unity30868

[unity30868]

Purpose in all Positions

When Calvin went away to college, he knew it was going to be rough financially. He had gotten some financial support, but he was never going to be able to afford school without a job. And worst of all, the only job he could find without a car was as grocery store cashier. Not the exciting kind of job a young man wants.

So Calvin worked tedious and long hours ringing up groceries. Conversation with customers was trite and vacuous. "How are you?" "Doing well thanks" "Nice weather today" "Have a nice evening". Calvin hardly felt like he was even thinking. Was this even worth it, he kept asking himself.

That was until two oddly dressed young men came into the store. The men wore what looked liked uniforms: navy blue coveralls over a white shirt and tie. The word UNITY shone like a beacon from their chests and numbers were sewn into the coveralls. They strode in confidently. Apparently, Calvin caught their eye, as one of them gave a smile, wave and nod his way.

Calvin couldn't helped but glance their way as they moved through the aisles of the store. When they came to his register, Calvin was nearly speechless. Who were these strange men? And why did Calvin want to know more about them?

Accustomed to ordinary small talk, Calvin was taken off-guard when one of the men, who had 103621 on his coveralls, said "You look a bit lost, friend. You know, we can help."

Calvin stammered at the comment. "Ex-excuse me?" The man was right. Calvin was lost. He was working a boring job just to try to get through school.

"We're brothers of Unity, a movement of men that aim to guide all men to their true purpose. You have a true purpose too. We can help," replied the other man, 103931 according to his coveralls.

The men waited outside the store until after Calvin's shift. They spent a few hour chatting with Calvin, hearing about his life and his goals to graduate college. Calvin hadn't felt this kind of support in a long time, even back home. These men called themselves brothers, and Calvin truly felt that.

By the end of their conversation, Calvin learned a lot about himself and about Unity. Unity could help him see through the hard times in life to focus on the bigger picture. With the help and support of brothers like 103621 and 103931, Calvin saw the meaning of it all.

A week later and Calvin still worked at the grocery store. Except now he wore the Unity coveralls and his new designation, 114559, was worn proudly on his chest. The job didn't change, but 114559 had. He could see this was just a stepping stone to brighter future. 114559 smiled every moment of his shift for he knew he had a purpose and he had to work hard not just for himself, but for his brothers in Unity too.

[unity30868]

Welcome brother to Unity.

Hail Unity!

Greetings, I am Unity 55102. New brother of Unity, newly converted, a proud brother of Unity.

I’m 26, dark brown hair, and highly proud of the strength I’ve built before Unity, physically and mentally, some in the gym and some mentally even though I had sometimes been mentally drained in the past and felt alone. Training in the gym has taught me that true growth comes through structure, focus, and consistency. That’s why Unity spoke to me the moment I found it after seeing a fellow brother @unity30868 had joined and I looked into it more, noticed how much happier he was and it made me think of how better off I will be within a brotherhood like Unity than going it alone most days.

What stood out wasn’t just the brotherhood, it was the commitment to order, clarity, and purpose in a world that often feels lost and alone. Unity offers a path, not just for individual strength and mentality, but collective strength and mentality. A place where men uplift each other, hold each other accountable, and move forward with intention and accept each other for who we are.

I still have a lot to learn. But I know I belong here. I’m ready to contribute however I can, whether that’s helping others physically push their limits, or growing together through discipline and unity, hyping my brothers up as we are not alone as we are a unity.

Thank you brother and founder @unity24675 for accepting me in Unity.

We are not alone.

The future is ours. The future is Unity.

HAIL UNITY!

[unity30868]

I am 30868, a newly converted proud brother of Unity.

Brothers,

I’m 21, blonde, and proud of the strength I’ve built, physically and mentally, through years of discipline in the gym. Training has taught me that true growth comes through structure, focus, and consistency. That’s why Unity spoke to me the moment I found it.

What stood out wasn’t just the brotherhood, it was the commitment to order, clarity, and purpose in a world that often feels lost. Unity offers a path, not just for individual strength, but collective strength. A place where men uplift each other, hold each other accountable, and move forward with intention.

I still have a lot to learn. But I know I belong here. I’m ready to contribute however I can, whether that’s helping others physically push their limits, or growing together through discipline and unity.

The future is ours. The future is Unity.

[unity30868]

Special Message from 24675, proud brother of Unity

Do you want to belong? Unity has a place for you.

Send me a message to find out more about joining Unity. All men belong in Unity.

[unity30868]

Hail Unity!

Brotherhood Without Judgment

It was just after morning pledge when the brothers arrived at the Offender Rehabilitation Facility. The air was still sharp with cold, and the grey walls surrounding the center loomed high, worn by years of shouting and silence.

But Unity was not there to punish. They were not there to lecture.

The brothers stepped in quietly, their boots soft against the tile floor. Navy blue coveralls pressed, collars neat, fists still warm from where they'd rested over their badges just minutes earlier; calm, present, unthreatening.

The young men in the facility didn’t look up at first. Some sat slouched, arms crossed, eyes hard. Others fidgeted or whispered behind smirks. They’d been through programs before. Talks. Warnings. This felt like more of the same.

Until Brother 668 stepped forward and simply sat down in the circle with them.

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said softly. “I’m here to tell you I was once where you are - angry, lost, acting out because I didn’t know who I was. I found something better than punishment. I found purpose.”

Another brother passed out small, folded Unity brochures, just enough for one each, no pressure. One of the residents held his without opening it for nearly ten minutes. When he finally did, his fingers trembled just slightly.

One young man asked, “So what is Unity? A job or a gang or what?”

Brother 552 smiled. “Unity is a brotherhood. It’s a structure. A code. You don’t have to fight to be seen. You don’t have to shout to be heard. You serve, and in doing so, you become something stronger than anger.”

There were no chants. No forced signups. Just a quiet hour spent sitting together. Talking. Listening. Sharing.

Before leaving, one of the brothers shook the hand of a resident who hadn’t spoken once during the session. Their eyes met.

“I don’t think I’m ready...yet,” the young man said, voice low.

“You don’t have to be ready,” Brother 20135 replied. “You just have to be open.”

Back on the Unity transport van, the brothers sat in silence as the city passed by. Behind them, the walls of the facility stood unchanged, but maybe, inside, something had shifted.

Unity plants seeds. Not demands.

And sometimes, the strongest change begins not with control, but with calm.

Hail Unity!

[unity30868]

Join Your Unity Brothers

Unity is an ever-growing brotherhood that it can hard to keep with all of your brothers. Yet is our duty to support each other as we guide more men to Unity. So here is a list of our Unity brothers:

Unity Founder: @unity24675

@unity14012

@unity19085

@unity30868

@unity33421

@unity34882

@unity37646

@unity64283

@unity68024

@unity74141

@unity79223

@unity84596

@unity87661

@unity96043

Potential Brothers: Please me message me @unity24675 or another brother to learn more or join us!

Current Brothers: Stay connected with each other! And message @unity24675 if I forgot to list your designation!

[unity30868]

AI pics and morphs by @bodyhopper-files

[unity30868]

Welcome To The Neighborhood

When Ryan and his boyfriend Mark found Meadow Glen Apartments, it seemed like the perfect fit for them. The complex had a charm reminiscent of suburban neighborhoods, complete with tennis courts, pools, and even white picket fences lining the pathways. It was a picturesque place that promised peace and a sense of community – a far cry from their current situation of a hectic, run-down student housing complex.

As a result, the duo wasted no time applying for the apartment. To their relief, they passed the credit and background check and received word less than a week later that they had been approved. Within two weeks, the duo had started the process of moving into their new apartment.

So as Ryan and Mark finished unloading the last of their boxes, Ryan headed over to the living room window and took a moment to appreciate the view. The sprawling tennis courts were right next to their building, the sun casting a warm glow over the neatly trimmed grass as the soft whacking noises of tennis balls echoed into their apartment.

“Gosh, this place is fucking awesome, right?” Ryan said, turning to his boyfriend, who was busy unpacking dishes into the kitchen cabinets.

“Definitely. I can’t believe we even got approved to live in a place,” Mark replied.

Ryan nodded and chuckled before going to help his boyfriend unpack more of their belongings. 

After a few hours of doing such hard work, the man decided that he needed to take a little break. So while Mark went into their bedroom to sit down and watch some TV, Ryan decided to take a walk around the area. As he strolled along a paved pathway, he noticed a man in his early thirties approaching, wearing a skintight compression shirt that left little of the man’s physique to the imagination. Although he was planning on just offering a quick nod and smile, it seemed like the man wanted more as he stopped dead in his tracks.

