#g2s

[vampirevained]

Girl who cant stop bouncing on my dick and everytime I tell her Im gay she corrects me and only calls me a faggot whenever I get so porn brained all I can think about is getting her pregnant / cant even bother to correct her when

[need4change]

The Wrong Phone

Malcolm slipped into the window seat of the 10:42 train, as he always did, smoothing down the sleeves of his dove-grey blazer. A quiet rhythm to his day, like a classical sonata—precise, reliable, soothing in its repetition. He set down his leather briefcase, tugged a linen handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe a slight sheen of sweat from his temple. The city was already too warm.

He reached for his phone without looking, the smooth rectangle in the outer pocket of his case right where it always was. He tapped the screen. But instead of his calendar or his soft ocean-tone lock screen, it lit up with a loud pop and a thudding bass line.

A woman’s body danced across the screen, looped into a grainy GIF, her tongue out, her hands gripping a neon pole. The song playing was vulgar, full of wet slap sounds and snarled obscenities. The contact name on the incoming text read: “Lil D 🐍💦”

“Yo Kash, u got the blue pills? Jess wanna get WRECKED lmfao 🤪👅💦”

Malcolm blinked. Then blinked again.

He stared at the phone as if it had spoken aloud. Slowly, he raised it higher, examined the faint chip at the edge of the case. His case. His initials, MWG, stamped into the back — but the contents were clearly not his.

His fingers tightened. He had picked up the wrong phone.

Across the aisle, a young man — sagging jeans, hoodie halfway off one shoulder, dreadlocks twisted and bleached — was slapping his pockets. His eyes flicked up, then down. Then shrugged.

Malcolm should have stood, should have handed the phone back immediately, but something… a strange warmth at the base of his neck… pulsed faintly. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t embarrassment. It was something else. A low, tickling heat. Like the start of a fever. Or arousal.

The phone buzzed again. Another message.

“Bro u still sleepin wit that ratchet girl from the Bronx? 🤣🤣 u wild for that lol”

And then a third: a short voice memo — a snort, laughter, and someone yelling, “YO KASH WHERE MY HEAD GAME QUEEN AT??”

Malcolm tried to swallow, but his throat felt thick. Dry. He looked away from the phone and suddenly… the train felt louder. Sharper. Every sound had a new edge. The slap of sneakers on linoleum. The low chuckle of some guy behind him watching a prank video. The gum-smacking of the girl across the car.

His seat itched. The wool of his blazer felt… tight. Off. He shifted. Tugged at his collar. Was it getting hotter?

He tucked the phone into his lap and closed his eyes, tried to slow his breathing.

Just five minutes, he thought. This will all reset in five minutes. I’ll get off at 59th. Find a kiosk. Get my phone back. Maybe email Bernard to say I’ll be late to the meeting.

But when he opened his eyes again, something was wrong.

The blazer felt wrong. The lining… no longer silk, but some stiff, cheap polyester. He tugged the lapel up, confused. It wasn’t a blazer at all anymore. It was… a sleeveless hoodie. Ratty at the hem, with a logo that read “GRIND 24/7” in aggressive block letters.

He jerked his head down. His slacks were gone. In their place: mesh shorts riding low on his hips, exposing a thick black waistband of underwear that read “REAL DAWGS STAY HARD”. A musty, gym-like scent curled up into his nose. He gagged.

The faint itch in his armpits grew sharper. He lifted one trembling arm. A thick tuft of unshaven hair poked out, coarse and dark and wet. Sweat had soaked through the hoodie. His deodorant — a gentle vetiver he’d worn for years — was gone. In its place: the raw stench of an overused locker room.

No, he thought, panic swelling in his chest. I shave. I always shave.

He fumbled for the phone again. Maybe he could still—

But it was different now. Unlocked. The homescreen had changed: a shirtless selfie, glistening, low angle, lips pursed. His face. But not his face. Younger. Rougher. Tan. A glint of gold at the tooth.

He reached up in disbelief. Touched his mouth. Something hard pressed against the edge of his incisor. A cap? A grill?

“Shitttt,” a voice muttered inside his skull. “Yo, I look fiiiine.”

He jerked as if electrocuted. That voice… it was him. And yet not. Lazy, crude, slurred.

Not mine. That’s not mine. That’s not how I speak.

But then he looked down again. His thighs had thickened, hairier, tattooed in faded block letters: “STACK N’ SMASH” across one, and a dollar sign melting down the other. His hands were darker now, knuckles raw, calloused. Nails filthy. A silver ring on his pinky — a gaudy skull with two emerald eyes.

His stomach twisted. He tried to rise — but the weight of his groin pulled him down.

He looked.

His dick was hard. Throbbing. Not the elegant curve he knew from a hundred quiet nights with his husband, but… monstrous. Leering. Fat with need.

Fuckkk, the voice moaned. Yo I’m bouta nut right here, this train too damn hot, man.

Malcolm clutched his temples.

What’s happening to me?

But the thoughts came slower now. Thoughts of Bernard, of their anniversary, of wine and slow jazz and hand-written notes — they were there… but dulled. Sinking like a stone. And in their place: a memory.

Not his. Her. A girl with glitter on her chest and fake lashes curled tight, bent over a sink in a gas station bathroom, mouth wide open. And him — Kash, was that his name now? — laughing as she gagged on his cock, tapping her temple and saying “Use your brain, dumb bitch” like it was a joke.

He blinked.

Had that… happened?

A final buzz from the phone.

“Yo Kash we outside. Bring da gas n the rubbers lol she’s ready to get destroyed 😂💦🔥”

He moaned softly, dick straining in his shorts.

The transformation wasn’t done.

But it had begun.

And Malcolm — or Kash, or whatever was left of him — was still locked on that train, sweating through a stranger’s hoodie, fists clenched around a borrowed life he didn’t want… but was starting to crave.

The train kept moving.

Each screech of the tracks felt like it cut through Malcolm’s mind, prying open the cracks already forming there. He sat hunched over in his seat, shoulders too broad for the narrow frame, his breath shallow, uneven. The scent rising from his own body was alien — humid, sour, like old cologne and yesterday’s cum. He’d always worn Hermès. Subtle. Clean. This was… animal.

The phone buzzed again in his lap.

“Kash, we pullin up. Girl got them DSLs bro, she wanna suck n ride all night 😈👅💦”

The words didn’t even register as disgusting this time. Not completely. A part of him — just a splinter — wanted to sneer, roll his eyes. But the rest of him?

He could picture her already. Too clearly. Not her face — that didn’t matter. But the mouth. Lips glistening, tongue flicking out. He felt a pulse in his cock, another twitch. He shifted awkwardly, the mesh shorts tenting up.

What the hell is happening to me?

He rubbed his temples. His hands were so foreign now — big, veined, raw around the knuckles like he’d been in fights, or maybe punching walls. The skin was tanner now, or maybe just dirtier. Rings flashed under the harsh train lighting — bulky, fake gold with skulls and block letters: “GRIND” and “BLOW”.

And that smell… it wasn’t going away.

He lifted an arm — the stench was worse underneath. His pit hair was thick now, damp, musky. Too much. His stomach turned. But another part of him… inhaled deeper.

Yo, that’s fuckin’ ripe, huh? Bet she gonna sniff that shit while she ridin'—

He slammed his palm into the metal wall of the train beside him.

“Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut up, shut up, shut up���”

But the voice inside only laughed. Loud. Careless.

Relax, bro. Why you stressin’? You need some head, fr.

The metal beneath his hand groaned. He looked down. His forearm — corded with muscle. His wrist, wrapped in a rubber band that read “FUCK BILLS, STACK MILLS”. He didn’t wear bands. He didn’t say stack mills. What the fuck was that?

“C-come on,” he gasped to himself, trying to breathe through it. “This isn’t… I’m married. I’m Malcolm. My husband’s name is Bernard. I work in midtown. I went to Yale. I—”

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. Deeper. Looser. He sounded like someone impersonating him badly. A stoner version of himself.

And his reflection in the train window…

The man looking back at him was younger. Late 20s? Early 20s? Shirtless under his hoodie now, chain gleaming in the open V of fabric. Dark facial hair — patchy, poorly trimmed — had started creeping in over his jaw, his once-smooth cheeks now shadowed with an uneven beard. His nose ring glinted under the flickering light.

And his eyes.

They weren’t scared anymore.

They were glassy. A little dumb. A little hungry.

Something between a sneer and a smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth. His tongue flicked out. Licked his lower lip slowly.

“Shiiiit,” he mumbled — and didn’t even notice the word until a second later. “That bitch gonna gag. I can feel it.”

Wait. No. I didn’t say that. That wasn’t—

But the thought had slipped in naturally. Just like the voice. Just like the way his legs were now splayed wide, cock tenting up, big black boxers poking out from the waistband of the shorts like he was showing off. One hand drifted to his crotch — casual. Possessive. Like it lived there.

His fingers gripped. Squeezed.

A groan spilled out.

He looked down. Thick, heavy, meaty. His cock pulsed against his palm — veiny and proud. He felt the heat of it through the thin mesh.

His voice moaned low, breathy: “Damn, that pussy gonna stretch soooo good on this beast.”

He gasped. “I—I didn’t mean—”

But the thought felt true. Right. Natural.

That was the part that scared him most.

His wedding ring was gone. He checked three times. His fingers were bare. A new tattoo peeked out from beneath his knuckles: “Snipe” in jagged script. He didn’t even know what that meant. But the moment he saw it, a memory surfaced — a new one.

Him, shoving another guy in a parking lot, yelling “Don’t make me fuckin’ snipe yo bitch, dawg.” Laughing with his crew. Slapping hands. Weed smoke.

His stomach churned. He wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

He tried to cry — but the tears wouldn’t come.

Instead, he just laughed. A low, lazy snort. A dumb little chuckle.

“Haha, deadass… she better gag or she gettin dropped.”

His phone buzzed again.

“U at the station yet? Got the Henny, got the bitches, get yo dick in gear 💦🍑🍆”

His lips curled up on their own. “Bet.”

The train was slowing. His stop? Maybe. He wasn’t sure anymore.

All he knew was his cock was hard, his body reeked like a gym locker, and the name Kash now felt warm on his tongue. Comfortable. Like it belonged there.

Like he belonged there.

The Malcolm that boarded the train was almost gone.

Kash was just getting started.

The train doors hissed open with a breath of warm city air.

The man who stepped off was not Malcolm Whitgrove.

He didn’t walk — he slinked. Each step a lazy, sagging half-strut, basketball shorts swinging off his hips, tank top clinging to a body that looked built in the back of a gym that reeked of Axe spray and weed. His hoodie — still on, but barely — hung loose like a badge of indifference. The chain on his neck glinted in the sunlight. His cock swayed half-hard in his shorts.

And he knew it.

