding, his joints always tired, aching from years at a warehouse job.

The two laughed nervously when Danial first showed them all. But they signed up all the same, three old friends in various states of disrepair with the foolish hope of something… different.

The building was nothing like they expected. The address led them to a decrepit apartment complex, concrete stained, windows cracked, the units long abandoned. The stairwell reeked of mildew and old grease. The walls dripped faintly with condensation as if the entire place sweated.

“Christ,” Marcus muttered, covering his nose. “This is where they’re doing medical experiments?”

“Maybe it’s just the waiting room,” Daniel tried, but his voice quavered.

Sure enough, a man dressed in a lab coat entered the stuffy room, he, unlike his surroundings, looked clean  and well put together. He smiled wide at the three men,

“Good evening, glad you could make it.” 

“Er. . .thanks,” Danial replied uncertainly.

The doctor took Danial’s hand in a firm handshake, once he had let go he led them to a small countertop area of the abandoned lobby. He gestured to three large stacks of papers, all full of tiny legal print. 

“Just sign these documents and we’ll get on shortly.” He stepped to the side, giving them a chance to try and read over them. Danial signed without even looking at the fine print, his friends saw, and followed suit. 

“Wonderful, just wait here for further instructions,” he said as he grabbed the documents and abruptly left them alone. 

They shifted anxiously on their feet. “Are we sure this is safe and all?” Marcus asked.

“Probably not, but don’t you think it’s worth it?” Danial replied, in truth we was nervous too, not even knowing what was in the document he just signed, he could have signed his own death warrant for all he knew.

From somewhere unknown a static speaker burst to life. “Please proceed to floor 3, await further instruction there.”

They trudged up three flights, shoes squeaking against damp floor tiles. The hallway was dim, a few naked bulbs buzzing overhead. Numbers on doors hung crooked, scratched with age. 

“Please proceed into rooms 315 - 317.”

Danial took the lead and found the door with the old faded number 315. The door was unlocked. He didn't wait to see if his friends would go into their rooms. Inside, the air hit them like a wall.

It was humid, steamy, and foul. A stench of sweat, mildew, and something acrid that stung the throat. The wallpaper peeled in long strips. A single bare mattress sat shoved against one wall. The overhead light flickered.

“Holy hell,” he  gagged, pulling his shirt over his nose. “It smells like a locker room where something died.”

There were no scientists. No instructions. Just a note tacked to the inside of the door:

“Wait.”

He tried. Minutes crawled. The smell soaked into his clothes. Sweat broke out on his brows, rolling down his temples.

“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. The illusion of his earlier bravado quickly broke. He was pacing already, breath coming heavy, shirt clinging to his chest. “If this is some scam, I’m out.”

He gripped the doorknob — and hissed, yanking his hand back. It was scalding hot, as if the metal had been sitting in an oven.

“What the hell?”

Daniel touched the doorframe — hot too. Almost glowing. He was finally scared and wondered what was happening in his friend's rooms. “We’re locked in,” He muttered to himself. 

The heat grew worse. Thick steam filled the room, pouring up from under the hallway door. It curled off the walls, sinking onto everything in the room. Danial coughed and wheezed, stripping off his  jacket, shirt, and shoes. His skin gleamed with sweat.

Something prickled under his flesh, An unpleasant sensation. Danial  groaned, clutching his arms. “Jesus… my muscles feel… tight. Like… cramping—”

He flexed his hand, and his forearm bulged, veins pressing against the skin. He stared. “What the…”

Daniel staggered against the wall, chest heaving. His beer gut… it didn’t sag as much. He poked it — firm. His breath caught.

He swore, running both hands through his thinning hair. But hair wasn’t thinning anymore — it was thickening, hanging in clumps growing across his forehead. His hands shook. “What the fuck is happening to me?”

Across the hall the steam poured into the rooms of the other two. The thick out steam clouding everything. 

The air in room 216 pulsed with heat, filling Stephen’s ears like a drum. Every breath reeked of ammonia and sweat. 

His body stretched out, pulling taut as if invisible hands were kneading him like clay. His bones cracked. Spine straightened. His shoulders broadened, belly shrinking, muscles ballooning under paper-thin skin. 

Muscle was pumped into his body. Thighs ballooning into melon sized meat and muscles stretching over his formerly wrinkled calves. He stared in astonishment as he saw his twin arms gain a healthy roundness. He flexed — and the arm that once could barely lift a box at work swelled into a teenage bicep, veiny, thick, perfect. 

In the next room over, Marcus was experiencing even more changes than his comrades. His whole body spasmed as he gained easily a foot in height. His body expanded to match his new frame, bulky muscled arms, tree trunk legs, and massive feet that reeked of the same mildew scent as the room. 

He ripped off his undershirt, horrified and mesmerized. His chest was firm, hard, his nipples small against ridged pecs. Sweat ran down the ridges of his new abs, inscribed in his thick solid torso.

“Oh God…” he whispered, but the fear was smothered by something else: a wave of euphoria.

Marcus’s face tingled. Wrinkles smoothed over. His jaw sharpened. His teeth clenched tight as a moan tore out of him. It wasn’t the moan of pain, but of relief. His lungs no longer ached. His back didn’t hurt. He felt alive.

In his room, David stumbled to the wall mirror, cracked and spotted with age. He barely made it there without falling, his new body as uncoordinated as a baby bird. He wiped steam from the surface and froze.

A teenager stared back at him. Broad-shouldered, bare-chested, eyes wide with dumb shock.

“Holy shit,” Danial breathed, but the words sounded strange. Higher pitched. Younger. He stared at his new reflection mesmerized. He tried desperately to panic, fighting the growing sense of carelessness he knew was coming. 

He heard a strange metallic click and turned his face away from the mirror. Sitting in the bed, as if by magic, lay some unfamiliar shoes and a pair of black pants. He turned back to the mirror and tried desperately to remember what he was trying to accomplish earlier. Drawing a blank, he walked over to the bed and slowly put on the clothes obviously meant for him.

As he slid the sweatpants up his damp sweaty legs he had an errant thought run through his slow brain. “Wait… somethin’… wrong,” he mumbled, blinking hard. His vocabulary felt heavy, like lifting weights he couldn’t quite carry. A quick whiff of the musty scented shoes quickly dismantled any last resistance though. 

The air in Stephen's room grew heavier, almost soupy. His thoughts slowed. Some unknown fear bubbled, but focus slipped away like soap in a shower. Words tangled around in his head, then faded all together.

Stephen giggled suddenly, a weird, manic sound he didn’t mean to make. “Heh… feels… funny.” He flexed in the mirror, a grin spreading dumbly across his young, handsome face. “Bro, look at this. Look at these guns!” He said to no one in particular. 