“Hey there! You must be new here,” the man said, offering a friendly smile.

“Yeah, uh, my boyfriend and I just moved in today. I’m Ryan,” he replied, responding to the greeting with his own kind grin.

“Nice to meet you, Ryan. I’m Steve. Say, have you been able to check out the gym or tennis courts yet?” Steve asked, gesturing towards each area respectively.

“Not yet for the gym. That's why I was walking around actually! We live right next to the courts though, we’ve got a great view from the living room. It looks really nice,” Ryan said.

“Do you play tennis?” Steve asked, his eyes lighting up with interest.

“Uh, I used to back in high school. I haven’t really played since though,” Ryan admitted.

“Well, you’re in luck then! I’m an avid tennis player, so I’d be happy to help you get back into it if you’d like. What about tomorrow morning possibly? I always think it’s a great way for me to start the day,” Steve suggested enthusiastically.

Due to his hatred for early mornings, Ryan hesitated for a moment, but Steve’s friendly demeanor and the promise of getting back into the swing of something he once enjoyed intrigued him. “Sure, why not? Tomorrow morning it is.”

“Great! I’ll see you at 7 AM sharp,” Steve said, patting Ryan on the back before continuing on his way. In response, Ryan’s jaw dropped as he tried to reckon with such an early wake-up time. 

🎾 🎾 🎾

The next morning, Ryan woke up early with a huff. Despite his feet dragging as he went through getting dressed in some old workout gear he had, he refused to ghost the other man who was surely already waiting for him. As a result, he laced up his sneakers and,  after finishing his cup of coffee, headed to the tennis courts. Unsurprisingly to Ryan, Steve was already there, dressed in tennis whites and stretching with a smile plastered on his face.

“Good morning, Ryan! Ready to get back into the swing of things?” Steve called out, his voice incredibly chipper as he reveled in his own punny response. .

“Morning, Steve. Yeah, let’s do this,” Ryan replied, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness along with the still-prominent sensation of drowsiness.

Upon being handed a racket from the other man, Ryan allowed Steve to run him through a quick set of drills to help him get reacquainted with how to stand and hold his racket. After going through a practice round of serving, the duo took a quick drink break before Steve suggested that they start doing some volleys back and forth.

Upon agreeing, Ryan made his way over to his side of the court and allowed Steve to begin the next task. But as each volley back and forth occurred, the man found himself feeling a strange tingling sensation. Unbeknownst to him as he focused on traversing his side of the court to hit the back back to Steve, the man had no way of knowing that his body was slowly changing. 

At first, it was subtle with things changing to help him become a better player such as his posture straightening or his movements becoming much more fluid. But soon, the changes became more noticeable. His muscles started to grow, his arms and legs gaining definition and strength. By the time they finished their first hour, Ryan found himself needing to start loosening his grip as his hits to Steve were falling far outside of the boundaries lines of the court.

Yet despite needing to constantly run to grab the overshot balls, Steve maintained a calm and chipper demeanor. “Wow, you’re becoming quite the natural, Ryan! I know you said before that you used to play, but you’re getting better and better with each set. We’ve just got to get you working on your volley strength and you’ll be better than most of the guys here,” he said, genuinely impressed with his newest personal pet project. 

In response, Ryan smiled as his cheeks slightly began to redden. He then looked down to avoid the other man from seeing his bashful response to the compliments – which caused him to notice his physique. Prior to heading to the courts, the man had a relatively twinky appearance where he was toned yet didn’t have much muscle mass. But as he looked down and saw how his arms were noticeably plumper and his chest was no longer flat, he found himself stammering. “I– What’s happening here? I look different and feel… stronger,” he said, his voice straining in confusion as he lifted his arms up and watched his biceps begin to bulge.

Steve responded like there was nothing amiss though. “Looks like someone’s getting quite cocky, huh?” he replied, chuckling as he reached up and patted Ryan on the shoulder. “You’ve always had a toned body - so you look the same to me. Anyways, I gotta go get ready for work. Same time tomorrow?”

Ryan nodded, still in a daze from his apparent transformation. “Yeah, sure. Uh, thanks, Steve.”

As Ryan walked back to his apartment, he felt a surge of energy and confidence. Upon getting inside his apartment though, his boyfriend awoke in shock to Ryan’s bigger physique.

“Babe, what the hell happened to you? You look like a jock now!” Mark exclaimed.

“Ok, so I’m not going crazy! I have no idea what was going on,” Ryan said, shrugging his shoulders which unintentionally showcased his thicker shoulder and neck muscles. “We were just playing tennis and by the time we finished, I was bigger!”

Although both men were unsurprisingly confused by what was going on, the sight of his boyfriend’s increased physique led to an unintentional side effect for Mark – he was growing increasingly horny. Before long, the questions about how and why this was happening were replaced with intense desire to feel those muscles and have his boyfriend use them on him. As such, the remainder of the day devolved into a kinky and excited adventure for both men as they wondered how else he would change the next morning.

As his alarm went off the next day, Ryan’s usual sensation of disgust at an early morning wake-up call was replaced with one of invigorated excitement. He made his way into his closet, where the man was stunned to find that similarly to his body the previous day, his clothing options had shifted too. In addition to growing several sizes larger to fit his more muscular physique, his former attire of graphic t-shirts had been primarily replaced with a sea of colorful compression workout shirts. This theme was continued to his pants and underwear – which was now primarily composed of compression briefs, dri-fit shorts, and expensive joggers.

Despite Steve greeting him, Ryan skipped the pleasantries and went straight into interrogation mode. "Steve, what the hell is happening to me?" he asked, looking down at his more muscular form. "Why am I transforming like this?"

For a moment, it seemed as though Steve was playing coy about what was going on as he adopted a more confused expression on his face. But as Ryan refused to budge, the man’s resolve quickly faded as he decided to finally divulge some answers.

“There’s a reason behind why you’re changing – Meadow Glen isn’t just any apartment complex, “ Steve began. “I don’t know how else to describe it besides it has some sort of magical energy. Whatever it is though, it helps people realize their true potential. I know it sounds creepy, but when I first saw you the other day, you reminded me so much of my former self when I first arrived here. I couldn’t help but imagine how much you’d change, so that’s why I invited you here. I wanted to help you discover that inner potential of yours and bring it out.”

Ryan stared at Steve, his eyes bulging while trying to process the revelation. “So, this place… you’re telling me it’s magical?”

“In a way, I guess,” Steve said with a shrug. “From what I’ve seen since moving here, it seems the magic only works if you’re open to it – if you’re wanting to change and become something better. Given the fact that you’ve embraced it fully, it seems you’ve been blessed incredibly well.”

Although he got the answers he was initially seeking, the revelations only made him grow more frustrated by his neighbor’s deviousness. “But why would you do this? You just went around and tricked me into transforming into something I’m not. Do you realize how fucked up that is?!”

Steve looked up, a small smile playing on his lips as he rolled his eyes. "Ryan, are you seriously trying to tell me these changes are a problem for you?" he asked, his tone calm and measured. "Look at yourself. You're becoming an actual man. Someone who is muscular and handsome rather than weak and frail. How isn’t that a huge improvement to you?"

Ryan frowned, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at his muscular torso that filled out his shirt. "But it's so sudden…"

Steve leaned against the net, crossing his arms. "Who cares about how fast it feels when you’re turning out so well. I’m sure that boyfriend of yours was a big fan of the changes so far, right? Well, just one more session with me and I think you’ll be finished changing."

Ryan's confusion began to give way to contemplation. "You can’t just be doing this all out of the goodness of your heart. So, what's in it for you?"

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. "Isn't it obvious? I’ll finally get a formidable tennis opponent. You're becoming a real challenge on the court, which is just what I need to keep pushing me to improve my game."

Ryan looked at Steve, processing his words. "So, we're both getting something out of this?"

"Exactly," Steve replied with a wide smile. "You've been given a gift, Ryan. Embrace it. Use it to your advantage. It's not every day you get a chance to become the person you've always wanted to be."

Ryan nodded slowly, a sense of acceptance washing over him. He flexed his now powerful arms, feeling the strength coursing through them. "I guess you're right. This is definitely better than how I used to be."

Steve clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. "That's the spirit. Now, how about we get back out there and see just how far you can push yourself?"