His hand kept drifting to it, adjusting, grabbing, scratching. Not even sexual anymore — just habit. Ownership. Like the dick was the center of gravity.

“Yo yo, where the bad bitches at, bruh?” he muttered out loud, barely aware of the words. His voice was full bass now — nasal, slurred, lazy. Every vowel dragged like it was half-slept through. Each sentence mangled with slang he didn’t know two hours ago but now flowed out like breath.

His name?

Kash.

That was it. Just Kash.

The name “Malcolm” didn’t exist anymore. It didn’t even sound real. What the fuck kind of name was that anyway? Some professor shit.

He didn’t remember a husband. Never had one. He thought dudes were mad weird like that. Homo shit. Gross. He ain’t about that.

He liked bitches. He liked pussy. He liked when a girl called him “Daddy” and choked on him while he made TikToks of her crying from taking too much. That’s what he lived for now.

His phone buzzed. His phone — not the old one. That shit was gone. Replaced with a scuffed, cracked-screen iPhone with a wallpaper of a girl’s ass jiggling in slow-mo. His lockscreen read: KASH 💦💯 NO SIMP ZONE

“We posted at the sto. Jess tryna suck you off in the backseat. You bring the perks?”

Kash chuckled, deep and loud, a dumb grin spreading across his freshly-lined beard. His teeth gleamed — one of them capped in gold now, shining beneath his lip. His nose twitched, gold ring catching the sun.

“Shiiit,” he muttered, scratching his crotch. “That bitch addicted to this dick, f’real.”

He didn’t remember where he was going before. Some office? Some job? Fuck that. He didn’t work no desk. He didn’t “commute.”

He hustled. He chilled. He piped bitches. He smoked loud. He made beats sometimes. Got a few SoundCloud drops, one with 20k plays. People knew Kash. Girls posted about him on private stories. Guys envied him. Cops hassled him.

He loved it.

His whole body felt perfect now. Chest wide and damp with sweat, covered in ink. Arms strong, sloppy muscles that flexed when he hit a blunt or passed a bottle. Ass firm, legs thick, always squatting on the block like a king. He walked like his balls were too big for his shorts. Because they were.

As he passed a glass storefront, his reflection caught him.

He stopped. Flexed. Grinned.

“Damn, you a fly motherfucker,” he said to himself, licking his lips.

He saw his hat — a Yankees snapback, backward of course. His chain — fake, but it hit. His tattoos — crude, sexy, a mix of dollar signs, crown icons, and one big “STAY HARD” scrawled above his pubes. His tongue ring glinted as he smirked.

His phone buzzed again.

“Jess said she wanna swallow your nut and get a tat of your name. You down?”

He laughed, loud. Slapped his thigh. Adjusted his cock again.

“Lemme fuckin’ shower first, that bitch ‘boutta drown in this nut. On God.”

He turned and strutted down the sidewalk, grabbing his dick as he went. No shame. No hesitation. Just balls-out confidence, filth, and swagger.

He passed a man in a suit — a little older, polite, elegant — and didn’t even register him. Didn’t see the brief flash of recognition in the older man’s eyes. The flicker of confusion. As if something about this loud, dirty, swaggering punk triggered a memory.

But it was already gone.

Malcolm Whitgrove was gone.

Kash had taken his place.

And he wasn’t going back.

Kash was back at it.

Shirtless, chain swinging over his sweat-slicked chest, the scent of weed and faded cologne lingering on his skin, he strutted barefoot through the cheap carpet of the basement apartment like he owned it. His mesh shorts sagged low, showing the full waistband of his crusty black boxers. He was already half-hard again, dick swaying with every step.

“Yo, where my bitch at?” he called out, cracking open a cheap energy drink and downing half in one swig. “I got dick to deliver, y’feel me? Hella backed up.”

She called back from the bedroom: “You nasty as hell, Kash. Damn.”

He grinned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Her voice made his cock twitch.

She was thick — chocolate skin, braids swinging, ass like two planets fighting for space in a pair of spandex shorts. She was loud. She was raw. She loved how dumb and filthy he was.

And Kash?

He lived for it.

He strutted into the room without knocking. The lights were off, but her body gleamed under the soft blue glow of her LED strip lights. She was sprawled on the bed, looking back at him, licking her lips.

“Yo,” he grunted, grabbing his dick through his shorts. “You ready to get wrecked, girl?”

She rolled her eyes, smirking. “You always talkin’ shit.”

Kash pulled his shorts down with one hand, revealing his veiny cock, heavy and already dripping. “Nah, I talk facts, boo. You know you love this white boy dick.”

She laughed, biting her lip. “You ain’t white when you fuck me like that.”

His grin stretched wide, stupid and proud.

“Shiiit,” he said, voice thick with fake bravado, exaggerated swagger in every syllable, “when I’m deep in that pussy, I’m straight hood, baby. Straight ghetto. You ridin’ with a real one now.”

He slapped her ass — hard. She gasped. He grunted.

Then he grabbed her braids like handlebars and lined himself up.

He didn’t kiss. He didn’t ease in.

He slammed.

“Unhh—fuck yeah!” he roared, loud and shameless. “Y’all hear that? That wet-ass black pussy stretchin’ on my shit, fuck!”

He grunted every time he drove into her, balls slapping, sweat flying, voice dropping deeper and deeper into some dumb, pornified impression of a culture he didn’t even understand.

But he thought it sounded cool. He thought it was him now.

“Yooo… this pussy got me actin’ up, deadass! You milkin’ my dick like it owe you money, girl!”

She moaned beneath him, grinding back hard. “Shut up and nut, Kash.”

“Ohhh I’mma bust… shit, you gon’ make a baby tonight!”

The bed creaked. The chain slapped against his chest. His moans got louder. Filthier. He was drooling. Laughing. Spitting on her back. Gripping her hips like handles.

No memory of soft jazz. No trace of wine or poetry.

Just the animal.

Just Kash.

The climax hit with a guttural roar and a flex of every dumb muscle in his overworked body. He collapsed on top of her, panting like a beast, tongue hanging out.

She giggled. “Damn. You stupid.”

He just chuckled. Smacked her ass again.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you love it.”

[g2slove]

Magic, Darling

The door clicked shut behind him, and Daniel exhaled, tossing his keys onto the entryway table. The day had been long, the kind of long that made his shoulders ache and his mind foggy. He barely noticed the faint rustle of fabric behind him—a whisper of movement that didn’t belong in the stillness of his apartment. But then again, he wasn’t paying attention. Not yet.

Vanessa materialized in the warm glow of the apartment, her presence undetected. The air shimmered faintly, catching the light as she stepped out of the veil of invisibility. Her breath was steady, her eyes locked on Daniel as he moved further into the space, oblivious to her silent arrival. The scent of him filled her senses— pine and sweat, something sharp and human. She watched his shoulders tense as he shrugged out of his jacket, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his shirt.

Vanessa’s pulse quickened as she raked her gaze over Daniel’s broad frame. She had watched him earlier, unbeknownst to him—his strong hands gripping a coffee cup, the way his biceps flexed as he reached for something on a high shelf. He was everything she craved: primal, raw, and undeniably masculine. The dark hair that curled at the collar of his shirt, the shadow of stubble along his jaw—it was all so intoxicating. She couldn’t resist him. She didn’t want to.

Her bare feet made no sound as she closed the distance between them, her movements fluid and predatory. She was mere inches away now, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Her fingers itched to touch him, to feel his skin beneath her palms. She hesitated, savoring the anticipation, the electric charge in the air.

Vanessa’s lips curved into a sly smile as she extended her hand, fingers twisting delicately in the air. A soft, golden glow emanated from her palm, swirling like smoke before disappearing into the space between them. The spell settled over Daniel like an invisible mist, intoxicating, irresistible. His shoulders stiffened, then relaxed as a low groan escaped his lips. Slowly, he turned, his eyes widening as they fell upon her.

She stood there, radiant and untamed, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, her piercing gaze locked onto his.

Daniel’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling as the spell tightened its grip. His steps were deliberate, determined, as he closed the distance between them. Without hesitation, he scooped her into his arms, his hands gripping her waist as their lips met in a fierce, hungry kiss. Vanessa moaned into him, her body arching as his fingers tangled in her hair.

Their hands moved frantically, tearing at clothes, desperate for skin. everything quickly discarded and all pooled at their feet, until they stood there, naked and vulnerable. Vanessa’s breath came in shallow gasps as her eyes raked over his body—his muscular chest, the trail of hair leading down to his rock-hard cock.

Her hand reached out, wrapping around him, and Daniel gasped, his head falling back. But then, something shifted. His eyes flickered, confusion clouding his features as the spell momentarily lost its hold. “I’m gay!” he blurted, his voice strangled. “What’s happening to me?”

Vanessa’s lips curled into a wicked grin, her grip on him tightening. “Magic, darling,” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear.

The spell seized him again, golden tendrils of light swirling violently in the air around Vanessa, wrapping Daniel in a heat that sank into his bones like molten steel. His thoughts dissolved, buried under a flood of raw, carnal instinct. “Kiss me,” she whispered, her voice a low, throaty command. Her breath was hot against his mouth, her lips hovering just out of reach until he leaned in, desperate. His hands found her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh there as their mouths crashed together. She tasted like honey

Vanessa’s mind raced even as her body pressed into Daniel’s, their lips locked in a fevered dance. “Gay?” The confession had startled her, but only for a moment. Her magic didn’t discriminate. His orientation was irrelevant now; her power was absolute. She had seen the way he carried himself earlier, the confidence in his stride, the strength in his hands. He exuded a raw magnetism that had drawn her in like a moth to a flame. No, it didn’t matter that he was gay. She didn’t care. Her blood burned with hunger, and she wasn’t about to let his sexuality stand in her way.

Her lips broke from his, trailing down the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against her mouth. The spell pulsed around them, thickening the air with heat.

Vanessa’s hands slid down Daniel’s chest, her nails raking lightly over his skin as she pulled him closer. The spell still coiled around him, a golden mist that blurred the edges of his thoughts, though faint cracks were beginning to form in its hold. She pressed her body flush against his, her full, soft curves molding to his muscled frame. “Suck my tits,” she commanded, her voice low and sultry, dripping with a need that made her own breath hitch.

Daniel hesitated, his mind flickering with the faintest glimmer of resistance. It was there—a whisper of “I’m gay, this isn’t me”—but it was drowned out by the overwhelming pull of her magic. His lips moved of their own accord, drawn to the plump swell of her breast. His mouth closed around her nipple, warm and wet, and she let out a soft gasp, her fingers tangling in his hair. He sucked hard, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through her body. She arched into him, her breath coming in shallow pants. “Yes, just like that,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He pulled away for a moment, a string of saliva connecting his lips to her skin. Then, to her surprise, he spat on her breasts, the act crude and primal, and she let out a breathless laugh. “Oh, you’re a filthy one, aren’t you?” she teased, her voice thick with arousal. His hands moved to cup her breasts, squeezing them together, and he buried his face between them, his lips and tongue working in a messy, frenzied rhythm. The sound he made—a low, guttural groan—sent a shiver down her spine.