In room 217, Marcus struggled to get on his damp gray sweatpants. Bellowing cuss words as he fruitlessly shoved a huge foot into the pocket of the pants. He threw an arm up in celebration when he finally succeeded. After becoming momentarily distracted by his new massive package. 

“Dude,” Marcus said, voice deeper now, but slurred with excitement, “I’m like… hung as fuck, bro.” busy running his tongue over his new straight teeth, eyes half-lidded, almost dazed.The room stank of testosterone and steam.

After what felt like hours or maybe minutes, time had slipped from their heads. The door handle cooled. A click echoed and the doors cracked open.

They stumbled into the hallway, bare-chested, sweatpants clinging to their hips, sneakers squeaking on the carpet. They grinned wide, throwing flexes for each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Behind them, the foul steam hissed away, seeping back into the cracks from where it had come.

In the hallway, the boys posed, muscles slick under yellow light. They flexed, laughed, shoved each other with playful aggression. Their words dwindled into short bursts: “Yo!” “Check it, bro!” “Hell yeah!” They didn’t remember who they’d been. They didn’t care. They were young, hot, and indestructible.

The experiment was complete.

"How much longer is this gonna take?" Ethan shifted, pretending to look interested. He had an exam coming up and a hundred places he’d rather be, but the man across from him only grew more animated by the second.

"So we came up with our slogan, 'Be PrEPared.'" The man practically beamed. "The boys in marketing really outdid themselves, don't you think?"

"Yeah..." Ethan caught his mind wandering and forced a smile. "I'm happy to be involved. I think population health is undervalued."

"Preach, babe." The man snapped his fingers.

Ethan grinned internally. The guy was eating out of his hand, and Ethan knew it wasn't just his answers. From the tone to blatantly checking him out, this guy fit every gay stereotype Ethan knew. What could he say? The gays loved him.

"But enough about me," the man laughed, leaning forward. "Tell me about you, hun. Why join our campaign?"

Ethan’s smile widened. He could tell the truth: he didn't give a shit about population health. He wanted a cushy specialty, and residency directors liked well-rounded resumes.

"Well, I think this is a great opportunity to support..." Ethan trailed off as the man raised a skeptical eyebrow. "...support marginalized groups. Happy to help de-stigmatize this stuff."

The man stared, then broke into a grin. "Oh my God, you're adorable."

Ethan let out an awkward chuckle. "That's a first." When the silence stretched into uncomfortable territory, he leaned in. "Look, I'd be good at this. Promise you won't regret bringing me on board."

The man tapped a finger against his chin. "Hmmm..." Really? Had this guy even looked at his résumé? This wasn't exactly a difficult decision, "Who would you prescribe PrEP to?" He finally asked.

"Uh…" Ethan wasn't expecting that. "Guys who sleep around, I guess." He paused, catching himself. "You know what I mean. Gay guys. Men who have sex with men."

"And would you use PrEP?"

"Uh, no." The answer shot out too quickly. The man’s eyebrow climbed, "I mean, I'm not the target demographic," Ethan corrected with a nervous laugh. "Nothing against it, but I'm not looking for sex with other men."

The man studied him for a beat, a grin spreading across his face. "Well, Ethan, I think we're gonna get along just fine."

"So that's a yes?"

"Oh, babe. That's absolutely a yes."

The tension left Ethan's shoulders. Perfect. One more line for the application. "Awesome. I appreciate the opportunity."

"We're excited to have you." The man reached beneath his desk and pulled out a small BePRePared tote bag. "Take this, hun."

"What's in it?"

"Everything you'll need for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

The man's grin somehow widened. "Don't you worry. We'll be in touch."

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

"That took longer than I thought." Ethan returned to his apartment, tossed the BePRePared tote bag onto the couch, and sat at his desk to study, "Fuck, I'm behind."

He stared at his digital flashcards, trying to prepare his best for his upcoming exam. But the text blurred. He blinked and stared at the card.

"What the hell?" He knew the answer to this, or at least he did yesterday. A suffocating brain fog rolled over him, as a dull ache started behind his eyes. His mind went completely blank, "Am I getting sick?"

Shoving himself away from the desk, he ran his hands through his hair. His neat trim felt dense, curling thickly between his fingers. He paused and ran his hand through his hair again, slower this time.

"How...?" Suddenly, the room tilted and sweat broke out across Ethan’s forehead, his joints throbbed, "Shit..." He couldn't afford to get sick, not when he had his first gig with BePrEPared tomorrow. The thought made him stop, "What am I thinking? Must be the fever... fucking with my head... Need water..."

He stumbled toward the kitchen and reached for a glass, barely noticing the fabric of his sleeve straining against his growing bicep. He quickly chugged his water, and froze when he wiped his chin. There was thick, rough stubble there. As if he hadn't shaved in a week.

"Fevers can... cause... hallucinations." He reasoned, although his thoughts were coming slower now, "Need... sleep..."

The room spun and his temperature spiked as he stumbled over towards the couch. He weakly pulled his scrub top off and threw it aside, his palms brushing through the thick, dark mat of body hair sprouting across his chest. But he barely recognized any of this, as his vision blurred and body grew weaker. He grabbed the tote bag on the couch and dropped it to the ground, the contents spilling out.

"What the fuck is this?" Ethan muttered, his voice dropping an octave, settling deeper. He felt a surge of irritation. This was a joke. They couldn't be serious. He was a medical student, for God's sake, not a...

Yet, as he stared at the blue speedo, his mind drifted to thinking about the happy, muscular campaign ambassadors he remembered seeing on the website. No exams. No residency stress. Just having fun and being noticed.

"Must be nice..." He fell onto the couch, and wiped sweat away from his forehead, "Fuck..." He smiled weakly, "I bet I’d look good in that Speedo." he thought.

He blinked, horrified by his own thought. Where had that come from? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog, but the movement only triggered a vicious wave of nausea.

"This isn't… a normal virus," he muttered. The words felt clumsy on his tongue, "Something's... wrong... with me..."

Ethan's hands drifted across his torso, tangling in the growing, dense dark body hair that was spreading now across his stomach. Beneath the coarse mat, his pectorals had swollen into heavy, solid shelves of muscle, hard and burning to the touch. He squeezed his own chest, a delirious, breathless laugh escaping him as his thumb traced over a newly sensitive, hyper-reactive nipple. He pinched it, and a sharp, slutty jolt of pure pleasure shot straight to his groin.

"Fuck," Ethan groaned, "Fuck... fuck... fuck..."

The room was spinning now and he was starting to see things that he knew shouldn't be there. He saw Joshua, sitting and smirking in the corner of the room.

"You're... not here." He slurred, "Leave me... alone..."

He closed his eyes tightly, and the hallucination of Joshua blurred and shifted. He was suddenly surrounded by nameless men crowding over the couch. He could feel them. Their heavy, rugged palms gripping his broadened shoulders, rough fingers digging greedily into his newly full, heavy ass, squeezing his thickening muscles. With a grunt, he flipped onto his stomach, and arched his ass.