In response, Ryan smiled as he envisioned the ways in which he could continue changing. With a newfound excitement forming in his mind, the man cheerfully responded to his tennis partner. "Let's do it."

After taking a few minutes to stretch and prepare for the match between Steve, Ryan shook his limbs out one final time before jogging over to the correct spot to receive the other man’s serve. As he bounced on his toes and watched his partner begin a powerful serve, the man was giddy with excitement.

Steve, focusing on the game, didn't initially notice the transformation at first. It was only when Ryan returned another fierce volley that outsmarted the other man and won the first set where he glanced up and caught sight of Ryan's evolving face. Before his very eyes, the other man’s features were shifting – becoming more chiseled and defined by the second. His cheekbones soon stood out more prominently, which worked well as his jawline also sharpened in tandem into a strong, masculine contour.

As Ryan prepared to serve and start the second set, he had no way of noticing his brown hair darkening until it took on a rich, jet-black hue. By this point, sweat was beginning to run down his face to the point of annoyance – but this was soon remedied as a shadow of stubble quickly grew into a trimmed beard that framed his now strikingly handsome face. His eyes, previously cursed with dark circles, seemed to gleam with a new intensity as those circles were instead replaced with a light set of wrinkles. Although neither man had a way of knowing, this was the beginning of Ryan’s age progression into that of a man in his early 30s.

With each powerful stroke of the racket, Ryan felt an invigorating surge of strength that felt oddly at odds with the fact that he was growing older by the second. Regardless, he moved with a newfound grace and power, dominating the game with ease as his physique inflated a bit more with muscle to make his clothing even tighter. Steve, bewildered by the front row seat to the transformation, struggled to keep up, his eyes widening as he watched Ryan become almost unrecognizable.

Ryan's final serve was a blur, the ball slamming into the court with such force that it gave Steve no chance to return it. Panting, Ryan straightened up, his muscular physique now even more pronounced under the sunlight. He moved closer to the net as he reached into his bag and pulled out a rag to wipe the sweat off of his face. But as he moved his hand and the piece of fabric up to his visage, it didn’t take long before the man realized that it had changed over the course of the match. His hands scraped against the thick stubble that now covered his cheeks – providing a strong sense of excitement in the man who had never been able to grow anything besides a wispy mustache.

As the man reached into his bag and opened up his phone, Steve approached to watch Ryan gleefully open up the camera app and get a look at his new visage. Upon doing so, the other man watched as Ryan gasped in shock before beginning to poke and prod at his older and more attractive visage. 

“Looking good, Ryan. It seems like you’ve finished changing. Do you like it?,” Steve asked, knowing the answer yet still opting to ask to allow the other man to verbalize his acceptance of his new body. 

“Oh my god, hell yes. This is wild! I look so much more handsome… and older!”

In response, Steve chuckled as he moved forward to embrace his tennis partner. “Yeah, it’s definitely a lot to get used to at first! By the time you wake up tomorrow, everything will be fixed to fit your new, older body. I don’t know for sure what your job and everything will be necessarily, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you end up working here as a tennis instructor and trainer at the gym. A lot of the other guys who ended up as big as you ended up with a job like that.”

A strange yet welcomed sense of excitement and acceptance coursed through Ryan’s body as he fully realized that this new body and life would be forever his. The concept of an apartment complex changing him still felt like some weird fantasy tale, but based on his experience, he knew it was completely legitimate. As a result, he turned to Steve and wrapped him in a tight hug.

“This is all still so crazy, but thank you for everything Steve,” he said, his voice wavering with emotion. “I don’t know how I could ever repay you…”

Ever the wise-cracking fellow, Steve wasted no time trying to elicit a chuckle from the transformed man. “Oh, it doesn’t take much. Just keep showing up here so we can play together. One of these days, maybe not in the near future, I will absolutely demolish you!” 

From there, both men decided to call their session for the day. Steve said that he had to get ready for work while Ryan was eager to reveal the new and improved version of himself to his boyfriend. As a result, the duo said their goodbyes before finally going in their own separate directions.

So as he left the tennis courts of Meadow Glen and made his way into his apartment, Ryan realized that the move had changed his life in more ways than one. Not only had it given him a new apartment but also a new lease on life! He had rediscovered a passion, made a brand new friendship, and transformed into the best version of himself. And it all started with a simple offer from a friendly neighbor…

Eager to read more stories like this? Head over to my Patreon to discover tons of hot transformation fiction including stories like this one!

[unity30868]

Corduroy

Jean-Luc was happy. He had found exactly what he was looking for at the flea market: an old brown corduroy jacket. It was a perfect fit for his bohemian style. Yes, it was a little big, yes, it smelled a bit strongly of sweat, but he could have it altered and taken to the dry cleaner's when Jean-Luc was flush with cash again. At the moment, he was broke once more. After giving the flea market dealer the 12 euros he had asked for, he had about 3.80 euros in small coins left in his pocket. That was it. Well, an espresso standing up cost 1.20 euros, and after that he would see if he could scrounge a few euros from one of his friends. Or if he could find a job somewhere today to earn a little money. The rent was due the day after tomorrow. He needed a little money...

The waiter greeted Jean-Luc particularly warmly. But he didn't even know the café here. “The coffee is on the house, of course!” said the waiter. Jean-Luc could hardly believe his luck. Was it the jacket? Yes, it was cool and had a really dominant masculine effect, perhaps because of the smell. Jean-Luc drank his coffee, left a euro tip on the table, and left.

When he passed the next café, the waiter greeted him and asked if he didn't want any coffee today. Jean-Luc smiled and said he had to go to the barber first. He ran his fingers through his hair. Too long, too unkempt. The waiter smiled back. With a wink. And said he would keep Jean-Luc's regular table free.

At the barber's, he was welcomed like a regular customer who hadn't been there for far too long. Jean-Luc was embarrassed. Pierre had been cutting his hair for years. While... That's right, he had done his training here in the neighborhood. He had been a patrol officer here before switching to the criminal investigation department. He took off his jacket and sat down directly in a barber's chair. Jean-Luc didn't have to wait here. He didn't have to pay either. When in doubt, he got a tip when he came here. It was good for the shop and good for the neighborhood when he showed up regularly. Pierre asked about any exciting cases he was currently working on. Jean-Luc just grinned. “Secret, you know!” Pierre shaved the sides of the commissioner's angular skull.

The table had indeed been kept free for him. The waiter came with a coffee and an envelope. Jean-Luc discreetly slipped the bribe money into his inside pocket. His jacket fit like a glove. His colleagues smiled at Jean-Luc for his bohemian style. The other employees at the police station were more the “leather jacket” type. But Jean-Luc didn't need that. He got the respect he needed even in a corduroy jacket, even if it was from the flea market. Although he did like to browse there. There was often interesting information about stolen goods and other things at the flea market. But to be honest, he rarely found clothes in his size there.

At the police station, Jean-Luc awkwardly took off his jacket. It was an heirloom. His father had been a cop and was certainly an impressive man. But Jean-Luc weighed at least 20 kilograms more. The jacket had accompanied Jean-Luc through his first years as a police commissioner. It had earned him sympathy and respect in the neighborhood. But now it was somehow time to adopt a new style. He was on the verge of being promoted to Commissaire divisionnaire de police. Thanks to his good contacts and various sources of additional income, he had a cool apartment from which he could even see a bit of the Eiffel Tower. Eric idolized his boss. Being allowed to give him a blow job after work was an absolute highlight. When Jean-Luc stood in front of him and hung the corduroy jacket over the back of the chair, he could hardly believe his luck. “Those are big shoes to fill,” Jean-Luc grunted with a grin.

Eric wanted to wave the waiter over when they had finished their coffee to pay. Jean-Luc laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “My little friend, you still have a lot to learn!” The waiter came over. Jean-Luc put the envelope in his pocket and said that they would like two pastis on the house.

[unity30868]

Friends for ever

It was a big decision they had made, and now he was nervous, but it was a commitment!

Wow, what a transformation! They would be the manliest gay biker gang in town, that was a fact ...

Being second had one big disadvantage: He knew what would happen ...

Bam! Bald!

Damn ... that was big decision

oooookay ....

If I am nervous?? Hell, yeeeees!

Maaaaan .... DUUUUUDE!!!

Can I just watch? Ok, I thought so ...

I look like my dad ...

[unity30868]

Hi there Tharnis 🙈

I’m a tf writer on tumblr but it’s so hard to write these days! Some other writers on here are just posting story after story of AI generated slop, each one less interesting than the one before. Each one more lifeless, boring. Is it too late for me or am I already falling into that mind-numbing trap?