Vanessa’s fingers tightened in his hair, guiding him, urging him on. “God, you’re so good at this,” she moaned, her head falling back as the pleasure built. But her hunger wasn’t satisfied yet. She needed more. “It’s time to fuck me,” she said, her voice sharp with urgency.

Daniel’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of hesitation. But then the spell surged again, and he obeyed, his hands gripping her hips as he lifted her effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her fingers clawing at his shoulders as he carried her to the bed. He laid her down gently, her back sinking into the mattress, and then he was on top of her, his body moving with a fierce, animalistic need.

He lined himself up with her entrance, his cock hard and throbbing. Vanessa’s breath caught, her body trembling with anticipation. “Do it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Fuck me.”

And he did.

Daniel thrust into her without hesitation, his hips slamming against hers with a force that drove the air from her lungs. Vanessa cried out, her nails digging into his back as she clawed at him, desperate to pull him closer. He fucked her like a man possessed, his movements wild and unrelenting. The bed creaked beneath them, the sound swallowed by their ragged breaths and the wet slap of skin on skin.

Vanessa’s head spun, her body aflame with pleasure. She could feel the spell beginning to fray, its hold on him weakening, but Daniel didn’t stop. He groaned low in his throat, his pace only growing more frantic. “Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted, her voice breaking with each thrust. Her hips rose to meet his, her body moving in perfect sync with his.

But then, as the pleasure built to a fever pitch, she saw it—a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. The spell was fading, and with it, the compulsion that had driven him to her. Yet, even as his mind began to clear, his body didn’t stop. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming. He was too far gone.

“I—I can’t—” he stammered, his voice hoarse.

“Don’t stop,” she pleaded, her hands grabbing his face, forcing him to look at her. “Please, don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. His pace only grew more frenzied, his thrusts deeper, harder. Vanessa could feel herself teetering on the edge, her body coiling tight like a spring. She was so close. So close.

And then the door opened.

The sound of the door creaking open was like a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. Daniel froze, his body going rigid. Vanessa’s eyes flew open, her breath catching in her throat.

“Daniel?” a soft, lilting voice called from the doorway.

Daniel turned his head, his eyes widening in horror. There, standing in the doorway, was a slender young man with delicate features and wide, shocked eyes. His boyfriend.

“W—what the fuck is going on?” the boy stammered, his voice high and trembling.

Daniel’s body jerked as the realization hit him, and he pulled out of Vanessa with a wet, obscene sound. He stared at his boyfriend, his face pale, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the words.

“I… I don’t—” Daniel began, his voice breaking.

But Vanessa wasn’t about to let this moment slip away. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, and she pulled him back to her, her lips brushing against his ear. “Don’t you dare stop,” she hissed, her voice low and commanding. “You’re not done yet.”

Daniel hesitated, his body trembling with conflicting emotions. But then, to her surprise, he gave in.

“Just… just give me a second,” Daniel said to his boyfriend, his voice strained.

“A second?” the boy screeched, his voice cracking. “Are you serious right now?”

The room was heavy with tension, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desire. Daniel’s boyfriend stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide with shock and betrayal. Vanessa smirked, her lips curving into a wicked grin as she raised her hand, her fingers twirling in the air. A shimmering gold glow erupted from her palm, enveloping the boyfriend in an invisible force. He gasped, his body stiffening as the spell took hold, rendering him immobile.

“What… what have you done to me?” the boyfriend stammered, his voice trembling with panic. “Who are you? What are you?”

Vanessa’s laughter echoed through the room, low and sultry. “Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, her voice dripping with mockery. “You’re about to witness something… transformative.”

Daniel turned back to Vanessa. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling as he moved toward her once more. His hands found her hips, gripping them tightly as he positioned himself between her legs. His cock throbbed, hard and desperate, as he pushed himself inside her with a groan. Vanessa arched her back, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she let out a satisfied moan.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice a seductive murmur against his ear. “Let go, Daniel. Give yourself to me completely.”

Daniel obeyed, his hips thrusting in a frantic rhythm, his body moving with a primal urgency that he couldn’t resist. The sound of their bodies slapping together filled the room, mingling with Vanessa’s soft moans and Daniel’s ragged breaths. His boyfriend watched, horrified, unable to look away as the scene unfolded before him.

“Daniel, stop!” the boyfriend pleaded, his voice cracking. “This isn’t you!”

Daniel’s head snapped toward his boyfriend, his eyes glazed with lust, his hips still slamming into Vanessa with unrelenting force. Sweat dripped down his temples as he paused for the briefest moment, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. “I didn’t want this at first,” he admitted, his voice low and rough, almost unrecognizable. “She was in control… but she’s not anymore.” His gaze flicked back to Vanessa, who was sprawled beneath him, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in a wicked smile. “I want this now,” he growled. “It feels too good.”

With that, he shoved himself deeper into her, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. Vanessa moaned, her fingers clawing at his back as she egged him on, whispering filthy encouragements into his ear. The air was thick with the sound of skin slapping against skin, of their breaths mingling in a symphony of pleasure and chaos.

Daniel’s body tensed, his hips stuttering as he came with a guttural groan, burying himself as deeply as he could inside her. He held there, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling as the waves of his release crashed over him. For a moment, everything was still—the room, the air, the tension between them—and then, without warning, Daniel jumped back.

His eyes were wild, his face lit with a strange, almost manic excitement. He didn’t waste a second before dropping to his knees between Vanessa’s thighs, his hands gripping her hips to keep her still as he dove in. Vanessa gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he began to lap at her, his tongue working eagerly to clean every drop of his own release from her. The sight was obscene, the way he devoured her like she was the most delectable thing he’d ever tasted.

Vanessa stared down at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to process what was happening. This wasn’t part of the spell. The spell was supposed to make him find her irresistible, yes, but it wasn’t supposed to… to change him. It wasn’t supposed to rewrite who he was, to erase his sexuality and replace it with something entirely new. And yet, here he was, his eyes glowing faintly gold as he smirked up at her from between her legs, his expression one of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.

Her heart raced, her mind spinning as she realized the truth. She’d done this. Her magic, her power—it had been stronger than she’d ever imagined. She’d altered him on a fundamental level, bending his desires to her will in a way that went far beyond simple attraction. She’d transformed him, and the knowledge sent a shiver of both fear and exhilaration coursing through her.

“Daniel,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to regain her composure. “Do you… do you feel different?”

He pulled back, his lips glistening, his golden eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “Different?” he repeated, his voice deep and rough, almost a growl. “Yes.” He leaned in, his hands sliding up her thighs as he nipped at the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. “I feel… alive. I feel like I’ve been sleeping my whole life, and now I’m finally awake.”

Daniel lifted his head, his lips still glistening as he turned to face his boyfriend. The golden glow in his eyes burned brighter, almost predatory, as they locked onto the man who had once shared his bed. His boyfriend stared back, frozen in place, his face pale with shock and fear.

“She made it so I’m not a faggot like you anymore,” Daniel said, his voice cold and cutting, each word dripping with contempt. The room seemed to shrink, the air turning heavy with tension as the words hung between them like a blade.

His boyfriend flinched as if he’d been struck, his hands trembling at his sides. “Daniel, no,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “That’s not… that’s not who you are.”

Daniel rose to his feet, his movements fluid and deliberate, his body radiating a newfound confidence. He stepped closer, his golden eyes never leaving his boyfriend’s face. “It was who I was,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “But now? Now I’m free. Free of you, free to be with her—” he gestured toward her without looking back, a flicker of reverence in his tone, “—she’s shown me what I’m really meant for.”

His boyfriend took a step back, his chest heaving as panic set in. “This… this isn’t real,” he stammered. “Whatever she’s done to you—it’s not you. You have to fight it!”

Daniel’s lips curled into a cruel smile as he closed the distance between them, his hands tightening at his sides. “Oh, it’s real,” he said, his voice low and sinister. “And I’m not fighting it. I’m embracing it. ”

He reached out, grabbed his boyfriend by the collar, and shoved him backward with a force that sent him stumbling into the wall. “Get out,” Daniel growled, his golden eyes blazing.

His boyfriend didn’t need to be told twice. With one last terrified glance, he turned and bolted from the room, leaving Daniel and Vanessa alone. Daniel exhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as he turned back to Vanessa, his golden eyes softening as they met hers. “Now,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, “where were we?”

Outside the apartment, the boyfriend slumped against the wall, his face buried in his hands. The muffled sounds of Vanessa’s moans and Daniel’s growls seeped through the door, each one a dagger to his heart. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened—how the man he loved had turned into someone unrecognizable, cruel and consumed by something dark.

But then, something shifted. A faint warmth spread through his chest, subtle at first, like the first rays of sunlight breaking through a storm. He froze, his breath hitching as the sensation grew stronger, more intense. His hands dropped to his sides, trembling as he looked down at his chest. Beneath his shirt, a soft golden glow began to pulse, radiating outward with an almost hypnotic rhythm.

His tears dried instantly, replaced by a strange, tingling energy that coursed through his veins. His mind, once clouded with despair, suddenly felt sharp, clear, and… powerful. He stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, his posture straightening as if an invisible weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The golden glow intensified, spreading up his neck and into his eyes. His irises shimmered, shifting from their natural color to a brilliant, molten gold. He blinked, his vision sharpening as if seeing the world for the first time. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, small at first, but quickly widening into a grin of pure, unadulterated confidence.

He wiped the last traces of tears from his face with the back of his hand, his touch firm and decisive. The sound of Vanessa and Daniel’s passion no longer filled him with pain; instead, it fueled something deep within him—a hunger, a need. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the strength in his body, the power thrumming beneath his skin.

With a newfound swagger, he pushed off the wall and walked away, his steps steady and purposeful. The spell had passed into him, and with it came a transformation he couldn’t yet fully understand. But one thing was certain: he wasn’t the same man who had stumbled out of that apartment moments ago.

And wherever he was going, whatever he was becoming, it was only the beginning.

[alternate-real-ities]

Nasl Sheikh (نسل شيخ)

Nasl Sheikh, also commonly known as the breeder shake brand, is starting to get traction around my place. All the jacked guys at the gym have been recommending it for a while. I'll try it out and let you guys know how it tastes. The free shaker bottle that came with my purchase is a bit gross though. Wasn't expecting the super straight motto, but I guess you can't expect much from an Egyptian sports supplement brand...

Would you guys like to try some as well?