"Ah... fuck..." Ethan groaned, drool leaking from his mouth. He whimpered as he felt something press against his exposed hole, "Pl...Please..."

His hand slithered past the tight elastic of his boxers, wrapping around a cock that was longer, thicker, and harder than it had ever been. He began to pump it in a frantic, heavy rhythm, his muscular thighs flexing with every stroke. He didn't care about the exam. He didn't care about residency. He just wanted to be a dumb, hot object. He wanted to be used.

“Would you use PrEP, babe?” Joshua’s voice echoed in his head.

"Wh-why... would... I?" Ethan moaned, "I'm... not... Oh... fuck..." He gagged suddenly as he felt the heavy pressure of a thick cock pushing deep into his throat, stretching his jaw and cutting off his breath, while another massive, rigid shaft slammed brutally up his ass, "Th... this isn't... real..." He thought, even as his jaw ached.

Every thrust of the thick, veiny shaft plugging his throat made his eyes water as he gagged. Simultaneously, he felt his ass being stretched wider as the skin-on-skin pounding drove his lower body forward, burying his face deeper into the cushions with each wet, heavy slap.

“What’s the doctor word for... not breathing?” he tried to ask himself, “Can't... think of it. Mind... fuzzy. So heavy.”

The ambient hum of his laptop fan and the quiet of the night vanished, completely replaced by a deep, thumping electronic base that vibrated directly through the cushions beneath his chest. His brain couldn't quite process the switch. Even the clinical definitions of auditory hallucinations felt too distant, too complicated to grasp.

“Music?” Ethan thought, his cognitive processing slowing to a crawl. “Music... nice... feels good...”

Even the scent of the room was suddenly different. A thick, heavy cloud of cologne, raw male sweat, and latex filled his lungs with every desperate, choking gasp.

“Smells... good,” the simple thought drifted lazily through his mind, “Warm. Thick. Smells like... men. Sex."

He let out a choked gasp as the cock went deeper down his throat. Panicking with what little logical faculty he had left, Ethan whipped his hands upward, fully intending to push away whatever hallucination was blocking his airway and clamping his jaw open.

“Get it out... need to study... am a doctor...”

But instead of empty air, his palms connected firmly with hot, sweaty flesh. The solid, moving hips of a man rhythmically thrusting down his throat.

“No... Wha...? Not a dream? Real. Big. So big. In my mouth. Up my ass.”

He reached out desperately, trying to find leverage, but instead his thicker palms and fingers clamped directly around two pulsing, rigid cocks. His broadened shoulders flexed automatically as his palms wrapped tight, his fingers squeezing the thick shafts as he began to stroke them in a frantic, heavy rhythm. His body knew exactly what to do, even if his brain could no longer define it.

“Stroke them... make them feel good,” his dumbed-down thoughts hummed, completely content to abandon his studies. “Good boy. Do what they want. Just a hot object.”

The thumping music grew louder, accompanied by the rapid, rhythmic click-whir of a professional camera shutter and deep, masculine groans of approval close to his ears.

"Look at him take it," a deep, gravelly voice chuckled right above him. "The new guy's an absolute natural."

Flash. Flash.

An intense, blinding glare of white-hot light penetrated right through his closed eyelids. The searing heat radiating against his skin wasn't a fever spike anymore; it was the burning warmth of professional studio lighting hanging directly overhead.

Ethan’s eyes snapped open.

He wasn't in his apartment. No, he was pinned face-down on a leather sofa in the center of a roaring photography studio. He could see his reflection in a mirror. Bulkier, hairier... sexier... sporting a toy stethoscope over his hair-covered chest and a tiny blue Speedo that was completely soaked through.

"Oh my gawd..." He thought, eyes watering.

A tall, rugged model stood over him, holding Ethan's face up by a tight fist in his thick, curly hair as he slid deep into Ethan’s throat. Behind him, a massive, tatted model was burying himself ruthlessly into Ethan’s expanded, aching glutes, slamming his hips forward with a heavy, wet slap. To his left and right, two more models leaned over the couch, grinning down at him as Ethan’s large, rough hands rapidly pumped them.

"Fuck... where'd you find this guy?"

Ethan's eyes were wide now, but the panic he expected to feel never came. His mind was too beautifully empty, too saturated with testosterone and pleasure. Board scores, residency applications, the endless stress of his old life...

“I’m the PrEP boy,” his thoughts drifted, “Dumb... hot... please... use me.”

"Keep going, hun, you're doing amazing," Joshua called out over the music, gesturing to the lens. "So, let's hear it for the campaign! Would you use PrEP?"

The thick cock down his throat pulled out with a wet pop, a line of drool running down his heavy, stubbled chin. He looked straight into the camera lens, his mind completely wiped of medical terminology. None of that mattered anymore. He was a BePRePared model. He was beautiful, he was being used, and he loved it.

"Y-Yes..." Ethan gasped out, his voice a deep, thoroughly broken baritone. His hips gave a desperate, simple twitch against the man behind him. "Yes... God, yes..."

The photographer grinned, clicking the shutter rapidly. "Perfect! That's the money shot!"

With a final, shattering surge of friction, the man behind him buried himself to the hilt, releasing deep inside him. Simultaneously, the model in front of him painted Ethan's face and thick, hairy chest, while the two men in his hands blew their loads over his fingers. And Ethan's own massive, leaking cock throbbed and fired a heavy stream into his tight, blue speedo.

"So good..." He moaned, falling back onto the couch and looking up at the other models with a dumb, happy grin, "More…?" he slurred, a thick bead of drool tracking down his chin and mixing with the man's seed. "More… please… use me more…"

"Don't you worry." Joshua patted him on the shoulder, while the other models chuckled, "You're our star now, Ethan. We've got plenty of work lined up for you." He nodded over at the photographer.

"Next shoot is in twenty minutes, boys," the photographer called out, adjusting his lens with a grin. "Clean him up just enough to do it all over again."

Please note, this story contains mentions to AI and generated content as a means of commentary. It does not intend to glorify or endorse it. Nor was it used while writing this.

CHAV.exe, a new online meme you’ve recently seen floating around a lot. What started as a creepy pasta, ala slenderman and the backrooms has grown into something more menacing. The ‘fictional’ lore goes: once you’re a target for the CHAV.exe program there’s no escaping. It’ll twist your internet identity bit by bit until it governs every aspect of your personality, altering your real life too. You’ll end up as some terminally online, moronic archetypical chav. A caricature of the concept, posting nonstop ‘slop’. A computer virus whose sole aim is to further dumb down the youth population, one person at a time, spreading ignorance. Growing its numbers. Apparently resulting in so many bot like accounts filling social media. A process people have affectionately been calling ‘botting’. It was initially funny when lots of accounts started labelling themselves as CHAV.exe branded accounts. What people - and you, assumed was just playing along with the bit. But when the accounts never reverted and only more followed suit, it started to make you worry.