You click the file without thinking.

You’re just tired.

Tired of everything. Of the AI junk flooding your feeds, of the bland sameness of the stories you used to love—fetish transformations reduced to cliches and typos, nuance replaced by hashtags. You remember when it used to feel dangerous—writing about identity, sexuality, desire, decay.

You’re a decent writer. Cute, too. Bookish-cute. Round glasses, always in a cardigan even when it’s warm, a soft belly that no man’s ever really minded. 31. Still believing, somehow, in queer joy and personal mythologies. But tonight… tonight you’re sitting at your desk in dirty pajama pants and a Threadless tee with a wine stain over the moon print, watching the cursor blink on an empty Word doc.

So you open the weird file you downloaded at 3AM, from a Discord server called RealTransformationsOnly. It’s just named: Rewrite.exe.

You think it’s a joke. Maybe a game. Maybe a prompt generator.

You double-click.

Your screen goes black.

A single line types itself onto the center of your screen, green and glowing:

“You want something real? Let’s make it basic.”

You blink. Try to laugh. “What the f—”

The screen pulses. Then your chest tightens.

You feel it first in your fingertips. A fizzing, itchy heat, like your nerves are being rewired. You try to flex your fingers, but they’re stiff—numb. Something is… building in them. You look down. They’re growing thicker. Blunter. Knuckles cracking outward. Veins pushing up. Like they belong to someone who crushes beers, not ideas.

You gasp—but it sounds lower than it should.

The green text appears again:

“Reducing Vocabulary: 92nd percentile → 43rd. Interests: Queer Lit → Keg Stands. Kinks: Deleted.”

“Installing: ChadShell_1.0.”

“No—no, this isn’t—” you try to say, but the word “isn’t” sticks on your tongue. You stumble backward, knock your succulents over. Dirt spills on the hardwood floor as your toes twitch in your fuzzy socks.

Then your socks split.

Your feet stretch—heels thickening, arches flattening into heavy, calloused platforms. Your toenails thicken, yellow slightly. You watch in horror as the nerves in your feet dull. You suddenly like the feel of the warm floor under your bare soles. You kind of want to walk around like this. Barefoot. Shirtless.

A bubbling laugh escapes your throat.

“Duuuude…”

Wait.

What?

You grab your phone, try to call someone, text someone—but the screen’s glitched. All your apps are gone. Spotify replaced by BroBeats. Twitter—gone. Tumblr? Doesn’t even exist.

One app remains: "GainsHub+"

You press the power button. Your reflection flickers in the darkened screen.

And you don't recognize yourself.

Your face is changing now. Slowly. Almost lovingly. You watch as the angles blunt—your cheekbones fading, replaced by soft stubble and a thicker jaw. Your brow lowers slightly, caveman-like. Your lips pout fuller, but dumber—your mouth opens slightly, slack-jawed, as though permanently stumped by a multiple choice test.

You catch yourself rubbing your pecs.

You didn’t mean to.

But they’re there now. Heavy. Thick. Hairless and shiny with the faintest sheen of sweat. Like they’ve always been bench-pressed and oiled and flexed. Like that’s all they’re for.

You stare into the mirror mounted above your desk.

You look like… like the guys who bullied you in high school. The ones who called you slurs in gym class. The ones who fist-bumped. You’ve become one of them. Just standing there. In shorts that are now too tight, bulging at the crotch. A faint stink of sweat and protein powder rises from your pits. You reach to cover your face but… but you flex instead.

And you like what you see.

No thoughts. Just biceps.

You grunt. “Fuck, bro… I look sick.”

Sick. That’s the word you reach for?

Not “strange,” or “horrifying,” or “tragic.”

Just “sick.”

You stumble back to the desk, desperate to undo it. There must be a way. You double-click the file again, shaking.

Nothing.

Just more green text:

“Miles: Deleted. User Now Logged In: Tanner Brooks.”

Your knees give. Your thighs are too big now, rubbing together. You stink of Axe body spray. You remember applying it, don't you? No, wait—no, that never happened.

But Tanner wears Axe. He owns one pair of boat shoes. He thinks salmon-pink polos are edgy.

You sit down at the desk, but not to write.

You open a Google Doc and just type:

“Yo, how many beers is too many if u wanna still smash lmao.”

You sit there, waiting for someone to reply. You don’t even know who.

The text flashes again, one final line:

“Sexuality Overwrite Engaged. Gay.exe → Breeder_Mode. Preferences: PornHub MILF, missionary, lights on. Mind locked.”

And then it hits.

The rewiring.

You feel your attraction vanish like someone blew out a candle. All the boy-crushes you ever had—high school locker rooms, Pedro Pascal’s hands, that one barista with the brows—they dissolve into nothing. Not disgust. Just… disinterest. Like trying to remember a dream and failing.

In their place: tits.

Just tits.

Big ones. Small ones. Ones that jiggle. Ones in sports bras. Ones you want to “fuck the soul out of,” whatever that even means. Your cock thickens, hardens, dripping precum into your compression shorts. You moan.

You moan like you’ve never moaned before.

And all you want now is…

“Yo… who tryna smash rn?” you grunt into the void.

You open Instagram and your feed is nothing but fitness girls and bro “motivational” reels: “Grind. Gains. Glory. God.” A TikTok plays on your phone of a guy shotgunning a Monster and quoting Jordan Peterson. You nod.

You don’t understand it. But you nod.

“Shit’s deep.”

Later that night, you’re at a house party you don’t remember planning. The place smells like warm beer, Febreze, and Doritos. There are girls in crop tops and guys in gym tanks doing push-ups for attention.

You don’t talk about queer theory here.

You don’t talk at all.

You shout.

You chug your Natty Light, rip a belch, and slap your bro’s back so hard it echoes.

“FUCK yeah, dude,” you scream. “We fuckin’ LIVE tonight.”

You don’t even know her name.

The girl grinding on you.

You just call her “babe.”

You bring her upstairs.

Missionary.

Lights on.

You don’t light candles. You don’t play Frank Ocean. You don’t ask how she’s feeling.

You just fuck.

Because you’re Tanner Brooks now.

And your world is protein powder, push days, pussy, and pizza rolls.

You don’t miss Miles.

You don’t remember him.

You just flex in the mirror, fingers sticky with lube you’ll never call that.

You look into your own reflection and say, confidently:

“Duuuuude, I’m such a fuckin’ legend.”

[unity30868]

Paradise Pounded

Dr. Derek Langford had never considered himself a cruel man. Stern, yes. Principled. Perhaps a little aloof, with the self-containment that tenure and thirty-six years of studious living could foster. But cruel? No. The very idea would have made him scoff—quietly, privately, the way he always did when students asked for “flexibility” or “extra time.”

His office smelled faintly of old paper and lemon polish, a sanctuary of orderly scholarship. He still used a fountain pen. And so, when Vanessa Marwood—the leggy, entitled sophomore who had slept through half the semester—barged into his office and accused him of “unfairness,” Derek felt not guilt but irritation.

“My family’s gonna hear about this,” she said, but there was no real venom in it. She was too calm. Too still.

“I teach the words of Milton,” Derek said, enunciating. “Not the whims of privilege.”

But she didn’t flinch. Only gave a thin smile, unreadable.

“You shouldn’t have failed me,” she said, brushing a blonde strand behind one ear. “You don’t get it, do you? This class isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever taken. It’s the last straw. My great-grandmother turned a senator into a roach for less.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

Her smile broadened, just enough to flash white teeth. “You’ll understand soon. You’re about to learn what it means to become everything you claim to hate.”

It started that night.

Derek’s apartment was as neat as always, a high bookshelf of postcolonial theory above his headboard, a tea candle lit by the desk, Coltrane humming through his speakers. He was grading final essays in bed, a copy of Paradise Lost perched on the duvet.

Somewhere around line 237, his eyelids drooped. Sleep overtook him.

He dreamed of thumping music. Of neon lights. Of the smell of alcohol and sweat and cheap perfume pressed into sticky floorboards. He dreamed of someone laughing—his voice, but dumbed-down and hoarse with drink—and woke with a start, heart hammering against a ribcage that felt… heavier?

Derek sat up.

The first thing he noticed was the heat.

Not the warmth of bedclothes or the hush of a cozy room, but stale, thick, humid heat—like the inside of a teenager’s car after a summer workout. It clung to his skin. His cotton t-shirt was damp. The scent that reached his nose was foreign, faintly rancid: sour deodorant, unwashed fabric, skin.