[sleazedudegoonerpants]

reminder that men are programmed to turn into big dumb fuck machines when presented with a fertile womb to breed <3

[analaddictedpuppygirl]

going out to the club with your gay bestie and his boyfriend, getting too drunk and letting them take turns trying your dyke pussy when they bring you home afterwards. it’s just experimenting, right? they won’t get addicted to your wet cunt, just like you won’t fall in love with their thick cocks. right?

[gaystraightboy]

I can’t wait to be in my first straight relationship and not have to worry about all this top/bottom bullshit. We won’t ever need to use those terms, because as the man I’m obviously the penetrative partner and as the woman she’s the receptive partner.

It’ll be even better when we’re ready to start a family and start bragging about our raw breeding sex by happily telling everyone “we’re trying for kids!” Then everyone will know I’m nutting inside her bare pussy, and she’s getting creampied on the reg. Perfect.

[devinpink]

Assimilation, Bro!

Brandon knew that bulking up wouldn't be enough; he needed to change everything about himself. He observed straight men, studying them with intense focus, and applied this insight to his own behavior—how they dressed, walked, talked, and especially how they treated other men. Assimilation was the goal, and thus Brody was born. After changing his name, he shortened his hair, grew out his facial hair, and dressed more like the perfect gym bro. He walked with a more dominant stride, used bro vernacular, and forced himself to speak in a deep, manly voice. The more he conformed to their way of life, the more he was accepted. He gets a rush of testosterone every time he's mistaken for straight. Perhaps he should start fucking pussy, to fully conform?

[stonedstr8]

TOKE 'N STROKE

"Ads are getting so damn invasive." Lucas thought to himself, clicking skip on yet another pointless car commercial interrupting the video essay he was watching. "You think the algorithm would know its audience by now, I'm too gay to drive!"

He laughed a little bit at the joke, running a hand through his soft, bleached blonde hair. He was the epitome of a high-maintenance twink, with his smooth, hairless body and perfect sense of style. He was smart too and liked to boast about it, with a scholarship for his English Lit degree and being made President of his university's LGBT Chapter, which he was hoping to use as a stepping stone to become Student Body President next year.

Leaning back again in his chair he reached for his cellphone, seeing a text from his boyfriend Alex.

Alex: "Hey cutie, still busy with finals this weekend, but have time for a dinner date Sunday night?"

He smiled to himself, giving an eager text back to set it up, and to wish him well on his upcoming exams. "Ugh, I need to start studying too, Monday's going to be one hell of a final... I'll focus on it and head to the library after this video and-"

Just like that, his train of thought was interrupted again by a stupid ad, this time some obnoxious psychedelic visuals and a bad electric guitar riff blared out of his monitor. It startled him so badly that he seized up for a second, accidentally clicking the ad and being brought to their store page. "Broski's Bud's, one stop ship and shop for weed strains to fix your brain..." He rolled his eyes at the cringe marketing, getting ready to close the tab when a pop-up opened trying to tell him all about a deal he 'wouldn't want to miss out on'. "No thanks, stupid site, you can keep your Bro Buds or whatever to yourself." but every time he hit X on the popup another would open, being more and more insistent each time about new deals, until finally a desperate '90% OFF AND SPECIAL STARTER KIT AS A BONUS WITH YOUR FIRST PURCHASE' filled his screen. "FINE," he scoffed at his computer, "I'll take a look at the stupid site. My therapist suggested I try out weed to help lessen my anxiety anyways, so might as well get a good deal on it..."

Clicking the pop-up added the 'starter kit' to his cart, it was a pack of pre-rolled blunts and some sort of mystery box, but the description didn't help him understand it much either. "Get ready to step into the zone and open ur mind with this one bros, Broski's Buds bestselling strain, Toke 'n Stroke, is sure to change your life by stimulating a high never felt before! This isn't your sissy uncle's strain, this shit puts hair on your chest like a real man!"

"God this is so cringe, I bet they get all kinds of business marketing to the dumb jocks in town, no wonder their brains are mush. Still, it's just weed and for $20 I might as well give it a try, I probably won't find it cheaper anywhere else..." sitting in thought about it for a few seconds, Lucas finally filled in his payment info and placed his order, getting a free upgrade to same-day delivery since they seem to have a storefront a few miles from his apartment.

"Well, there goes my library plans I guess, I'll have to wait around for delivery since my package will probably get swiped otherwise..." Lucas sighed, turning off his computer and plopping down onto the couch, picking up his Switch to play Animal Crossing and kill time.

A few hours passed and the sky got dark before finally a long buzz came from his intercom. "Took them long enough, it's nearly 9pm!" he complained, putting his jacket on to head downstairs. When he got down there the delivery guy had already gotten into his car again, driving away and leaving Lucas to carry the package back upstairs all on his own. It was bigger than he expected, taking both hands to lift it and keep it stable. "Jesus, this thing must weight like 40 pounds! What did they put in here?"

After a bit of struggling and the occasional break to catch his breath, Lucas pushed his package into the living room, collapsing on the floor next to it for a while. "After that workout I'm surprised I don't look like the douchebags around campus." he laughed to himself, bouncing up to get a box cutter and pry his package open. After taking the carton of pre-rolled blunts out, he started into the box with a bit of confusion and disgust, pulling things out one after the other.

"A sleeveless tank top that says 'Toke 'n Stroke Bro'... A pair of douchey sunglasses... Some red gym shorts, socks and slides... Ew, a snapback saying 'Who ate all the pussy?', why the fuck would anyone wear this!... And 2 dumbbells, no wonder this thing was so heavy! All of this is useless shit that's gonna end up in a donation bin now, I'll have to drop this trashy stuff off tomorrow on my way to the library... But hey, at least the weed seems fine, smells... potent." He said, tossing everything back into the box and taking a whiff of one of the blunts.

Kicking back on the couch again, he played with the blunt in his hand for a while before finally having the courage to light it up, taking a hit. Immediately he started coughing, not used to the sensation, but it did make his brain start to feel... fuzzy. "Damn, okay I need to push past it and get used to it." he said, lighting up for another hit of the blunt, this time barely a cough escaping his throat, feeling suspiciously more used to it. Then another, and another, until finally the whole blunt was gone. Sitting in his daze for a while, he enjoyed the sensation of his mind drifting around experiencing the high, his anxiety melting away as if he didn't have a care in the world. Eventually he decided to try and get up, but his body slumped over off the couch and hitting the floor, the room fading to black...

...

When Lucas finally came to again, the first thing that hit him was the strong smell of weed floating around in the air. "Damn bro, did I smoke the whole set or what..." he laughed groggily, getting ready to stretch out and get back to laying on the couch before he was startled by the sound of moaning blasting from his TV, eyes shooting open in confusion. On the screen, two busty lesbians were making out, them taking turns groping each others boobs and fingering each other. "What the fuck bro, how long has this been on?" he cursed, nervous that the neighbors nextdoor might have heard it playing as he started desperately looking for the remote.

When he couldn't find it in the cushions, he got up from the couch only to be met with his feet kicking a bunch of empty beer cans. "Dude, there's gotta be 2 dozen thrown all over the floor, did I have a party or something? I don't even know anyone who drinks beer..." he mumbled, going to scratch his head in confusion, but was even more confused when instead of his hair he felt a hat on top of his head. "Huh?" he thought, as he looked down at the floor again, noticing that instead of his skinny jeans and converse he was now wearing the socks and slides from the box, along with the sleeveless tank top and the shorts too. He stumbled his way to the bathroom door still baked out of his mind, mouth dropping open at his reflection in the full-length mirror in front of him.

"Broooo, am I dreaming or what the fuckkkk is going on" he said in disbelief. No more was the cute, pale twink he used to be staring back at him. Instead, a douchey bro he didn't recognize was standing face to face with him. Tanned skin, pillowy muscles, his once blonde hair turned into a brown buzz cut and with that stupid "Who ate all the pussy?" hat slapped over it. He touched his face, feeling along his chin where his once smooth skin now had a rougher texture, and a trashy chinstrap sprouted from his jawline. He slapped his face a few times in his daze, trying to wake up from the dream and growing more confused each time nothing changed.

Turning around and staggering back to his living room to try and make sense of what's going on, it hit him that he barely recognizes the room anymore. His apartment used to be perfectly maintained and well-decorated, now there was beer cans all over the floor, along with dirty socks and cummed-in underwear, greasy pizza boxes and chip bags all over the table and counter, the decorations on his walls had been torn down and replaced with posters of chicks in bikinis and sports teams, his Switch replaced with an X-Box and a stack of COD games next to it, DVD cases of trashy bro-comedies were thrown around near the TV too... Then the smell hit him, it STUNK in here, like a sickening mixture of weed, cheap body spray, and sour BO wafting in a heat around the room. "Bro, it fucking reeks in here... Or wait..." he mumbled as he gave himself a whiff, "I fucking reek!"

After a bit of stunned silence he finally started to process things in his brain again. How the fuck did he get like this, was any of this even real, and how does he get back to normal? He plopped back onto the couch, picking up his phone to see he had a handful of missed texts and calls from his boyfriend before noticing the time... 2:00pm. On Sunday. He had somehow been blacked out for 2 whole nights, with no memory of anything that had happened. While getting ready to call his boyfriend back, Lucas felt his insides rumbling and at first he thought it was from the munchies because of all the weed, but then he realized "Oh bro, all that double-cheese pizza is really gonna fucking..."

*PHRRRBBBTTT!*

His body instinctively lifted its leg as it pushed out the loudest and most obnoxious fart he'd ever ripped in his life, as his body seemed to react on its own, letting out an immature laugh and wafting the air before muttering "Fuck yeah bro, smells like victory!" He leaned back into the couch, remembering he needed to call Alex, but the loud moaning on the TV caught him off guard again. This time he locked eyes with the screen, the cock in his shorts immediately bulging and straining at the sight of the lesbian porn before him. "I really need to turn this shit off and get whatever's going on sorted out..." he thought, but he realized he couldn't move his hand to reach for his phone, instead it reacted on its own, reaching down his waistband to pull out his cock and start stroking for the busty babes on TV.

"All I do is Toke 'n Stroke, bro..." a voice in his head seemed to say, except it didn't come from within, he spoke it directly out of his own mouth.

"Wait, I didn't say that bro, it's-" he tried to talk, realizing that his thoughts echoed around stuck in his own head, not even leaving the lips of his own body. He was just stuck there, watching in a dazed horror as he went on autopilot.

"Toke 'n Stroke bro, I'm such a loyal customer Broski's Buds will HAVE to take me as a hype boy this time haha!" his voice spoke again, continuing to stroke for the porn on TV, Lucas's eyes stuck fixed on the screen. Suddenly though, he was interrupted by his phone vibrating, a text from his boyfriend coming through.