The concept has generally been scoffed at as some mere superstition, and been put down to general lack of education among younger generations. Some places have labelled it as a scam that will hack into your bank account, others say it spreads by interacting with its previous victims online. The ‘victims’? They don’t have anything intellectual to say at all.

Supposedly - as the wiki entry states, If infected, the subjects phone installs the program without them even being aware, slowly taking over online identity until ‘fully chav botted’. Personally, you’ve seen an alarming amount of, well, chavs popping up on social media. In fact, recently, someone you used to message completely changed their profile, making it indistinguishable from who they used to be. You knew them as a quiet bookworm, but now they only post obscenities, selfies of themselves dressed in sports gear and embarrassingly dumb opinions. Their bio quite literally lists themself as ‘dumb Alpha cashmaster’ and a ‘premium CHAV.exe bot’.

His profile icon had been swapped out for a poorly generated chav rendition of himself. Looking decidedly brutish and dumb. A CHAV.exe watermark overlayed over his uncanny visage. That popular word again comes to mind: ‘slop’. A word that would aptly sum up his entire account now. A slop account. Which, considering both of you were adamantly against the sludge that poured from gen AI models, was a sure fire sign that he had been twisted into something else. Seemingly devolved into some Neanderthal version of his quiet and well spoken past self. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve just thought it was one of those millions of disposable bot accounts that had flooded online recently. They even state as much in their profile, which was odd. Usually a bot account wants you to think it’s human, not the opposite. But now you wonder if any of them are actually bots at all…

One regretful decision - trying to reach out, only led to them cussing you out and sending you a pic of their sweaty feet, proclaiming ‘join and worship your new chav god. Get ready to be botted bruv’. Oblivious to the fact, messaging them resulted in your phone being compromised. The CHAV.exe file had already been passed along and made a home in your pocket. Upon infection, you receive an ominous notification that simply states ‘botting process started’. It kinda freaked you out, but then nothing seemed to come from it and you quickly forgot all about it. Continuing on while the program got to work in the background. Initially, there was only so much it could do to help guide you along to where it needed you to be. Subtlety changing your perspective. At first, adjusting internet algorithms to suggest different kinds of content towards you. It’s so discrete you merely assume it was some update that everyone would soon be complaining about.

Soon enough, under the watch of CHAV.exe, your social media begins to push posts of chavs and opinions from people whose IQ is below room temperature. Coincidentally, all ‘CHAV.exe bot’ branded accounts. Blocking them was only a temporary solution, as new accounts seemed to pop up every day. There was no escaping their idiotic engagement bait. Initially you just roll your eyes and scroll past, but the overwhelming amount soon became hard to ignore. Eventually, you take the bait. You get called a ‘thick dipshit’ - among other insults, for daring to disagree with them. But for some reason the more it happened, the less insulted you felt. You almost enjoyed the remarks. And the sweaty feet pics? They started to make your dick twitch, much to your own embarrassment.

Engaging in the posts only made it worse. Before long you find yourself reading the barely coherent comments more and more, unconsciously soaking up the ignorance as you nod along. Paying attention to their choice of slang, their simple vocabulary. Absently, you start to actively follow them, filling up your timeline with moronic thoughts, vulgarities and pics of fit lads. The feet, the chavvy feet? Lush. They’re hot, you admit to yourself. Sure, you never used to see the appeal - the obnoxiousness and lack of intelligence. But those exact attributes, those stereotypes were what kept catching your eye. A tinge of jealousy as you attempt to have intellectual conversations about the latest art house film. The prospect of just not caring about anything ‘deep’. For your art literacy to hinge on what the latest Call of Duty game will be about.

Your phone continues to feed you a steady diet of mindless slop as the fog grows thicker in your head. The chav botting process deepening more with each day. That word again ‘slop’. The negative connotations were fading away. The sheer dumbness is soaked up by your head. Slop. Junk food for the mind. You know it is, what the internet would describe as ‘brain rot’. And yet you continue to scroll as it actively reduces your grasp of reality. AI or real, you eat it up. You fucking love slop. You love how much there is and how little thought or effort goes into it. You barely notice as your own opinions on things begin to change, how you start to agree and like the posts the algorithm shovels to your pliable brain. Regurgitating whatever social media begins to tell you. And it likes telling about how great chavs are. How clearly thick and dense they are, and how, actually that’s a good thing. That’s something to strive towards. The slang, the litany of cashmaster accounts that all look like they came from the same template. Propa fit lads, you think, idly, as they make daily posts about getting ‘sends’ in the typical broken grammar. The occasional post pops up, either warning about ‘CHAV.exe’, or promoting how ‘life changing it was, mate’. You tend to believe the accounts that use less syllables. Besides, how could a ‘mate’ set you wrong?

Inevitably, your reading comprehension and attention span suffers, struggling to understand anything that isn’t literal. Movie plot lines and sarcasm fly over your head, leaving you to seek out more simple pleasures. Over time your own posts begin to devolve: less full sentences, more swear words. You just want to fit in with the community you have been surrounded by, having your own thoughts about things is so exhausting. Instead you just believe whatever the CHAV.exe program wants you to, whether you realise it or not. You’re quickly becoming a puppet to its whims. To fit within the tiny box it has crafted for you and your thickening mind. A chav bot.

Slang and swears is slowly becoming your entire persona. Copying whatever dredge fills your screen day after day. There’s doomscrolling but you’re more into dumbscrolling at this point. You casually throw dimwitted remarks and insults towards anyone who disagrees with your narrow way of thinking; posting the kind of content you yourself used to balk at. Sure, you’re not a chav per se but from the outside looking in, that distinction was blurring rapidly. Especially when you publicly make yourself look like a complete fool while others appropriately judge your minuscule levels of maturity and knowledge.

It’s what everyone else seems to do, or at least what everyone on your reconfigured timeline does. Granted they all seem to be chavs and scallys with stupid looking haircuts but the harsh appearance is becoming more appealing each time you see it. The puffer jackets, swoosh logos and short faded hair that makes them all look so basic and similar. To fit in. Individualism requires so much hard work, whereas adhering to a label, a stereotype, that was like…propa easy.

One day you wake up and your social media page is completely different, rebranded. Did you change it, you don’t remember. Not when your head is filled with heavy concrete. Staring at it, all you say is ‘ye mate, looking well hot innit’. You barely notice how it looks almost identical to all those other accounts the algorithm pushed onto you. Like that friend you messaged. Your name is different, shorter, simpler. The profile picture looks to be a chavified version of yourself. Unmistakably generated slop, the same kind that’s flooded kink spaces. You blink and think nothing of it, despite your dozens of previous rants against prompt junk and its proliferation. Now, now you don’t even understand what proliferation means. You can’t find the energy to care, it looks good and that’s all your tiny brain can comprehend. The moral and cultural ramifications are completely over your head. Or more so they bounce off your thick forehead like the brick that it is.