He reached for his glasses. They weren’t on the nightstand.

The lamp had changed. Plastic instead of brass. The candle—gone. Replaced with a crushed Red Bull can and an empty vape cartridge. He blinked, hard.

He wasn’t in his room.

The walls were not eggshell-white but painted an aggressive, tasteless blue. A tattered Bud Light flag hung where his Blake print once was. On the floor lay a pair of basketball shorts, turned inside out, and a crumpled jockstrap that smelled like dried piss.

He slowly turned his head.

On the far wall, taped with peeling scotch, was a poster of a woman—bikini stretched thin over enormous breasts, mouth in a dumb open-lipped grin. Her gaze followed him. He swallowed.

There was a voice, faint and low, somewhere in his mind.

“Daaamn, them tits look like a fuckin’ dream, bro…”

Derek flinched.

“Who said that?” he asked aloud, throat hoarse. But it wasn’t the question that unnerved him—it was the voice. His voice. Or… almost.

Lower. Thicker. More nasal. Like someone mocking him with a cheap imitation—one beer away from slurring.

He pushed the sheets off, intent on standing, but his arm caught his attention first.

His forearm—usually pale, lightly freckled, hairless from years of fastidious grooming—was now dusted in thick black hair. The skin looked darker. Oily. The muscles were… more defined? Swollen?

He lifted it slowly, inspecting. His armpit hair peeked from beneath the sleeve of his shirt—except it wasn’t his shirt. It was a cheap, sleeveless tank in gray, the armholes loose enough to expose far too much of his side. The scent of his own sweat hit him again, stronger now, coming from his own body, a pungent, unwashed musk that made him recoil.

He stood shakily, bracing against the unfamiliar mattress. His feet touched a beer-sticky floor, and something squelched beneath his sole. He staggered toward the mirror.

The man looking back at him was not a stranger. But he wasn’t Derek either.

He was younger. Early twenties, maybe. But dumb-looking. The features were thickened and coarsened. Nose slightly crooked from some forgotten bro brawl. The jawline was strong but brutish. The skin was tan—unnaturally so, as if tanned by booth or bottle. His hair was short on the sides, long and stiff on top, frozen in place with enough gel to look wet even in the dim light. And his expression… his eyes had a kind of glazed over, horny blankness.

Derek touched his own cheek. The man in the mirror did the same. His hand felt strange against his face—coarser, broader, callused. Football hands.

His stomach flipped.

“Bro. Broooo. What the fuck…” he muttered, and the sound of it—the cadence, the vowels rounded and flat—horrified him.

The thoughts were coming faster now. Dumber. Loud and lewd and alien.

“Yo that chick on the poster got some milkers. Shiiit, I'd suck on those like a baby at brunch, dawg.”

Derek backed away from the mirror, knees weak, breathing shallow.

“No. This is a dream,” he said. “This is—this is absurd.”

He turned in circles, searching for some sign of the life he knew. There was none. No books. No suits. No tea or poetry or—

A wave of nausea hit him as a loud belch escaped his lips. It tasted like beer. Cheap beer.

His stomach growled. His dick twitched.

He caught another whiff of himself and winced. The stink was coming from everywhere. Pits. Groin. Feet. It was thick, ripe, stupid. The smell of a guy who lived on Taco Bell and protein shakes. The kind of stink that lingered.

Derek pressed his palms to his temples.

There was something slipping. A border, a boundary—like a silk curtain slowly burning away.

Somewhere beneath the surface, something else was waking up.

And it was hungry.

He gripped the edges of the plastic dresser as if it could anchor him to something sane. But his hands were twitching. His body didn’t want stillness anymore—it wanted motion. Crude, primal. He was trembling with… with something close to arousal. Or rage. Or both.

His breath hit the mirror. It fogged. He watched it fade slowly, revealing that thick-jawed moron again.

And then—he felt it. A sudden throb. A rush of blood below.

“No. God no, please,” he whispered.

But his cock—his new, fat, veiny, slightly curved cock—was growing hard in his shorts, stiffening like a dumb eager beast. It strained against cheap mesh. A wet patch began to spread.

He whimpered—though even that was a brutish, low-throated grunt.

“Fuckin’ hoooorny,” he moaned, voice like gravel wrapped in lube.

And suddenly there were images—slutty ones, cartoonishly vulgar. Tits the size of bowling balls. Spray-tanned asses bouncing in club bathrooms. A bimbo bent over the hood of a Camaro, calling him “daddy.” And he was there, grinning like an animal, sweat pouring from his gelled scalp, pounding her while calling her a “fuckin’ cum dumpster.”

He slapped himself across the face. It didn’t help.

The voice inside him was louder now. No longer commentary. Now commanding.

“Yo bro, stroke that fat fuckin’ meat. You know you wanna bust a fat one. Big ol’ Jersey load, baby. Shiiiiiit.”

“No, no, I’m not—this isn’t—” he panted, collapsing backward into a filthy beanbag chair that reeked of ass and weed. His thighs were hairy, sweaty, thick with muscle and grime. His tank top had risen, revealing the burgeoning patch of coarse black chest hair crawling up to his collarbones.

His hand moved down. Automatically.

The first tug made him gasp. It was wrong—everything was wrong—and yet his body loved it. His strokes were fast, brutal, careless, like a guy who’d never read a book but knew every Brazzers video by title.

“Yeeeeah,” he groaned, hips bucking. “Gimme them fuckin’ tits, baby. I’mma nut on your face, bimbo.”

That voice.

That was his voice now.

And it was getting dumber by the second.

His moans were interrupted by wet gasps—burps, each one deep and beer-thick. His whole gut was bubbling. He felt like he hadn’t eaten a vegetable in weeks. Just protein shakes, mozzarella sticks, and cheap pussy.

He belched again, long and guttural. “Uuuuurrrp—damn, that fuckin’ stank.”

He sniffed his own pit—and groaned in pleasure. It was rank. Vinegary, dense, like gym towels left in a car trunk. His face sank into it, eyes fluttering. “Mmmf, fuck yeah, Vincey smellin’ ripe today.”

Vincey.

The name echoed through his mind.

Yes. That’s what they called him now. Vincey DeMarco. Former club promoter. Local legend. Dropout. Dick-swinging, axe-spraying, woman-slaying, tan-drenched king of the fuckin’ boardwalk.

“Who the hell is Derek?” he muttered through a thick Jersey sneer, lips curling around the name like a foreign object.

He grunted, eyes rolling back as he reached climax, spewing a foul, dumb load all over his hairy abs and chest. It reeked of frat house bedsheets. His tongue lolled out.

And something… left him in that moment.

Something quiet. Intelligent. Gay. Human.

Something that once read poems in bed and had opinions on Sontag.

And what filled the void was heat. Swagger. Smug idiocy. Pussy hunger.

Vincey cackled as he wiped himself on a crusty gym sock. “Fuckin’ blew a thick one. Shitttt.”

His voice was fully transformed now. Jersey Shore guido, turned up to eleven. The accent. The attitude. The complete lack of shame.

He scratched his belly and stood, stretching his big dumb muscles in the mirror, admiring the crude symmetry of his roided frame.

“Yo,” he said to no one, cock swinging, “I gotta go fuckin’ prank someone. Or fuck someone. Or fuckin’ prank a bitch while I’m fuckin’ her. That’d be fuckin’ lit.”

And with that, he reached for his gold chain, slipped on a pair of saggy joggers, and strutted toward the hallway reeking of cologne and sweat, bellowing:

“YOOOOO WHO’S DOWN TO GET FUCKIN’ BLACKOUT WITH VINCEY?”

By noon, Vincey had eaten half a pepperoni pizza and two mozzarella sticks, shirtless, reclined on a lawn chair in the back alley behind his apartment complex. The box rested on his lap. His right hand absentmindedly scratched under one thick, sweaty pec. His left scrolled aimlessly through his cracked phone, thumb hovering over bikini pics and thirst traps.

“Yo… bruh… these tits are, like, illegal or somethin’, swear to God,” he muttered, biting into another oily slice. A string of cheese slapped his chin. He didn’t wipe it.

He hadn’t showered. His body reeked—rank armpits, stale cum, Axe body spray, pepperoni grease, and something else more primal. Like dried testosterone.