Alex: "Hey cutie, I hope everything is alright? You haven't answered my calls or texts in a couple days, I know it's busy with all your studying but we do still have dinner planned for tonight. Still on for me to pick you up at 5?"

"Oh thank God," Lucas thought, reading the message, "I can tell him what's going on and have him come over to help me fix this shit!" Unlocking his phone, Lucas let out a sigh of relief as he got ready to reply, only for his body to still be taken over by whatever douchey daze it was stuck in.

Lucas: "dont u ever come around me u faggy creep, if me or my bros ever catch u within 100 feet of us we'll give u the beating of a lifetime! fuck around n find out if u dare to show ur face here."

Lucas screamed internally as the message was typed out and sent in front of his very eyes, before his hand moved to block his boyfriend's number and turn his phone off. "Something is seriously fucking wrong with me bro, I need to-"

*PHHRRRRBBBTTTTTT*

Another obnoxious and sickening fart blasted out of his ass, filling the room and breaking Lucas's thoughts down into a daze again, as he felt around under the couch for something before pulling a sweaty, well-used fuck toy of a girls ass and pussy up from the mess.

As Lucas once again locked eyes with the TV, he took another hit from his dwindling blunt stash, finishing up the last one. After throwing what was left onto the floor, he prepared the fuck toy and slid it right down onto his cock, starting to bounce the toy up and down as he edged himself closer to finishing.

"If I can't figure out a way to snap out of this, I'm so fucked..." he thought, as his voice spoke again. "Toke 'n Stroke bro, this chick is soooo getting fucked!" He moaned, as he shot his thick load into the toy, feeling some of his braincells permanently shoot out with it, sloppily wiping the mess on the cushion next to him as he laid back, feeling his insides start to bubble again.

Lucas had a lot of Bro Time to catch up on, but luckily his new favorite weed strain was making sure that he was a captive audience until he was fully converted and assimilated into just another Bro.

[prouddouchebag]

i get home “sweaty” like this and i have to tell my dad i was at the gym cause weirdly i still wanna be “right” to prove myself right for all these years…..this is soo hard……cmon he knows it already…..he is straight he knows how thats like…soon i’ll have to come out…and you know whats worse? he is not from the right wing….

[need4change]

You Shouldn’t Have Clicked That Link

You’re halfway through an article you’ve read before — Queer Temporality and the Limits of Linear Progression — sipping from a cooling mug of ginger tea, legs curled on your secondhand armchair, laptop warm across your thighs. The soft hum of your air purifier fills the studio, the only sound besides the clack of your fingers and the slow turning of your page.

It’s Saturday. You’re 34. No plans tonight. You’re used to it. You like being alone. Quiet. Smart.

You’d describe yourself as “thoughtful.” Reserved. Maybe a little uptight, if you’re being honest. You have a library of Criterion Blu-rays and alphabetized spice jars. You like writing in fountain pen. You keep your nails trimmed and buffed. Your Grindr profile is a headless torso pic, but your bio lists favorite plays. You haven’t been on a real date in two years.

So when a half-ironic link appears in a random Reddit comment — titled only "Be Him." — you hover over it for a moment.

It’s dumb. It’s probably a video of some roided-out Jersey Shore reject chugging preworkout and farting on his own abs. You almost roll your eyes.

But something makes you click.

“Be Him.”

The tab opens, black screen. One second. Two.

Then a flash — white, and hot — like your screen just exhaled on you.

You blink. Your forehead feels clammy. The page is gone.

Your laptop buzzes faintly beneath your fingers.

Weird.

You minimize everything, lean back. Try to shake it off.

But your shirt is sticking to your back.

You glance down. Frown.

You always keep your apartment cool. You don’t sweat — not like this. But your armpits feel damp. Your collar is damp. You lift an arm, cautiously, and that’s when you smell it.

At first, it’s faint — but thick. Rank. Like old gym clothes. Sharp, sour, masculine. Animal.

You blink again. Lift your other arm.

It’s worse.

The fuck?

You stumble into the bathroom, fingers already unbuttoning your shirt. You stare into the mirror. It’s you — but not. Your cheeks look red. Your hair — your careful, soft-styled hair — looks wet. Greasy at the roots. You push it back and your fingertips come away slick.

You lean in.

Your armpits are no longer smooth. They should be. You shave daily. But now… now there’s growth. Dark. Wiry. Dense. The kind of hair that mats when you sweat. The kind that traps scent.

You raise your arm again and gag.

That’s your stink. Not a stranger’s. Yours.

You stare. Something’s wrong.

You hold onto the sink and take a breath, but your body’s starting to feel heavy. Not just tired — weighted. Your feet ache. Your thighs throb, like you’ve been squatting. You hear a faint pop in your lower back and wince.

You didn’t work out.

And then… a thought enters your head.

It’s not your voice.

“Bro, I needa get my pump in. I fuckin’ reek, bruh.”

The voice is thick. Lazy. Arrogant. There’s something wet about it. Like someone chewing a protein bar while talking through his nose. It sloshes behind your eyes like a slow, stupid wave.

“Where’s my Axe, man? Smell like fuckin’ alpha in here…”

You reel back. That wasn’t yours. You’ve never used Axe. You despise it. But your body tenses — excited. Your stomach gurgles. Your cock gives a twitch.

You exhale shakily. You want to cry. Call someone. Clean yourself.

You turn back toward your bedroom.

But it’s not your bedroom.

Or, it is — but it isn’t.

Your neatly made bed is gone. In its place: a mattress on the floor, sheetless. There’s a stain on one corner. A pile of black tank tops on the floor. The air smells of sweat, jizz, and fabric softener — like a frat house trying to mask the scent of sex.

Your framed portrait of James Baldwin?

Replaced by a poster of a woman in a red string bikini, licking whipped cream off her fingers.

You want to look away. You try to.

But instead, your cock gets hard.

Your lips part. A drop of saliva slips down your chin. You whisper, automatically:

“Damn, I wanna bury my face in those tits.”

You slap your own face.

No. No. You’ve never thought like that. Never. That’s not how you look at women. That’s not you.

But the thought echoes. Louder.

“Tits. Tits. Tits. Bet her pussy’s tight as fuck, bro. Get in there, knock her up, make her mine.”

You shake your head furiously, pacing. The stink of your armpits follows you like a stormcloud. You’re sweating more now. Your shirt clings to your thickening torso. You catch your reflection in the black TV screen. Your neck looks thicker. Your traps — they’re there. You don’t have traps.

You press a hand to your chest.

It’s not soft anymore.

There’s a shelf forming. Hard. Fleshy. You dig your fingers into it.

Muscle.

Real, throbbing, hot muscle.

And then your thoughts start to slow down. You try to think — clearly, academically — but it’s like your brain is melting. Sentences break. Words vanish.

You want to scream. But all that comes out is:

“Uhhhhhhnn, fuckkkk. I’m gettin’ swole…”

Your own voice. Lower. Stupider.

You grab your cock through your pants, trying to stop it. But it’s hard. Rock-hard. Leaking through your cheap gray briefs — which aren’t even yours. You fell asleep in a Calvin Klein jockstrap.

These boxers are unfamiliar. Cheap. Athletic. They stink. So do you.

And you love it.

The scent. The filth. The dumbness.

The pressure in your balls grows hot. You feel it churn — like something inside is bubbling. Mutating. Swapping out your cultured, gentle, fussy gayness and replacing it with sperm. With stink. With straight.

You grunt.

Your feet crack inside your slippers — toes spreading, heels thickening. Your toenails yellowing just slightly. Your soles already a little rougher. Dirtier. Your thighs are so thick now, they brush when you walk.

And in the mirror, you see it. Your face.

Your jaw is heavier. Brow thicker. Your nose, broader. Lips plumper — parted, drooling, panting.

There’s a chain around your neck. Thick gold. You don’t know where it came from.

But you like how it feels.

You flex in the mirror.

“Yooo,” you murmur, chuckling. “I’m fuckin’ JACKED, bro.”

You stare at your reflection.

And deep down, you know:

You’re not you anymore.

But you’re only at the beginning.

You sit hunched on the edge of the ruined mattress, sweat-slick and shivering.

You try to remember your name. Your real name.

But all that comes to mind is a growl — low and heavy, like your throat’s full of gravel. You wheeze, spitting on the floor. The sound is vile. The spit’s thick, like syrup, clinging to your lips. You wipe it with the back of your hand. Your knuckles are hairy. Calloused. Veiny. Like a factory worker. Like a bouncer. Like someone who never read a book.

The laptop flickers on across the room. But it’s no longer yours.

The background image is a pair of tits. Huge, fake, orange. A watermark reads "BustedBimbosLive.xxx"

Your own dick pulses at the sight. A throb. You can feel it—deep, behind your balls. Like it’s building something inside you. Something hot. Something that doesn’t care about love. Or connection. Or men.

Only holes.

Only pussy.

You gag, doubling over. You can feel the virus crawling now, slow and sticky, coiling through your spine and up into your brain. Your thoughts are molasses. Muffled. Foreign.

You try to think about your thesis. Your students. Your queer theory class. What even was it?

Your lips part dumbly.

“Uhh… somethin’... somethin’ ‘bout time bein’ gay, or whatever… fuck it…”

You slap yourself.

No. No. No.

But your hand just lingers, rough fingers cupping your own square, stupid jaw. Admiring it.

A shudder rips through your biceps. A twitch. Then another. They’re… swelling. You grab your upper arm as the fibers knot tighter beneath the skin. Veins rise, pressing outward like snakes under tight canvas. A single, thick pop echoes through your shoulder.

“Fuckk bro. Look at that meat…”

You say it out loud. You mean it. You love it.

You flex in the cracked mirror. Your shoulder bulges grotesquely. There’s a fresh tan line slicing through your upper arm. You don’t tan. You’ve never tanned in your life. You’re ghost-pale. You wear SPF 100 and carry a parasol in July.

But now…

Your skin is going orange.

You stagger back, watching as pigment pools unnaturally beneath the surface — like it’s being injected. It spreads in blotches. First your chest. Then your forearms. Your thighs. It glows — artificial, sickly, sticky — a shade too dark, a shade too fake.

You sniff your arm.

It reeks.

Coconut. Sweat. Cheap cologne.

Guido.

You moan, and it’s wrong. It’s not the sound of distress anymore — it’s need. Your cock slaps against your thigh, thick and pulsing, leaving a dark stain on your boxer-briefs.

And then your voice breaks.

“Yo… I’m fuckin’—ah—shit… I’m gettin’ so tan, bro… so swole…”

It’s happening. The accent. That thick, slurred, nasal grunt. Every vowel sounds lazier. Every word, like it’s been dropped on its head.

You punch the wall.

Your knuckles split. You laugh.

“Fuckin’ wall’s gay.”

The moment it leaves your mouth, you freeze.