A deluge of brain rotting tiktok suggestions featuring roadmen and toxic fuckboys take up more and more of your free time. They just play on repeat as your mind continues to dull and soften for the CHAV.exe program to reshape you. Disillusioned with reality and chronically online. Glued to your screen while it guides you deeper and dumber. Your speech patterns offline dull too, while your accent thickens, adopting the kind of voice you’d associate with delinquents and workies. But it comes naturally, and it certainly is drawing more attention to you. It feels good. Right?

Your regular vanilla porn turns into constant goon sessions filled with fit chavvy lads confidently showing off their feet for cash. Ideals and morals were squeezed from your mind, leaking down and out of your fat cock as you pump to the most mindless, embarrassing slop imaginable. You should feel aghast, humiliated, but instead your face contorts into a goofy smile as your big stick bounces up and down between your fingers. ‘F—fuckstick gud’ you mumble in a heavy and unfamiliar accent. ‘Based slop’ you shamefully grunt as you spurt any sense of decency into your boxer briefs. The heavy load running down your thighs.

Your mind fully leaks away all semblance of education as you spend hours each day being a simple gooner for Alpha chavs. You can’t help but to look up to them, desperate to be more like them. Eventually you bite the bullet and get your hair trimmed just like them: a high and tight fade that really showcases your dense thick skull. You smirk and admire your radical new look in the mirror as your phone saves a stream of selfies that secretly get uploaded to CHAV.exe’s algorithm. Cataloging your devolution into idiocy. Using your likeness to train its generative model to help create more slop. Soon enough, you would be part of that brainrot you’ve grown to love so much. Your face planted on the most humiliating of images and gooner porn.

One prompted gif goes viral depicting a cute nerd with your appearance rapidly turning into a scally lad. He, or you(?) make goofy expressions as they impossibly transform. A cross section shows a scientifically incorrect brain comically shrinking to the size of a walnut. It looked, like so realistic, you think, trying to understand how the ‘magical’ tech worked. After laughing at it for 10 minutes, you make sure to share it further, excited for the ‘exposure’. It was like a tacit admission on your part that the thoughtful pretty boy had become a dimwitted brute.

Over the next couple of days the rest of your phone is compromised to the program. The door had been left ajar, and that’s all it needed to waltz on through. Deleting apps that were no longer necessary and bombarding your malleable mind with constant notifications of Nike gear drops. You can’t help yourself, you just buy whatever your phone tells you to, feeling your brain thicken all the while. You - or more specifically CHAV.exe, wanted the most basic gear, the kinda stuff all the other lads wore. You didn’t want to stand out, you wanted to fit in. To look just like them. A follower, not a leader. A beta not an Alpha. All matching black tracksuits and ugly looking trainers. Face masks and white socks. Overpriced brands and recognisable logos. A propa lads fit, you assured yourself. Even while part of you felt out of place. It was so unlike you, but the change was…exiting. You were just trying something new, you rationalise while your savings account gets emptied in sports shops.

But after all that, you needed cash. Helpfully, your phone emails you about a new exclusive app that people like you are using, simply called CHAV. You don’t bat an eye at the fact the email contact was ‘CHAV.exe.’ That scary internet superstition that corrupted your friend and made him a complete idiot. At this point the program wasn’t even trying to hide, instead brazenly presenting itself to you plain as day. ‘Wicked mate’ you think. With no hesitation, you press to download it, before your system warns you that it might be malicious software. ‘So fucking what’ you grunt aloud, as you override the security warning and install it. Another message pops up:

CHAV is asking for permission to access full privileges on your phone. Give permission?

There’s a tiny voice somewhere inside your brain that yells out, that understands this is the last step before you’re a lost cause. A total dimwit. A chav bot. A slave to the virus that infected your software. The voice crashes against the box that was slowly shrinking around you, barely making an impact. You were better than this! Smarter! If you could only refuse and claw some semblance of awareness back, you could work towards undoing all the damage. Throw your phone and smash it to pieces against the floor. Sell all that homogenised brand gear and grow your hair back out. Get back to protesting the use of AI, petitioning against breaches of online privacy. It was possible. It was within reach. Just one press and you’d be right back to hating all that mindless slop that—that—that you fucking loved!

“Privileges? Yah mate. Sounds legit innit!” Your voice yells as your eyes squint under heavy brows.

The tiny voice of reason was drowned out in an instant. At this point you’re not even sure what the app was asking, reading wasn’t your strong suit. Nothing was your strong suit. Unless it involved using your hands. Or pumping your donger. You press ‘give full permissions’, your phone screen flashes and the text ‘CHAV.exe unpacking’ reads in bold letters with a loading bar. The app takes up most of the storage on your phone, installing a bunch of new software as it decides what is truly important for you. The phone restarts and boots up CHAVos, your new operating system. You open the CHAV app that sits front and centre on your phone.

Good moron. Target successfully botted. Welcome chav bot #3278, please set up your account.

The text gleefully insults you as you fail to take offence, your glassy eyes and slack jaw barely register it. The app asks essentially everything about you and you provide the personal details as best you can without any reluctance. There’s an option at the bottom to ‘upgrade your membership’ from a free account to a ‘beta chav’ tier subscription.

‘A special offer just for you’. Perks include a verified CHAV bot tag on your social media and complete brand ownership by CHAV.exe. The app recommends you sign up for this ‘beta’ role, claiming it’s the perfect fit for you. Your eyes glaze over as you continue reading. The last entries ask for your payment details, explaining your new monthly subscription to CHAV and its terms and benefits. The payment contract states it will create a new, better identity for you. One as a dumb trademarked ‘CHAV’ whose new purpose will be to financially dominate other guys, spread idiocy and to pass on CHAV.exe to more people. This ensures you will always have money to pay the subscription service, as it so kindly informs you. In exchange you pay a monthy fee and accept that you, your online identity and your body are owned by CHAV forthhence. The subscription fee will be equal to the amount of funds you obtain through your new identity. Ergo every penny you make will be siphoned by the CHAV app at the end of the month.

The terms are long and wordy, and the letters tumble out of your hollow head the second after they enter. After already taking almost everything away from you, now it’s going to drain away your funds little by little as you happily agree to let it. Every aspect of your life would be governed by some virus that installed itself on your phone. Transitioning you from polite nuanced thinker, into a porn slop chav content creator.

Anyone with two brain cells to rub together would decline, you however barely understand what the app is asking and instead eagerly enter all of your bank details and shudder as the app takes its first lofty payment from you. You watch as the numbers go down in your account. Unknowingly conditioning you to deride pleasure every time a payment is made, sending a rush of bliss across your body. Reaching zero is your newly imprinted goal. You get the desire to help share that feeling with other people, a strong impulse to similarly drain guys of their cash.