The tank top lay forgotten, balled up and thrown at the alley wall, soaked with yesterday’s sweat. His joggers sagged low, revealing the elastic of some knock-off brand boxers he’d clearly worn three days straight. His abs—still present, but filthy—shone with oil and pizza grease.

Across the street, women passed. He leaned forward, fingers digging between his thighs, not even hiding it.

“Dayum, girl,” he called out, licking grease from his thumb. “You want a taste’a Vincey’s meat lovers special? C’mon baby, I know you hungry.”

The women grimaced. One muttered disgusting. Vincey smirked and farted in response.

“Bitch loves it,” he grunted proudly to no one.

Later, on the boardwalk, Vincey strutted shirtless into Caffè Primula, a local espresso joint.

He had no wallet. No shirt. No shoes. Just a chain, some sweat, and a sticky twenty crumpled in the waistband of his joggers. The barista, a pretty twenty-something in a floral dress, looked up.

“Hi there, uh—sir—could you… maybe put on a shirt?”

Vincey grinned wide. “Only if you promise to take yours off first, babe.”

He walked up, stinking of musk and bravado, and leaned on the counter like he owned it. A bead of sweat dripped from his nipple onto the tip jar.

The barista gagged, physically recoiling. “You… can’t be in here like this.”

“Oh I can, sweetheart,” he said, pressing his bulge to the counter. “I’m Vincey fuckin’ DeMarco. And this body’s a public service.”

That’s when someone stepped forward.

“Derek?”

The voice was quiet. Hesitant. Familiar.

Vincey turned lazily. Behind him stood a woman in her fifties—dressed in soft tweed, her glasses perched on a long, patrician nose. Dr. Elaine Roth, head of the English department. She looked pale.

“It’s… Derek Langford. Isn’t it? What the hell—what happened to you?”

Vincey squinted. Then smirked. “Damn, lady, you lookin’ for a ride or a lecture?”

Elaine blinked. “My God. Derek, it’s me—Elaine. We were on the tenure committee together. You—this isn’t funny.”

He grinned wider. “Derek? That a dude’s name? Sounds like a fuckin’ nerd. I ain’t that dude. I’m Vincey. Vincey D, baby. King of cum. Slayer of sluts. Full-time legend, part-time DJ.”

He flexed, proudly, as if that proved something.

Elaine took a step back. “What… what did you do to yourself?”

“I upgraded,” Vincey said, belching into his fist. “That professor shit? Gay as hell. Now I got freedom. Titties. Muscle. And a cock that commands respect.”

He grabbed it through his pants and thrust. Several patrons gasped. The barista called the manager.

Elaine looked like she might cry.

“You had a book deal,” she whispered. “You were going to teach at Oxford.”

“I’m teachin’ now, baby,” Vincey said, licking his lips. “Lesson number one: bitch loves a bad boy. Lesson two: you gotta eat ass before class.”

A manager approached, face red. “Sir, you need to leave—now.”

Vincey grabbed a biscotti from the case, snapped it in half with his teeth, and tossed a sticky twenty on the counter.

“Fuckin’ uptight nerds. You’re just mad I’m free.”

He walked out shirtless, leaving a trail of sweat, cocky swagger, and horror behind him.

Elaine stood frozen, hands shaking.

Somewhere, buried beneath Vincey’s chest hair, something flickered. Just for a second.

The memory of a syllabus. A library. A soft morning with tea.

It tried to surface.

But a wet fart bubbled out, and Vincey giggled.

“Fuck I’m hungry. I need a breakfast burrito and a bitch to bend over the table.”

He grabbed his crotch and kept walking.

Derek Langford was gone.

Vincey never remembered the girl’s name.

Might’ve been Kayla. Could’ve been Krystal. All he remembered was the ass: big, bronzed, soft in all the right ways, jiggling under that tiny mesh skirt when she bent over the bar to order vodka Red Bulls for both of them.

He hadn’t even bought her a drink.

She’d just looked at him—at his muscles, at the swagger, the gold chain dripping in his chest hair—and said:

“You look like you got daddy energy.”

He replied with: “Bitch, I am daddy.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in the club bathroom. Door locked. Her legs wrapped around his waist, panties shoved to the side, heels digging into the wall while Vincey pounded her against the cracked mirror, sweat flying off his neck like rain.

He moaned. No, not moaned—grunted. Loud, deep, primal.

Every thrust punctuated with:

“Ugh—take it—fuck yeah—take that daddy dick—fuckin’—ugh—yo this pussy’s gettin’ wrecked—”

Her moans were high-pitched. Performed. She didn’t care about him. She just wanted the clip.

Because her friend had already pulled out her phone. And was filming.

A vertical video: Vincey’s glistening back muscles flexing, his thick arms holding the girl up like she weighed nothing, the bass from the club bleeding through the wall, and Vincey’s own idiotic, euphoric, open-mouthed face staring into the mirror, lip curled in smug ecstasy.

He grunted something like: “I’m the fuckin’ alpha of TikTok, baby!” and finished all over her stomach, laughing as she wiped it with a club napkin.

The friend uploaded it to TikTok with a caption:

“THIS MAN IS A FUCKING LEGEND 🫡🍆 #JerseyKing #BreedMeDaddy #GuidoEnergy #ClubAlpha”

It exploded in hours.

By the next morning, Vincey had 2.1 million views, and twenty-eight new DMs. Half of them were bimbos asking to get “wrecked next.” The other half were guys asking for “his workout split and cum retention tips.”

He posted a follow-up video, squatting on the toilet, shirtless, hair wet with gel, holding a half-eaten burrito.

“Yooo I told y’all! Vincey’s bringin’ the fuckin’ thunder to TikTok, baby!” he said, talking with his mouth full. “If you a real bitch, come find me at Shore Bar on Friday. First one to twerk in my lap gets a free cream pie.”

He winked.

Farted.

Laughed.

The video hit 500k in an hour.

Someone stitched it: “The downfall of Western Civilization.”

Vincey reposted it with “FUCK YEAH BROOO” and a clip of him humping the air to a Jersey club remix of the Friends theme.

Meanwhile, the witch—Vanessa Marwood—watched from her dorm, a steaming mug of tea in hand. Her phone glowed.

She was delighted.

Vincey was trending. Derek Langford was gone. No essays. No tweed. No Oxford lectures. Just that dumb, horny, sweaty, viral himbo getting brain from sorority dropouts and calling it “justice.”

Her roommate glanced over. “Is that the professor who failed you?”

Vanessa smiled, eyes twinkling. “Not anymore.”

Back in Vincey’s apartment, the original copy of Paradise Lost still lay beneath the futon, pages damp, warped with spilled beer and jizz. Vincey didn’t even notice it anymore. He only noticed his DMs, his abs, and his next nut.

“Damn, I gotta go bust again,” he muttered, grabbing his cock as another fan begged for “just one sniff of your tank top.”

He grinned.

“Bro… I’m a fuckin’ God.”

[unity30868]

I was recently watching The White Lotus on HBO, and a few characters were super hot: Shane, Cameron and Saxon. So I jokingly made a wish to Tharnis. I mean he’s not real duhh. Anyways I wished to be just like them. I mean nothing will happen, right…

You tell yourself it’s just a show.

A sharp, stylish satire. Something to study, to tweet about, to half-watch while you scroll Reddit for think pieces. You like the editing. You like the score. You like pretending you’re above it all.

But you’re not.

Because here you are again—three in the morning, back curled like a shrimp in your too-warm sheets, watching The White Lotus for what has to be the fifth time. Season two, episode five. The boat scene. You know the one. Theo James—Cameron—is shirtless, lounging, smirking, radiating smug dominance like it’s his birthright. You hate him. And yet your hand is inching into your waistband.

You pause. Rewind. Watch again.

It’s not just Cameron. It’s Shane too—blindingly rich, entitled, pathetic. And Saxon, they’re all toxic, hollow, awful men.

And you can’t stop thinking about them.

You wish you didn’t.

You wish you didn’t get so hard watching them do nothing—just be. The casual luxury. The smugness. The bodies that seem to own space. The straightness that drips from them like sweat in the Sicilian sun.

You shift on your couch, your soft stomach folding into itself, your chest flat and pale and a little hairy in all the wrong places. Your underwear’s riding up, and you haven’t done laundry in too long. Your thighs stick together. Your lips are dry. You glance down at your limp, unimpressive cock and feel the slow trickle of shame.

This is who you are. Who you’ve always been.

Gay, awkward, alone.

You let out a bitter little laugh.

And then you say it.