You try to apologize — to yourself, to no one — but the words won’t come. Instead, all you hear in your head is a string of slurs. Cruel, thoughtless, flat-out disgusting ones. You try to reach for guilt, shame — but your mind just shrugs.

“Ain’t my fault if faggots wanna act like girls. That shit’s gross, bro.”

“Men fuck pussy. That’s just real, yo.”

You grab your temples, but it doesn’t stop.

You blink—and your room is gone.

You’re in a club now. A cheap one. Somewhere deep in Jersey. The air stinks of vodka, vape juice, and artificial strawberry. Bass throbs. Lights flicker. Your tank top clings to your oily chest. You’re not sure how you got here — but your feet are sticky against the tile, and your cock is aching.

You turn.

And see her.

God. She looks fake as hell. Bleached extensions. Cake makeup. A tan deeper than your own, sprayed on in layers. Her lips are massive, glossy, parted in a pout. She’s chewing gum like she’s solving a math problem with her jaw. Her thong is peeking above her mini-skirt. She stinks of hair spray and peach vape.

And she’s fucking perfect.

You moan. Openly. Like an animal.

She notices. She turns, blows a bubble, and smirks.

“You lookin’ at me, baby?”

Her voice is high-pitched, nasal, cloying.

Your cock twitches.

You grab it through your sweatpants, no shame. None left. “Damn right I am, bitch.”

“You wanna buy me a shot?”

You don’t even answer. You grab her waist, haul her in, and grope her ass like it’s yours. She squeals — not protesting. Loving it.

“Fuck yeah,” you growl into her ear. “Bet your pussy tight as fuck, huh?”

She giggles, presses her tits to your chest.

And you drool.

Openly.

A long thread slides from your lips down your chin. You don’t wipe it.

You can’t.

The last thought of who you were — books, men, decency — vanishes in a puff of tangerine-scented body spray and bubblegum lip gloss.

You lean in close.

“Name’s Frankie,” you grunt. “Frankie DePalma. I fuck bitches and crush weights, feel me?”

She moans.

And you know—

There’s no going back.

You wake up sore.

Your throat’s raw. Your abs ache like you’ve been screaming and humping all night. The sheets beneath you are crusted, the air rank with the warm, sour scent of sex, Axe, sweat, and flatulence. There’s no denying it anymore.

You stink.

You’re shirtless. Oily. Tanned a hideous caramel-orange, your pecs rising and falling as you wheeze out a shallow grunt and scratch your thick, hairy chest. A line of drool crusts your chin, and somewhere beneath your bloated cock and bulging thighs is your phone—buzzing.

You pick it up.

It’s your old friend. Alec. Gay, sweet, smart. He must’ve seen something. Heard something.

Incoming FaceTime: Alec 🧠🌈

Your gut rumbles. You’re shirtless. You don’t care. You answer.

The moment your stupid, smirking face fills the screen, his jaw drops.

“Frank—?” he stammers. “Is that you? Oh my God… what the fuck happened to you?”

You chuckle. Loud. Loose. You wipe your nose on your wrist and rip a fart without hesitation, lifting one meaty cheek.

“Hah! Damn, bro! That one marinated.”

Alec recoils.

You flex one massive, tattooed arm. A crude tribal swirl runs over your bicep now. You don’t remember getting it. It’s just there.

You smirk. "Yo, whassup, bro? You lookin’ at me like I did somethin’ wrong."

“Dude. What happened to you? You were— I mean—your books, your work, you were applying for that—"

“Yo, shut the fuck up with that nerd shit.” You lean in, nostrils flaring, chest puffed out like a pit bull. “I don’t fuckin’ read, bro. I lift and I fuck, aight?”

Your voice is slurred. That Jersey slush. Consonants dissolve into nasal vowels. It sounds nothing like the crisp, clipped tones you used to teach with.

Alec blinks. You see it. Pity.

You snarl.

“You look like a little queer still, bro. You still takin’ dick up the ass, huh?”

His face falls. "Frankie… you’re gay, remember?"

That name. Frankie. You grunt. Deep. Instinctive. Then, with a low grin—

“Nah, bro. That was a fuckin’ phase. I like pussy now. Fucked three bimbos this weekend. Didn’t even jerk it, bro. Just raw dogged ‘em till my nuts were empty. You feel me?”

You scratch those nuts for emphasis. The sound is audible. Wet.

“Fuckin’ balls’ve been full ever since. Ain’t busted since, like, 3 a.m. Fuckin’ hurts, bro. Can’t stop gettin’ hard.”

Alec closes the app.

You snort, spit thickly onto the floor. "Fag," you mutter, with no hesitation. Like the virus has hollowed out the part of your soul that used to love him.

You waddle into the bathroom.

Your reflection makes your cock twitch.

You’re bloated with muscle and bad decisions. Thick traps slope into your neck like meaty hills. Your skin’s unevenly tanned, dark in patches, peeling on your shoulders. Your jaw is obscene—angular, heavy, with a five o’clock shadow that smells like protein shake and pussy.

You flex. You kiss your own reflection. You fart.

“Fuck, yeah. Lookin’ jacked today.”

You dig your fingers beneath your pits and sniff. “Mmmm. Rank.”

You raise one arm. The hair’s dense, wiry, slick with dried sweat. You like it. You crave it. You stick your tongue in your pit and moan like it’s a pussy.

Somewhere in the back of your brain—something screams. Distant. Trapped. Faint.

But you drown it in fart and cum and arrogance.

That night, you hit the club again.

You're barely dressed. Tight Ed Hardy tee with the sleeves cut off. Gold chain bouncing between your pecs. Crotch a visible bulge. You reek. You like that.

You spot her.

Same one as last time? Maybe. Who fuckin’ cares.

She’s fake. She’s caked. She’s ready.

“Yo, bitch,” you slur. “You lookin’ to get wrecked tonight or what?”

She squeals. She loves it.

You don’t waste time. You drag her into the bathroom. Stall door slams. Your cock’s already out—thick, veiny, heavy with viral cum. She drops to her knees like muscle memory.

You grab her hair. Ram. Thrust. Groan.

“Fuckkk yeah, choke on that guido cock…”

You grunt like an animal. You smell your own pits, spit on her tits, slap her ass. The stall reeks of sex and beer and garlic breath.

You cum hard. A groan. A belch. A loud, unashamed fart.

“Daaaaamn, that’s fuckin’ relief, girl.”

You zip up. You don’t help her. You just flex in the mirror.

You don’t even ask her name.

At home, your laptop boots automatically.

You stare, mouth open, at the screen.

Your name is gone. So are your documents, your photos, your work.

Just one file folder remains. It's called:

“_BIMBO_HUNTER_FTP”

Inside: videos of you. Frankie. Flexing. Cumming. Shouting slurs. Screaming into women’s holes. Lecturing shirtless about how “fags ruined masculinity.” There's footage of you farting on your ex-boyfriend’s face, laughing.

You should be horrified.

But you reach for your cock.

And all you whisper, thick with Jersey sleaze, accent permanent now, intellect long dead:

“Fuckkk bro… I’m a fuckin’ KING.”

You bust again.

And you laugh.

Forever.

[g2slove]

Hypno

“You’re… relaxing, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft, hypnotic, dripping with honeyed warmth as she leaned forward, her ample cleavage pressing against the edge of her desk. The tight white blouse she wore strained to contain her bust, the fabric pulling taut over her curves. “Your mind is so open now, so… willing. Can you feel it?”

Ethan nodded slowly, his eyes heavy, his body sinking deeper into the plush leather chair. His slender frame looked almost delicate under the dim light of her office, his hands resting limply on the armrests. He didn’t know why he felt so… strange. This was supposed to be a therapy session, wasn’t it? But the way she was looking at him, the way her words seemed to wrap around his thoughts like silk… it didn’t feel like therapy. It felt like something else entirely.

“Good ,” she purred, her lips curling into a smile that was both reassuring and dangerously enticing. “Now, let’s talk.”

---

Two hours earlier, Ethan had been sitting in the passenger seat of his father’s truck, arms crossed, staring out the window as the suburban streets blurred by. His dad hadn’t said much since they left the house, but the tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“So… this therapist,” Ethan finally broke the silence, his voice tinged with skepticism. “What exactly is she supposed to help me with?”

His father, a burly man with a face weathered by years of hard labor, tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “Just… mental health stuff. You’ve been off lately. I thought maybe talking to someone would help.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Mental health stuff? Like what?”

“I don’t know, son. Just… life. Stress. Whatever.” His father’s tone was clipped, evasive, and it only made Ethan more suspicious.

He knew his dad wasn’t exactly thrilled about his sexuality—that much had been clear ever since he came out three years ago. The awkward silences, the muttered comments about how he should try dating girls instead of boys, the way his dad always seemed to tense up whenever Ethan talked about his boyfriend—it all added up to one thing: disapproval.

But this? Driving him to some therapist without explanation? It felt… off.

---

The office was nothing like Ethan expected. Instead of the sterile, clinical environment he’d imagined, it was warm and inviting, with plush furniture, soft lighting, and the faint scent of lavender in the air. And then there was her.

Dr. Marla Collins.

She stood to greet them, her curvy figure accentuated by her tailored outfit, her fiery red hair cascading over her shoulders in loose waves. She was intimidatingly attractive, even to a gay man, it put Ethan on edge. There was something about her presence—something magnetic, it was overwhelmingly off-putting— it made him feel small, insecure and vulnerable.

“Mr. Thompson,” she greeted his father with a firm handshake, her voice smooth and confident. “And this must be Ethan. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, Ethan felt like she could see right through him. It was unsettling.

After exchanging a few pleasantries, his father excused himself, leaving Ethan alone with Dr. Collins. She motioned for him to take a seat across from her, her movements fluid and deliberate, her gaze never leaving his.

“So, Ethan,” she began, leaning back in her chair, her fingers steepled in front of her. “Why do you think you’re here today?”

He hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “Um… my dad said it was for mental health stuff. Stress, I guess.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Stress can manifest in many ways. Sometimes, it’s tied to… identity. To who we think we are, versus who we could be.”

There was something in her tone—something subtle, yet loaded with meaning—that made Ethan’s stomach twist. “What do you mean?”

She smiled, slow and knowing. “Let’s just say… I specialize in helping people discover their true selves. And sometimes, that means letting go of the things that no longer serve us.”

Before Ethan could respond, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a small, ornate pocket watch. Dangling it from its chain, she held it up in front of his face, the metal catching the light.

“Focus on the watch, Ethan,” she instructed, her voice lowering to a soothing murmur. “Follow it with your eyes. That’s it. Nice and easy…”

At first, he tried to resist, to stay alert, but her voice was like a warm blanket wrapping around him, lulling him into a sense of calm. The watch swung back and forth, back and forth, until his vision blurred, and he felt himself slipping into a trance.