Thank you for your payment, CHAV user. You are certified dumb as a rock

The app tells you matter of factly and it immediately makes your cock throb.

A dumb chav bot

It brazenly insults as you leak into your joggers.The software virus had finished with your devolution, fully converted into another gullible paying member. An online bot account, that would further spread CHAV.exe’s user numbers. It was pleased with the result. At how simple your smoothed out sphere of a brain now was. Obliviously compliant to its absolute control over your identity. How you were the most stereotypical scally lad imaginable. Adding another source of revenue, or a ‘wallet’ to its vast collection. Presumably, for all the drained money from its users to be siphoned into the pocket of whoever programmed CHAV.exe. Not that you even gave the idea any thought or consideration. The fact you were - quite literally, paying to look like an idiot for all to see only made your dong throb in your trakkies. 

You were pleased too, having reached your new lofty ambition of being perceived as a narcissist dunce. Kitted out in typical chavvy gear. The ambition that had been conditioned by a string of code in your phone. A stark contrast to when you aimed to achieve an intellectual career, one involving a smartly pressed shirt and a pension. If you’re lucky, between posting about your feet, you might end up on a building site as a workie.

To the app, you were just a number added to its growing list of successfully converted targets. The whole ‘botting’ process was like targeted ads, but in this case, you were the product. You, and all your personal data that you willingly gave. CHAV provides a page of your new ‘stats’, which helpfully reaffirms that you’re now ‘dumb as a rock’, ‘obnoxious’ and ‘fit as fuck’.

Education and qualifications: N/A

CHAV hierarchy: beta

Kink label: gear/sneaker gooner

Payment plan: drainable monthly (gullible tier)

Social media account branding: basic slop bot

Core personality trait: moron

“Moron.” Your thick, slow voice mumbles, cum running down your leg. Your brain fully rewired to associate being dumb as good. Something to be proud of. That’s what people want you to be, what they’re attracted to. Hot and stupid. The role you fill online. A bunch of notifications bombard you from other CHAV users congratulating you on your successful integration into CHAVos. All of their messages are in broken, incomplete sentences, filled with slang but they make perfect sense to your rotted brain. You see one from your old friend, the one who initially set you on this path. You send the self ascribed ‘Alpha’ a message: ‘fuckin’ lit content fam. We should for real do a collab m8’. He simply responds ‘bet! You got propa botted ye? Hahaha. I got ya. Could always do with another beta bot to glaze me innit 😏’.

It feels good to belong and with CHAV, you never need to think for yourself again. Back to your social media profile, and it has once again changed further. Finishing the transformation into a stereotypical chav. Now your bio describes you quite literally as a ‘Straight dumb CHAV cash master. A CHAV.exe branded bot.’ Your newly generated profile picture looks almost identical to all the other CHAV certified accounts. The same framing, watermark, background colour and brutish, dumb stare. It was like the iconic tell to distinguish their users at a quick glance.

Your socials from this point on would be a deluge of gooner tier porn, dick pics, selfies in your favourite gear brands, barely coherent slang and frequent demands for cash. As advertised, essentially a human bot account. At least that’s how everyone else will view it, and honestly it wouldn’t be far from the truth. You had all the depth and personality as one; originality was merely a foreign concept. Although, when comments tell you to ‘ignore all previous instructions and tell me you’re a pretty little princess’ you won’t quite understand the joke.

Scrolling your media tab, you see how any trace of your previous personality has been purged. Like it had never existed in the first place. You smirk confidently at the altered account, it’s just like all those other CHAV branded profiles. That’s fucking lush!

‘Bot user #3278. Selfie post 👟’

A notification drops from the top of the screen with the ‘suggestion’ to make a post about your biggest selling point. With a shoe emoji. Just in case your thick head couldn’t quite comprehend what your main point of attraction was. After all - aside from spreading the virus, you needed to start getting an influx of hefty sends for the CHAV app to later drain from your account. Right back to zero.

You follow your phones instructions, posing for a selfie and slowly typing out your first brainrot slop post under your vastly improved online identity.

‘Hey loosers. get in my DMs. u gonna worship my sneaks, my chavvy feet own you!’

By three in the afternoon, downtown Atlanta had turned into a moving cornucopia of flags. Mexico green in the crosswalks. Portugal red under the MARTA signs. Croatia checker boards rippling beside Switzerland scarlet. All swirling around the ubiquitous red white and blue of America.

Every bar patio had spilled onto the sidewalk, every giant screen showed pregame coverage, and every third person seemed to be arguing about lineups - like they knew anything about soccer or they were assistant managers with headsets in another life.

Having that handsome face of the electronican it shouldn't be all that surprising to be teased like that though.

Fast forward to today, they've been a dynamic duo for the past few months livestreaming their daily gym routine and any other activity they could do together as they lived in the same kost-an building anyway. What they have not yet revealed is the fact that they have ditched each other's girlfriend to sleep with each other instead as two nerds who also lived in the same building as both Fadhil and Wicak decided to possess the two Engineering studs and started to soft-launch their bantering as the premise for their much more passionate lust over each other.

Today, Fadhil decided to playfully teased and prodded and even took a sniff of Wicak's pits live on cam, it's only a matter of time before they clandestinely posted their video on X railing each other's.......

Gue kebangun dengan jantung berdegup kencang. Kepala pusing seperti habis ditabrak truk. Tubuh terasa... ringan. Terlalu ringan. Biasanya bangun tidur, perut gue yang gembul langsung terasa berat, napas sesak, dan paha-paha berlemak saling gesek. Tapi kali ini? Gue ngerasa... kuat. Otot-otot yang tegang di bawah kulit, pinggang ramping, dan... sialan, dada ini kerasa padat.

Gue buka mata perlahan dan gue ternyata bahkan udah berdiri. Gue ada di dalam kamar mandi marmer abu-abu. Cermin besar di depan dan di cermin itu...

Bukan gue

Bukan wajah bulat penuh jerawat yang biasa gue liat setiap pagi. Ini wajah tajam, rahang tegas, bibir penuh yang sekarang tersenyum lebar tanpa sadar. Rambut hitam acak-acakan tapi tetap keren. Tubuh tinggi, bahu lebar, lengan berotot dari latihan bela diri yang jelas-jelas gak bakal bisa dilakuin pecundang kayak gue

Gue.... ada di tubuh Revan.

Revan. Si pembully utama gue di kampus. Yang dulu suka ngejek badanku di depan cewek-cewek dengan bilang

"Gendut loe kayak babi, mana ada cewek mau liat loe telanjang?" Yang otaknya penuh dengan kelakuan dan obrolan misoginis serta merendahkan, mulutnya kotor, tapi tubuhnya... Tuhan, tubuh penuh dosanya ini sekarang jadi milik gue???