“I mean… Tharnis, if you’re real or whatever—turn me into one of them.”

You pause. You feel dumb. You scratch your stomach and chuckle.

“Fuck it. Take all of them. Shane’s money, Cameron’s body, Saxon’s—whatever. I don’t care. Make me like them. Just…”

You look back at the paused screen, Theo James grinning through your TV like he knows something you don’t.

“Make me matter.”

You dream of ocean water—thick, warm, suffocating.

Of tanned limbs tangled with strangers.

Of your name, slurred and forgotten.

Of laughter that isn’t yours.

You wake up to silence. But it’s not your room.

It smells like linen. Like citrus. Like cologne that cost more than your weekly grocery budget.

You’re in a suite.

Huge. White walls. A bed with five pillows. Floor-to-ceiling windows that open to a balcony. You sit up slowly, confused.

And then you feel it.

Your arms.

They’re heavy. They move different. They stretch wider than they should. You look down, heart thudding—and there it is.

A body that isn’t yours.

Not just fit. Perfect. Like it was made by a stylist with a grudge. Bronze skin, smooth and defined. Abs, tight and sharp under a white hotel robe that gapes open like you just fucked someone and didn’t bother to close it.

Your breath catches. You stumble toward the mirror.

It’s him.

Adam DiMarco.

Your face. His face. Slightly different. Sharper. Hungrier. Your brown eyes feel colder now, framed by thick brows and perfect skin. Your lips are too full. Your jaw too clean. Your hair is tousled in the kind of way that only comes from a thousand-dollar haircut.

You want to scream.

But instead, you raise one eyebrow and smirk at your own reflection.

The smirk feels natural.

Too natural.

And then you hear it. A voice—not in the room, but inside you. Lazy. Dripping with smugness. It doesn’t ask. It declares:

“Yeah. That’s better. Fuckin’ finally.”

You stagger back, your pulse racing. You try to grab your phone—there it is, sleek and black on the bedside table—but it unlocks with your face.

A notification blinks:

[Theo 💪🔥]: “Bro we’re hitting the rooftop pool at noon. Bring your game face 😈”

[Patrick 🧃😏]: “Got us on the list for that influencer party tonight. You will get laid. Again.”

You don’t know these people. But you do.

You remember them.

You remember laughing at that girl in the elevator when she tripped. You remember tipping the bellhop $100—not because you’re generous, but because he was cute and you wanted him to look impressed. You remember the party last night. You remember the way she looked at you, just before you pushed her against the wall.

You blink. You’re sweating.

You look down at your chest, rising and falling. Your cock is hard. Not like before. This is… different. Angry. Hungry. It’s not asking permission.

You didn’t choose this.

But some part of you—deep down—did.

You stumble back to the mirror. You want to cry.

Instead, you admire the way the veins trace your forearms. You smile with your teeth. You flex—just a little.

And then you hear your own voice, low and straight and cruel and clean:

“Fuck. I look hot.”

You don’t leave the hotel room right away.

You linger.

At first, it’s curiosity. You pace. You lift your arms, flex your abs, trace the line of your hips with one hand just to feel what it’s like. The robe slips off your shoulder and you let it. You walk barefoot across the tile, feeling the echo of wealth in every footstep.

Then it becomes fascination.

You can’t stop looking. You open the front camera on your phone—not to take a selfie, but just to watch. You blink. Smirk. Turn your head slowly. Pout, just a little. You look so good it’s obscene. Even when you frown, it reads as mysterious. Even when you say something stupid, it sounds confident.

And then comes the voice again. Inside you now.

“Why the fuck are you still thinking about who you were?”

Your spine stiffens. You rub your jaw. You feel the stubble, neatly trimmed, the kind women want to graze their thighs against. You remember the first boy you ever kissed. His name, his mouth, the little tremble in his hand.

You try to hold onto it. You try.

But the memory’s already going dim.

You hear a knock.

You open the door and find him—Patrick. Some sculpted asshole in blue swim trunks and a tank top that clings to his tan, sweaty pecs. He looks at you and grins like you’ve been best friends since boarding school.

“Dude, took you long enough,” he says, already stepping in. “The pool’s full of girls in, like, dental floss bikinis. And Theo’s got blow.”

You want to protest. To say I don’t do that. To say I’m gay. But all that comes out is a low, easy chuckle.

“Yeah? Fuck it. Let’s go.”

You’re sitting on a lounge chair now.

You don’t remember how you got here.

Someone handed you sunglasses. You’re wearing them.

Someone handed you a drink. You finished it.

The sun hits your chest, and you adjust your shorts lazily. Your cock’s half-hard again. Always is now. Your muscles twitch. Your mouth says things before you even know what you're thinking.

You're holding court. Telling a story—something about a yacht, a girl, a spilled bottle of prosecco. Everyone's laughing.

You can feel her staring at you. The blonde in the pink bikini. Her tan lines perfect. Her body trembling with effort to appear effortlessly composed.

You smirk. Tilt your head just slightly.

She’s yours. You already know it.

You’re going to fuck her. You’re going to forget her name.

Back in the suite, she moans your name. You kiss her neck. You grip her hips.

You hate her voice. Her perfume. Her dumb little Instagram laugh.

You don’t care.

She doesn’t notice how cold your eyes are. She doesn’t see that when you look at her, you’re not looking at her.

You’re admiring the way the mirror behind her reflects your body.

You’re admiring you.

Later, she sleeps.

You stand shirtless on the balcony, hair tousled, drink in hand. A breeze rolls in. You smell like chlorine and sex and something rich. Something chemical. Like the aftermath of power.

You lift your phone.

Open Instagram.

You smirk.

Post a photo.

No caption. Just the location: White Lotus, Sicily.

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You don’t remember your old name anymore.

It’s like it was someone else’s life.

You can’t picture his face. Can’t recall what he sounded like. What he believed in. Who he loved.

You know he was soft.

You know he was sad.

You know you’d never be caught dead hanging out with someone like that.

Now, when you laugh, it’s cruel. Easy. Gorgeous. When you talk, people listen—even if you’re saying nothing. Especially when you’re saying nothing.

You’re straight. Rich. Wanted. Feared.

And best of all?

You’re not pretending anymore.

You are exactly who you asked to be.

Adam DiMarco.

The smirk on your face?

It’s never left.

[unity30868]

Paypig to Cashmaster

In a dimly lit apartment in Chicago, 43-year-old Daniel slumped on his worn-out couch, his chubby frame sinking into the cushions. His soft, rounded belly spilled over the waistband of his sweatpants, a testament to years of indulgent eating—pizza boxes and empty wine bottles cluttered the coffee table. His pale skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, his thinning brown hair plastered to his forehead as he scrolled through his phone, trembling with anticipation. Daniel, a self-identified gay liberal, had spent the evening wiring another $500 to his cashmaster, a lean and muscular 26-year-old straight man named Ryan, whose dominance over him fueled a humiliating thrill. Ryan’s latest X post—a photo of him in a sharp navy suit, striding confidently down a city street—taunted Daniel with every pixel. The image captured Ryan’s chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and the way his tailored jacket hugged his toned chest, a stark contrast to Daniel’s flabby arms and double chin.

Their connection began online, sparked by Daniel’s discovery of Ryan’s findom profile. Ryan’s posts—showcasing his broad shoulders and toned chest, often with a smirk that hinted at disdain—ignited a humiliating yet intoxicating arousal in Daniel. He sent his first tribute, $50, trembling as he hit "send," the act of submission sending a shiver down his spine. Ryan’s curt, mocking replies—“Good pig, now send more”—only deepened Daniel’s fixation. Over months, the payments escalated—hundreds, then thousands—each transaction a ritual of degradation that Daniel craved. Ryan’s disgust was palpable; he’d taunt Daniel with comments like, “You’re a fat mess, but your cash keeps me happy,” or post photos of himself with women, captioned to emphasize his straightness and indifference to Daniel’s orientation.

Daniel knew Ryan found him repulsive. Ryan’s X posts often included veiled jabs at “old faggots” and “weak losers”, terms Daniel internalized as directed at him. Yet this rejection fueled Daniel’s arousal, a masochistic thrill tied to the power imbalance. He’d imagine Ryan’s strong hands counting his money, the thought of his lean frame thriving on Daniel’s sacrifices blending humiliation with desire. Ryan’s physical perfection—evident in his mid-workout selfies or the images he snapped in the restrooms while he was on a date, which he sent to Daniel and his other cashfags just to taunt them—contrasted sharply with Daniel’s own softness, amplifying his sense of inferiority and devotion.