---

“You’re doing so well, Ethan,” Dr. Collins cooed, her voice rich with approval. “So very, very relaxed. Now, let’s start peeling away those layers. Let’s uncover the man beneath.”

Her words washed over him like a wave, pulling him deeper into a state of submission. He wanted to fight it, to question what was happening, but his body felt heavy, his mind muzzled.

“Tell me, Ethan,” she continued, her tone gentle yet commanding. “When did you first realize you were… different?”

He swallowed, his throat dry. “I… I don’t know. Since I was a kid, I guess.”

She nodded, her expression understanding, but there was a sharpness in her eyes—a calculated intensity that sent a shiver down his spine.

“And do you ever wonder if that’s really who you are? If maybe… there’s another side to you? A stronger side? A more… masculine side?”

Ethan’s breath caught in his throat. Masculine. The word reverberated in his skull, sharp and jagged, like a knife twisting into an old wound. It wasn’t just a word—it was his father’s voice, gruff and heavy with disapproval, echoing through the years. “Be a man.” “Stop acting like that.” “Why can’t you be normal?” His chest tightened, a dull ache spreading through him. He wanted to bolt, to push himself out of this chair, away from her, away from the weight of that word pressing down on him. But his body refused to obey. His limbs felt leaden, anchored to the leather seat by some unseen force. He swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I… I don’t—” Dr. Collins leaned closer, her presence looming, suffocating. Her perfume—something warm and floral—filled his senses. “It’s okay, Ethan,” she murmured, her voice smooth as velvet. “We’re going deeper now.” Her lips curved, a faint smile playing at the edges of her mouth. She raised three fingers, each one commanding his gaze like a silent order. “I’ll count down from three. When I reach one, you’ll be completely suggestible. When I click my fingers, you’ll wake up. Ready?”

Ethan nodded, his eyes shut tight, his stomach twisting in uneasy knots. What would she say to him when he was completely under? What would she do? “Three…” Her voice dropped lower, wrapping around him, pulling him down into a thick, syrupy haze. “Two…” Heat pooled in his stomach, his pulse quickening despite the heaviness weighing down his limbs. “One.” The word hung in the air, sharp and final. His body went slack against the chair, every muscle surrendering to her command. “You’re with me now.” Her murmur was soft, soothing, but laced with possession. “Completely suggestible. Completely mine. When I click my fingers, you’ll wake up. But until then… you belong to me. Understand?” His lips parted, a faint sound escaping—agreement without thought, without resistance.

Dr. Collins’ voice was low, almost a whisper, but every word carried an undeniable weight. “Ethan,” she began, her fingers gently tracing circles on the armrest of his chair, “when you wake up, you’ll see me standing right here in front of you. _Completely naked.” She paused, letting those words sink into the depths of his subconscious. Ethan’s breath hitched slightly, though his body remained limp and unresponsive under her control.

“At first, you’ll feel shocked. You won’t understand why I’m standing there like that, why I’ve chosen this moment to reveal myself to you. But then… something will shift. Something deep inside you. Your gayness—yes, your gayness, Ethan—will begin to slip away. Not all at once, no. It will be gradual, like sand slipping through your fingers. And as it fades, you’ll start to notice things. Things you’ve never noticed before.”

She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. Her scent—a mix of vanilla and something musky—filled his senses, even in this trance-like state. “You’ll begin to appreciate the feminine form. The soft curves of a woman’s body, the way her hips sway when she walks, the delicate arch of her neck. You’ll find yourself drawn to breasts—my breasts, Ethan—their fullness, their bounce, their warmth. You’ll want to touch them, to feel their weight in your hands. Yes, you’ll crave that sensation. And pussy…” She let out a soft, amused chuckle, her lips brushing against his earlobe. “Oh, Ethan, you won’t be able to stop thinking about it. The way it looks, the way it feels, the way it tastes. It will fascinate you. Consume you. You’ll feel an insatiable hunger whenever you see a woman, and that hunger will make you feel more… masculine. More powerful. More complete.“

Her hand drifted down to rest on his thigh, her touch firm yet gentle. "You’ll know, deep down, that you were supposed to be gay. The thought will linger in the back of your mind, like a distant memory. But it won’t matter anymore. Because now, now you’ll be different. You’ll be the man your father always wanted you to be. And when he sees the change in you, when he sees how much happier, how much more fulfilled you are… he’ll be proud of you, Ethan. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?“

The room seemed to hold its breath as Dr. Collins straightened, her eyes scanning Ethan’s face for any sign of resistance. There was none. His features were relaxed, his breathing steady. A faint flush coloured his cheeks, but otherwise, he was completely still. A slow smile spreading across her lips. “Good boy," she murmured. “Now… it’s time to wake up." She clicked her fingers sharply, the sound cutting through the heavy silence.

Ethan’s eyelids fluttered open, disoriented at first. The room came into focus slowly, the soft hum of the air conditioning filling his ears. He blinked, trying to shake off the lingering fog from the session. And then… he saw her.

Dr. Collins stood just a few feet away, exactly as she had promised. Naked.

Ethan froze, his eyes widening as they traveled over her body. Her ginger hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing her full, round face. Her ample breasts swayed slightly with her movements, their pale skin flushed pink at the tips. Her stomach curved softly, leading down to wide hips and thick thighs that seemed to demand attention. But it was the patch of curly red hair between her legs that held his gaze the longest. He couldn’t look away.

“Wh-what…?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. His heart pounded in his chest, a mix of shock and something else—something he couldn’t quite name. “Why are you…”

“Shh,” she interrupted gently, taking a step closer. Her movements were deliberate, each one calculated to draw his eye. “It’s okay, Ethan. Just… look at me. Really look at me.”

He tried to avert his gaze, to look anywhere but at her naked form, but he found himself unable to. His eyes kept being pulled back, like a moth to a flame. And as he stared, he felt it. That shift she had described. It started as a small flutter in his chest, a tug at something deep inside him. Then it grew, spreading through his body like wildfire.

His throat went dry as his eyes lingered on her breasts, their size and shape suddenly captivating in a way they’d never been before. He could almost feel their weight in his hands, their softness against his skin. And lower… his gaze drifted down to her pussy, the curls of hair glistening slightly in the light. His pulse quickened, a heat building in his gut that he didn’t want to acknowledge but couldn’t ignore.

“Do you see now, Ethan?” she asked, her voice smooth and honeyed. “Do you see how beautiful a woman’s body can be? How… irresistible it is?”

He swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly parched. “I-I don’t…” he stammered, his voice trembling. “This isn’t—I’m not—”

“Yes, you are,” she cut in firmly, taking another step closer. She was within arm’s reach now, her presence overwhelming. “You’re starting to feel it, aren’t you? That pull. That desire. It’s natural, Ethan. It’s who you’re meant to be.”

He shook his head, trying to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, his eyes dropped back to her body, tracing every curve, every line. His heart raced, his palms damp with sweat. He felt… different. Like something inside him had shifted, rearranged itself. The thoughts that usually occupied his mind—thoughts of men, of their lean frames and sharp jawlines—were fading, replaced by something new. Something… hungry.

Dr. Collins smiled, sensing his internal struggle. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. The contact sent a jolt through him, his breath hitching in response. “It’s okay to admit it, Ethan,” she said softly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting this. With needing it."

He opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Instead, his eyes locked onto hers, searching for answers, for clarity. But all he found was a quiet confidence, a knowing smile that only deepened his confusion—and his arousal.

"Take your time,” she murmured, stepping back slightly. She turned, giving him a full view of her body from behind. Her ass was round and full, the kind that begged to be touched, squeezed, worshipped. Ethan’s breath caught, his pulse thudding in his ears. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He couldn’t be feeling this way. But as he stared at her, he realized… he was.

“See, Ethan?” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him, her expression both teasing and encouraging. “This is what masculinity feels like. This need, this hunger. It’s part of you now. Embrace it."

He couldn’t respond. He couldn’t think. All he could do was stare, his mind swirling with conflicting emotions—shame, desire, confusion, and something else, something primal that he couldn’t name. His father’s face flashed in his mind, stern and disapproving. But mixed with that image was a new one—a vision of himself, strong and masculine, earning his father’s pride.

“I…” he started, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know…"

“You don’t have to know yet,” she said, turning to face him again. She took a step forward, closing the distance between them. Her breasts brushed against his chest, sending a shiver down his spine. “Just feel, Ethan. Let go of everything holding you back and just… feel."

Her hand slid down his chest, stopping just above his waistband. Ethan’s breath hitched, his body tensing under her touch. He knew he should pull away, should tell her to stop, but he couldn’t. He was frozen, trapped between shame and desire, his mind reeling as she leaned in closer, her lips inches from his ear.

"You’re waking up,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin. “To who you really are. And soon… you’ll be ready to take what you want."

Her hand dipped lower, grazing the growing bulge in his pants. Ethan gasped, his hips instinctively thrusting forward, seeking more contact. Dr. Collins chuckled softly, her fingers tightening around him.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Feel it, Ethan. Feel how good it can be..."

Ethan’s breath came in shallow gasps as Dr. Collins’ hand moved with purpose, her fingers teasing the outline of his growing arousal through his pants. His mind was a whirlwind of confusion and desire, his thoughts tangled like a web he couldn’t quite unravel. He wanted to stop her, to pull away, but his body betrayed him, arching into her touch as if it had a will of its own.

“Do you feel it?” she murmured, her voice low and sultry, dripping with an intoxicating mix of authority and seduction. “Your body knows what it wants, Ethan. Even if your mind is still catching up.”

Her other hand cupped his cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes. They were deep pools of green, hypnotic and unyielding, holding him captive without even trying. She’s right, a small voice whispered in the back of his head. You do want this. And yet, that thought terrified him almost as much as it excited him.

With a deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned his pants, the sound of the zipper coming undone echoing loudly in the quiet room. Ethan’s heart pounded in his chest, his hands gripping the edges of the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Dr. Collins, I—” he started, his voice trembling.

“Shh,” she interrupted, placing a finger over his lips. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

Her hand slipped inside his boxers, wrapping around his length with a firmness that made him gasp. Her touch was warm, electric, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his body. She began to stroke him slowly at first, her movements steady and deliberate, as if she knew exactly how to make him unravel.

This is wrong, Ethan thought, though the words felt hollow, distant. I shouldn’t—I can’t— But his protests were drowned out by the sensations flooding his body, each stroke pulling him deeper into a haze of lust and submission. His hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more, needing more.

“That’s it,” Dr. Collins purred, watching him with a satisfied smirk. “Let go, Ethan. There’s no shame in enjoying this. No shame in wanting me.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and despite himself, he found them impossible to resist. His breath quickened, his cock hardening fully in her grasp as she increased her pace, her thumb brushing over the sensitive tip with every stroke. Ethan’s head fell back against the couch, a low moan escaping his lips.