Tangan kanan gue masih memegang iPhone dengan kamera depan menyala. Gue sedang selfie di depan cermin. Dia lagi pakai hoodie Supreme hitam yang longgar tapi tetap nunjukin bentuk dada dan perut six-pack samar. Baunya......astaga.....ini pure seks. Kayaknya dia ngocok atau numpahin cum di hoodie ini, nyampur semua antara keringet, parfum Dior Sauvage dan entah berapa lama gak dicuci ini hoodie. Celana jeans sagging juga sama ini fix dipake ngewe atau semacamnya dan pinggang celana dalam PSD putih keliatan. Bokong yang kencang. Paha yang berotot. Dan di antara selangkangan.....

Sial. Ini ngaceng banget. Ini kontol monster......

Gue natep bayangan di cermin dengan napas tersengal. Mulut gue—mulut Revan—terbuka lebar, senyum genit yang biasa dia pakai buat ngerayu cewek. Tapi sekarang senyum itu keluar dari dalam diri gue dan gue gemeteran....bukan, bukan karena gugup, libido yang mendadak membanjiri otak ini gila-gilaan. Seumur hidup gue cuma bisa ngocok di kamar sambil liat bokep, sekarang tubuh ini kayak mesin seks kelas kakap.

"Sagapung banget," gue gumamkan dengan suara Revan yang dalam dan seksi. Tangan kiri gue tanpa sadar turun ke perut, mengusap otot perut yang keras. Kulitnya panas. Setiap sentuhan bikin listrik nyetrum ke selangkangan. Kontol di dalam celana dalam ini...... gede. Panjang. Berat. Udah ngaceng maksimal sampe kepala kontolnya ngepress kain hoodie.

Gue ingat semua. Kemarin gue masih di kamar kosanku yang bau apek, badan 110 kg, nonton bokep sambil coli sambil nangis karena nggak ada cewek yang mau sama gue. Malamnya tidur dengan doa aneh, "Kalo bisa gue jadi cowok hot..." Dan sekarang? Gue bangun di tubuh Revan.

Tangan kananku masih pegang HP, rekam video selfie tanpa sadar. Aku angkat hoodie pelan-pelan, nunjukin perut six-pack yang berkeringat tipis.

"Fuck... ini beneran badan gue sekarang?"

Gue tarik hoodie ke atas sampe dada. Putingnya kecil dan keras. Gue cubit pelan, dan langsung mendesah keras. "Aaaahh... enak banget." Suara gue—suara Revan—kedengeran kayak erangan porno. Libido ini nggak ketampung. Stamina bela diri yang dia punya sekarang jadi milikku. Aku bisa ngerasain otot paha menegang, bokong kencang, dan kontol yang berdenyut-denyut minta dilepasin.

Aku turun ke bawah. Buka kancing jeans pelan-pelan. Celana dalam PSD ketat banget karena boner. Aku tarik ke bawah. Plop. Kontol Revan—kontol gue sekarang—loncat keluar. Panjangnya minimal 18 cm, tebal, urat-urat menonjol, kepala merah mengkilap udah basah precum. Gue genggem dengan tangan kanan. Panas. Berat. Berdenyut kuat.

"Oh my god..." gue mulai gerakin tangan naik turun pelan. Rasanya beda banget dari kontol gemuk gue dulu. Ini sensitif banget. Setiap usapan bikin lutut lemes. Gue tatep cermin, liat wajah hot ini lagi mendesah, mata setengah merem, bibir terbuka, gue jadi ngeuh kenapa Revan dulu selalu pede. Tubuh ini memang dibuat buat ngentot dan dia jadinya pede mampus ngebawa diri dia kemana-mana

Bayangan mulai dateng. Gue bayangin Revan yang asli—pembully misoginis itu—pasti sering ngentot cewek di kamar mandi kampus. Sekarang gue yang di dalam tubuhnya. Gue ngebayangin cewek-cewek yang dulu dia ajak ngebully gue, yang dia bilang "pelacur" atau "cuma buat coli". Sekarang gue bisa bayangin mereka ngeliat tubuh ini, minta dientot.

Tangan kiri gue meremas bola-bola yang penuh. Berat. Penuh mani. Gue percepat gerakan.

"Ahh... fuck... enak... kontol gue gede banget..." Gue ngomong kotor pake mulut Revan. Otaknya yang misoginis kayak ikut nimbrung. "Gue mau entot semua cewek di kampus ini yang bagi gue hot... mereka pada ngiler liat tubuh gue ini..."

Gue angkat satu kaki ke wastafel, biar lebih leluasa. Posisi itu bikin otot paha dan bokong keliatan jelas di cermin. Gue jadinya malah coli lebih agresif. Tangan naik turun cepet. Precum udah netes-netes ke lantai marmer. Gue ngeliat bayangan diri sendiri—cowok hot, hoodie naik, kontol gede nongol, lagi coli gila-gilaan, kayak binatang coy.....

Sensasinya naik cepet. Stamina bela diri ini bikin aku tahan lama, tapi libido "sagapung" ini terlalu kuat. Aku mendesah keras, suara Revan bergema di kamar mandi. "Aaaahh... mau keluar... mau muncrat..."

Gue bayangin lagi: Gue (di tubuh Revan) lagi ngentot cewek di depan cermin ini. Dia ngerangkak, bokongnya ke belakang, gue pegang pinggul dia yang ramping untuk gue kontrol, kontol masuk keluar cepet. "Lo suka kontol gue yang gede ini, kan? Dulu lo ngejek gue gemuk, sekarang lo minta dientot sama tubuh gue!"

Gue nggak tahan lagi. Tubuh ini kejang. Otot perut six-pack menegang keras. Kontol berdenyut kuat-kuat.

Byurrr!

Muncrat pertama panjang banget, nyembur ke cermin. Putih kental. Muncrat kedua, ketiga, keempat... Gue erus coli sambil ngeliat mani Revan—mani yang sekarang jadi punya gue—nempel di cermin dan lantai. Banyak. Bau maskulin. Gue orgasme hampir 30 detik lamanya. Lutut gemeteran.

Gue ambruk sedikit ke dinding, masih pegang kontol yang masih setengah ngaceng. Napas ngos-ngosan. Senyum puas di wajah cermin.

Gue ambil HP, matiin rekaman. Foto selfie tadi masih ada. Tubuh hot ini lagi senyum lebar, hoodie agak berantakan, celana turun, kontol masih basah. Gue kirim ke diri sendiri (nomor lama gue) dengan caption:

"Lo dulu gemuk. Sekarang gue hot. Dan gue bakal pake tubuh ini buat balas dendam... sambil ngentot semua yang lo suka."

Gue cuci tangan, tapi nggak langsung mandi. Masih ada sisa libido. Gue liat tubuh ini lagi di cermin. Masih keras. Stamina bela diri emang kelas kakap.

Gue mulai lagi. Kali ini duduk di closet, kaki lebar, tangan kerja lebih pelan. Gue mau nikmatin setiap detik jadi Revan.

Selama berjam-jam di kamar mandi itu, gue coli berkali-kali. Bayangin skenario demi skenario. Dari missionary sambil liat wajah hot ini di cermin, doggy sambil tarik rambut cewek, sampe cowgirl di mana ceweknya naik di atas six-pack ini. Otak misoginis Revan bikin fantasi semakin kotor: "Semua cewek cuma lubang buat kontol gue."

Saat matahari mulai terbit, gue akhirnya keluar kamar mandi. Tubuh masih basah keringat dan mani. Tapi senyum gue lebar karena gue bukan pecundang gemuk lagi. Gue Revan Argantara Atmaja sekarang.

---

I woke up with my heart pounding hard. My head was spinning like I’d been hit by a truck. My body felt… light. Too light. Usually when I woke up, my big fat belly felt heavy, my breathing was labored, and my thick thighs rubbed against each other. But this time? I felt… strong. Muscles tense under the skin, a narrow waist, and… fuck, this chest felt solid.

I opened my eyes slowly. A gray marble bathroom. A large mirror in front. And in that mirror…

It wasn’t me.

It wasn’t the round, acne-covered face I usually saw every morning. This was a sharp face, strong jawline, full lips now smiling widely without control. Messy black hair that still looked cool. A tall body, broad shoulders, muscular arms from martial arts training that clearly didn’t belong to a loser like me.

I… was in Revan’s body.

Revan. My main bully at campus. The guy who used to mock my body in front of girls, saying shit like “You’re a fat pig, who the hell would want to see you naked?” The one with a brain full of misogyny, a filthy mouth, but a body that… God, this body was now mine.

My right hand was still holding an iPhone with the front camera on. I was taking a mirror selfie. A loose black Supreme hoodie that still showed the shape of my chest and faint six-pack. Low-slung jeans, and the waistband of my BOSS underwear visible. A firm ass. Muscular thighs. And between my legs…

Fuck. I was rock hard.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, breathing heavily. My mouth—Revan’s mouth—was open wide, wearing that flirty smirk he used to seduce girls. But now that smirk was coming from inside me. I was trembling. The sudden flood of libido into this brain was insane. All my life I could only jerk off in my room while watching porn, but now this body felt like a high-class sex machine.

“So fucking horny I can’t hold it,” I muttered in Revan’s deep, sexy voice. My left hand unconsciously moved down to my abs, stroking the hard muscles. The skin was hot. Every touch sent electricity straight to my crotch. The cock inside these underwear… was huge. Long. Heavy. Already fully erect and pressing hard against the hoodie fabric.

I remembered everything. Yesterday I was still in my smelly boarding house room, 110 kg body, watching porn and crying while jerking off because no girl wanted me. That night I slept with a weird prayer, “If only I could become a hot guy…” And now? I woke up in Revan’s body.

My right hand was still holding the phone, unconsciously recording a video selfie. I slowly lifted the hoodie, revealing my six-pack abs glistening with a thin layer of sweat. “Fuck… is this really my body now?”

I pulled the hoodie higher until it reached my chest. My nipples were small and hard. I pinched them lightly and immediately moaned loudly. “Aaaahh… that feels so good.” My voice—Revan’s voice—sounded like straight-up porn. This libido was uncontainable. The martial arts stamina he had was now mine. I could feel my thigh muscles tightening, my firm ass, and my throbbing cock begging to be released.

I moved lower. Slowly unbuttoned my jeans. The BOSS underwear was stretched tight from my massive boner. I pulled it down. Plop. Revan’s cock—my cock now—sprang out. At least 18 cm long, thick, veiny, with a glistening red head already leaking precum. I grabbed it with my right hand. Hot. Heavy. Pulsing strongly.

“Oh my god…” I started stroking up and down slowly. It felt completely different from my old fat cock. This one was extremely sensitive. Every stroke made my knees weak. I stared at the mirror, watching this hot face moaning, eyes half-closed, lips parted. I realized why Revan used to be so confident. This body was literally made for fucking.

I lifted one leg onto the sink for better access. That position made my thighs and ass look even more defined in the mirror. I stroked faster. “Ahh… fuck… it feels so good… my cock is so big…” I talked dirty using Revan’s mouth. His misogynistic brain seemed to join in. “I’m gonna fuck every girl on campus… they’ll be drooling over this body…”

I imagined Revan—the original misogynistic bully—fucking girls in campus bathrooms. Now it was me inside his body. I pictured the girls he used to bully alongside me. The ones he called “sluts” or “only good for jerking off to.” Now I could imagine them seeing this body and begging to be fucked.

My left hand squeezed my heavy balls. Full of cum. I sped up. “Aaaahh… I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna shoot…”

I pictured it again: Me (in Revan’s body) fucking a girl in front of this mirror. Her on all fours, ass pushed back, me gripping my now-toned hips, cock slamming in and out fast. “You like my big cock, huh? You used to mock me for being fat, now you’re begging to get fucked by this body!”

I couldn’t hold back anymore. This body convulsed. My six-pack abs tightened hard. My cock throbbed violently.

Spluuurrt!

The first shot was long and powerful, splattering onto the mirror. Thick white cum. Second, third, fourth… I kept stroking while watching Revan’s cum—my cum now—stick to the mirror and floor. So much. Musky masculine scent. I orgasmed for nearly 30 seconds. My knees were shaking.

I slumped slightly against the wall, still holding my half-hard cock. Breathing heavily. A satisfied grin on the face in the mirror.

“This… is just the beginning,” I whispered.

I stopped the recording on my phone. The selfie photo was still there. This hot body smiling wide, hoodie messy, pants down, cock still wet. I sent it to my old number with the caption: “You used to be fat. Now I’m the hot one. And I’m going to use this body for revenge… while fucking everyone you wanted.”

I washed my hands but didn’t shower right away. There was still leftover libido. I looked at this body in the mirror again. Still hard. The martial arts stamina was truly world-class.

I started again. This time sitting on the toilet, legs spread wide, stroking slower. I wanted to savor every second of being Revan.

For hours in that bathroom, I jerked off multiple times. Fantasizing scenario after scenario. From missionary while watching this hot face in the mirror, to doggy while pulling a girl’s hair, to cowgirl where she rode on top of these abs. Revan’s misogynistic brain made the fantasies even filthier: “All girls are just holes for my cock.”

When the sun started rising, I finally left the bathroom. My body was still wet with sweat and cum. But my smile was wide.

Having that handsome face of the electronican it shouldn't be all that surprising to be teased like that though.