God, she’s good, he thought, his earlier resistance crumbling like sand slipping through his fingers. Too good.

Dr. Collins leaned in closer, her ample breasts pressing against his side as her breath tickled his ear. “See how easy it is?” she whispered, her voice laced with both triumph and affection. “How natural? You were never meant to deny yourself like this, Ethan. You were meant to embrace it. To embrace me.”

His hands, which had been gripping the couch so tightly, now hesitated, hovering awkwardly in the air as if unsure where to land. Sensing his uncertainty, Dr. Collins guided one of them to her hip, encouraging him to explore. “Touch me,” she commanded softly, her tone leaving no room for refusal.

Tentatively, Ethan obeyed, his fingers skimming over the soft curve of her waist before settling on the swell of her hip. Emboldened by her encouragement, he let his hand drift higher, grazing the underside of her breast.

“Go ahead,” she urged, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Take what you want.”

Her permission was all the encouragement he needed. With a newfound boldness, Ethan slid his hand upwards, his fingertips brushing against her nipple. It hardened instantly under his touch, and he couldn’t help but marvel at the way she responded to him, her breath hitching ever so slightly.

Encouraged by her reaction, he grew bolder, his other hand joining the exploration. He cupped her breast fully, his thumb circling her nipple in slow, deliberate motions. Dr. Collins let out a low, throaty moan, her head tilting back as she reveled in his touch.

“Yes,” she breathed, her hips rocking gently against his thigh. “Just like that, Ethan. You’re learning so quickly.”

Her praise sent a surge of pride through him, fueling his desire even further. He wanted to please her, to make her feel as good as she was making him feel. With a sudden burst of confidence, he leaned in, capturing her nipple in his mouth. The taste of her, the way she arched into him—it was intoxicating.

Dr. Collins let out a sharp gasp, her fingers tightening around his cock reflexively. “Oh, Ethan,” she moaned, her voice trembling with need. “You’re such a fast learner.”

He could feel her thighs quivering against his, her legs straddling his lap as she ground herself against him. The friction was maddening, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through his body. His hips moved in tandem with hers, their bodies falling into a rhythm that felt both instinctive and inevitable.

But just as he was about to lose himself completely, Dr. Collins pulled back slightly, her hand still stroking him but her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that made him pause. “Tell me,” she demanded, her voice firm but coaxing. “Tell me what you want, Ethan.”

The question caught him off guard, his mind scrambling to form a coherent response. What did he want? Moments ago, he wasn’t sure. But now, with her body pressed against his, her hand wrapped around him, the answer seemed painfully obvious.

I want you, he thought, the words burning in his mind. I want all of you.

But before he could voice his desires, Dr. Collins leaned in close again, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “Say it, Ethan. Say it out loud.”

His throat felt dry, but the words spilled out anyway, raw and unfiltered. “I want you,” he murmured, his voice trembling at first but growing stronger with every syllable. “I want you. Fuck being gay—I want women. I want pussy. I want you, Dr. Collins.”

Her eyes lit up with satisfaction, a sly smile curving her lips as she leaned back, her gaze never leaving his. “Good boy,” she cooed, her tone dripping with approval. “Now show me.”

Before Ethan could second-guess himself, something primal took over. He wasn’t the shy, effeminate twink anymore. He wasn’t the boy who blushed at the thought of touching a woman. No, he was something else now—something strong, masculine, and undeniably in control. His hands gripped her hips, and in one swift motion, he flipped her onto her back, pinning her beneath him.

Dr. Collins let out a gasp, her eyes widening in surprise before they darkened with lust. She didn’t resist, instead spreading her legs wider, inviting him in. Ethan didn’t need any more encouragement. He positioned himself between her thighs, his cock throbbing with anticipation. With a low growl, he thrust into her, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth, confident motion.

“Oh my god!” Dr. Collins cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders as she arched her back. “Yes, Ethan! Just like that!”

The sensation was overwhelming—hot, tight, and so damn good. Ethan groaned, his hips snapping forward instinctively, driving himself deeper into her. It was primal, animalistic, and nothing like anything he’d ever experienced before. He’d had sex with men, sure, but this… this was powerful.

He fucked her hard, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through his body. Dr. Collins moaned loudly, her tits bouncing wildly with every movement. The sound only spurred him on, his pace becoming faster, more urgent. The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, their combined moans echoing off the walls.

“Fuck, yes!” Dr. Collins screamed, her voice reaching an almost desperate pitch. “You’re such a man now, Ethan! So fucking strong!”

Her words sent a surge of pride through him. He was a man now. He could feel it—not just in the way he moved but in the way she responded to him. She wanted him, needed him, and he was giving her exactly what she craved.

In the waiting room, Ethan’s father shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The muffled sounds coming from Dr. Collins’ office were impossible to ignore. Moans, screams, and the unmistakable rhythm of someone going at it with reckless abandon. He frowned, concern creeping into his expression. What the hell was going on in there?

“Uh, Dr. Collins?” he called out hesitantly, knocking on the door. There was no response, just another loud, drawn-out moan that made his cheeks flush. He hesitated for a moment before deciding enough was enough. Gripping the doorknob, he pushed the door open.

What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. His son—his once shy, effeminate, and very gay son—was pounding into Dr. Collins with a ferocity he didn’t even know the boy was capable of. And the doctor… well, she was clearly enjoying every second of it, her tits jiggling wildly as she writhed beneath him.

“Holy shit,” Ethan’s father muttered under his breath, his eyes wide with disbelief.

At that moment, Ethan let out a guttural groan, his body stiffening as he came deep inside her. Dr. Collins followed suit, her entire body convulsing as she squirted around him, her juices soaking the couch beneath them. The sight was almost too much to process.

Ethan turned his head, locking eyes with his father. For a moment, there was silence, heavy and electric. Then, a slow grin spread across Ethan’s face.

“Thanks for bringing me to therapy, Dad,” he said, his voice dripping with confidence. “Best idea ever.”

His father blinked, stunned. But then, a proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Fucking hell, son,” he said, shaking his head in awe. “Well done.”

Ethan chuckled, shifting slightly as he pulled out of Dr. Collins, who lay beneath him, panting and glowing with satisfaction. He glanced down at her, then back up at his father, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Why don’t you join us, Dad?” he suggested casually. “I’m not done exploring Dr. Collins yet, and it’d be a shame if you just sat outside waiting until we were done. Don’t worry—I won’t tell Mom.”

His father hesitated, his gaze flickering between Ethan and the very willing—and very naked—Dr. Collins. She looked up at him with a sultry smile, licking her lips suggestively.

“Come on,” she purred. “Don’t be shy.”

Ethan’s father didn’t hesitate. His hands moved with a practiced urgency, unbuttoning his shirt and letting it fall to the floor. His belt clinked as he yanked it free, trousers pooling around his ankles. Dr. Collins watched him with hungry eyes, her lips parting as she leaned back on the couch, her chest heaving. He stepped forward, his cock already hard, and without a word, he gripped the back of her head, guiding her mouth onto him. She took him eagerly, her tongue swirling around his length as he thrust into her throat. The wet sounds filled the room, mingling with her muffled moans. Ethan stood there, transfixed. His gaze flicked between his father’s face—tight with pleasure—and the way Dr. Collins’ lips stretched around him. He swallowed hard, his own arousal stirring again despite himself. “I’m proud of you, son,” his father grunted, his hips moving in rhythm. Ethan nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. "I don’t think Dr. Collins got rid of all my gayness" he thought, his eyes lingering on his father’s cock. It looked… delicious. Thick and veined, glistening with Dr. Collins’ saliva. A shiver ran down his spine. "Maybe I’ll bring my boyfriend to my next therapy session." The idea formed before he could stop it, and a sly smile tugged at his lips. This wasn’t just about being straight now—it was about exploring something entirely new. Dr. Collins pulled back, gasping for air, her lips swollen and slick. “Your turn, Ethan,” she purred, her voice hoarse. “Don’t keep me waiting.” His father stepped aside, still panting, and Ethan moved closer, his heart pounding. But as he knelt before her, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder at his father, who was watching intently. This was far from over.

[goldenherc9]

Bruhhs as owner of the HERCULEAN GAINS GYM then with my brah @rod-tf who was one of the first to join up, my asks are OPEN for any alpha bro that knows of a fag they wanna transform into a straight alpha bro like me and work out in HERCULEAN GAINS gym.

[aspiringstraightdude]

Imagine dating this cute lil twink, but they realize they’re a trans woman. You say you’re bi, that you’ll love them anyways. When she’s finally become the woman she always wanted to be, she realizes to have her ideal life she needs to have the conventional straight boyfriend.

After a couple months of conditioning, her new pussy is the only hole you know. Pussy’s the only thing you can even think about fucking. Eh, maybe you can stick it between her tits tonight… Anal’s for fags, after all…

[gaystraightboy]

CW: conversion practices

Been thinking about getting handed a fleshlight on my first day of conversion camp. I had one back home that I barely used, but it looked like a little butt. This one, unsurprisingly, has the pussy attachment.

After getting our fleshlights, we have to pick from a list of girl names to name it. From then on, we refer to it using that name and she/her pronouns or as our “girlfriend”. Little did I know then that the list of names we picked from corresponded to the “lesbians” that were being converted on the other side of the camp. I named mine Alice.

That night, I lied awake in my bunk, struggling to sleep. Back home, I’d usually jerk off before going to sleep, but me and the other new guys were warned by the ones who’d been here longer to use our girlfrie- I mean- the fleshlight if we needed to cum. Apparently the camp staff somehow always knew if you weren’t using it- I mean- her?

So I squirted some lube onto my cock and slipped inside. “Damn” I thought as I slid her down to the base of my cock. It was hard to deny that it felt really good…

[devinpink]

Fratification

Daniel was quiet, well-mannered, and stuck out like a sore thumb among his rowdy fraternity brothers. It's not like joining a frat was his decision; his father forced him to uphold family tradition. He tried adjusting, but it was impossible. The frat life just wasn't him, especially as the only gay guy. However, right before depledging, his fraternity brothers were able to successfully "change" his mind at the last second.

When the frat realized how hard it was for Daniel to adapt to their way of life, they knew he needed a little fine-tuning. After successfully pressuring a few beers into him, weakening his resistance, a few brothers used their infamous hypno skills on his newly mushed mind. They spent hours of what could have been spent on partying assimilating his mind and personality to theirs, so it totally was their good deed of the day! From that permanent conversion on, Daniel was interchangeable with any of the loud, cocky, and insanely wild frat bros.

The new and improved Daniel, "Danny-boy," is dumb as a rock, an aggressive pussyhound, and extremely obnoxious with his belches—proudly coining himself "the belch king!"