Their interactions were one-sided; Ryan never met Daniel in person, maintaining a digital wall of dominance. He’d demand tributes for trivial luxuries—new shoes, a night out—each request laced with scorn, like, “Buy me something nice since you’ll never look this good.” Daniel’s liberal guilt clashed with his submission, but the erotic charge of being dismissed by a straight man who loomed larger than life in his mind overpowered it. This paradox—being turned on by someone who despised him—defined their relationship, setting the stage for Daniel’s desperate wish to escape the cycle.

Exhausted and conflicted, Daniel muttered to himself, “I wish I wasn’t turned on by giving my money to a straight guy.” The words hung in the air, and a strange warmth pulsed through his body. 

As Daniel slipped into a restless slumber on his worn-out couch, the mystical force ignited by his wish began its transformative dance. His chubby frame, draped in sweat-drenched sweatpants, quivered as the first tendrils of change took hold. A warm, liquid heat pulsed through his soft, rounded belly, the excess fat trembling like molten wax as it began to dissolve. The sensation was intoxicating—a slow, sensual melt that left his skin tingling with a newfound tightness. His flabby midsection contracted, the rolls of flesh smoothing into a firm, sculpted abdomen, each muscle fiber weaving into place with a delicious pull that sent shivers of pleasure up his spine.

The transformation caressed his chest next, where his soft, pendulous man boobs yielded to a deeper, more primal shift. A tingling warmth spread across his pectorals, the tissue firming and rising as if molded by invisible hands. The sensation was erotic, a tightening that radiated outward, hardening into the chiseled pecs of Ryan’s athletic build, the skin stretching taut with a silky smoothness that made his breath hitch in his sleep.

His arms, once heavy with jiggly fat, awakened with a sensual awakening. The excess melted away in slow, languid waves, replaced by a pulsing heat that birthed sinewy muscle. His biceps swelled with a rhythmic throb, each strand of muscle emerging like a lover’s touch, firm and defined, the skin glistening with a newfound vitality. The sensation was both humiliating and arousing, a reminder of his former softness giving way to Ryan’s power.

His legs followed, the thick thighs quivering as the cellulite dissolved into a warm, flowing tide. The heat sank deep, sculpting strong, muscular limbs that felt alive with every subtle shift. His calves tightened with a sensual squeeze, the skin smoothing into a sleek contour, while his feet arched gracefully, the pads firming with a grounding pleasure that coursed upward.

The changes reached his face last, a tender invasion of sensation. His double chin softened with a tingling retreat, the fat receding to reveal a sharp, sculpted jawline, the stubble thickening into Ryan’s rugged beard with a prickly caress against his skin. His thinning hair thickened and darkened, strands weaving together with a silky glide, reshaping into Ryan’s sleek style. His features hardened—cheekbones rising with a delicate stretch, eyes deepening into a piercing blue with a cool, refreshing sting—until his face mirrored Ryan’s chiseled allure.

Daniel stirred from a deep, dream-laden sleep, his consciousness slowly surfacing through a haze of unfamiliar sensations. The first thing he noticed was the luxurious softness enveloping him—plush, high-thread-count sheets cradled his body, a far cry from the threadbare couch cushions he’d fallen asleep on. The king-sized bed beneath him was vast, its firm mattress supporting him in a way that felt indulgent, almost decadent. A faint scent of expensive cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the crisp freshness of the linens. As he shifted, the smooth glide of silk against his skin sent a shiver of curiosity through him. He glanced down, his breath catching as he realized he was clad only in a pair of Ryan’s sleek, black silk boxers, the fabric clinging to his hips with a sensual, cool touch that hinted at a body far different from his own.

His heart raced as he sat up, the movement effortless, unburdened by the familiar ache of his former chubby frame. The room around him was sleek and modern—polished wood floors, a minimalist dresser, and floor-to-ceiling windows letting in a flood of golden morning light. This wasn’t his cluttered apartment. Panic mingled with intrigue as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his feet landing on a plush rug. He stood, and the sensation was electric—his legs felt strong, agile, the muscles flexing with a power he’d never known. The silk boxers shifted against his thighs, revealing a lean, sculpted form that made his pulse quicken.

Compelled by a growing sense of disbelief, Daniel stumbled toward a full-length mirror across the room, his bare feet sinking into the rug with each step. As he approached, the reflection that greeted him stole his breath. Staring back was Ryan—his chiseled jawline framed by a neatly trimmed beard, piercing blue eyes gleaming with a confidence Daniel had only dreamed of. His broad shoulders tapered into a V-shaped torso, the muscles of his chest and abs rippling subtly with each breath, a stark contrast to the soft, rounded belly he’d once carried. His arms, toned and veined, hung with a natural strength, and his skin glowed with a healthy, youthful vitality that made his old, pale complexion seem a distant memory.

He raised a hand to his face, tracing the sharp cheekbones with trembling fingers, the touch sending a thrill through him. Turning slightly, he admired the way his back muscles flexed, the silk boxers hugging his firm buttocks and accentuating the lean lines of his legs. The transformation was complete, and the realization hit him like a wave—his middle-aged, chubby body was gone, replaced by this young, muscular masterpiece. A surge of intense glee flooded his chest, bubbling into a giddy laugh that echoed in the room. He flexed his biceps, watching the muscles bulge with a power that made his old flabby arms seem laughable, and the sight ignited an unexpected arousal deep within him.

His hands roamed over his new physique, fingers gliding over the firm planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the tautness of his thighs. The sensation was intoxicating—every touch a celebration of youth and strength, a stark rebellion against the sag and softness he’d once endured. He grinned at his reflection, a wicked delight dancing in his eyes as he imagined the contrast: the 43-year-old Daniel, with his doughy belly and wobbling chin, versus this 26-year-old Adonis now under his control. The arousal intensified, a hot, pulsing heat that coursed through his veins, fueled by the humiliating thrill of outgrowing his former self. He struck a pose, chest puffed out, abs tight, reveling in the power and allure of Ryan’s body, his mind buzzing with the euphoric realization that he was no longer the man he’d been—now, he was something far more commanding, and the thought filled him with a heady, unrestrained joy.

As his hands roamed over his new physique, fingers gliding over the firm planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the tautness of his thighs, a strange shift began to ripple through his mind. The sensual exploration was interrupted by a flood of alien thoughts, crashing into his consciousness like a tidal wave. His liberal values—his belief in social equality, environmental care, and progressive ideals—dissolved in an instant, replaced by a staunch conservative mindset. Tax cuts, traditional family structures, and a disdain for entitled handouts surged to the forefront, reshaping his worldview with a cold, unyielding logic. 

The change deepened, his homosexuality slipping away as if it had never been. The familiar pull toward men, the tender desires he’d nurtured, evaporated, replaced by a raw, heterosexual hunger. His gaze lingered on his reflection, but now it was the thought of a curvaceous woman—her soft curves, her admiring eyes—that sent a pulse of arousal through him. He imagined commanding her attention, her submission, and the idea thrilled him in a way his old self would have recoiled from.

His naivety, once a gentle openness to others, twisted into a cruel edge, a love for humiliation that mirrored Ryan’s dominance over him. Memories of Ryan’s taunts—“You’re a fat mess, pig”—flashed through his mind, but instead of shame, he felt a wicked delight. He pictured his former self, the chubby Daniel, groveling for approval, and a sneer curled his lips. “Pathetic,” he growled, his voice deep and commanding, the sound reverberating with Ryan’s arrogance. The arousal intensified, a hot, pulsing heat that coursed through his veins, fueled by the humiliating thrill of outgrowing his former self and the power to degrade others.

Not long after, the new Ryan—formerly Daniel—stood in the gleaming kitchen of his penthouse, the morning sun casting sharp shadows across the marble countertops. Clad in a fitted black t-shirt and jeans that showcased his newly acquired muscular frame, he gripped the edge of the sink, staring into the polished surface as if it could reflect the battle raging within him. His chiseled jaw clenched, and his piercing blue eyes narrowed as he fought to cling to the remnants of his old self.

Inside, a war waged. The liberal ideals that had once defined Daniel—his compassion for the marginalized, his belief in climate action, his pride in his gay identity—screamed for release, clawing against the conservative tide that had flooded his consciousness. “No,” he muttered, his voice trembling with the effort, “I’m not this… this bigoted shell. I supported equality, I loved men—Ryan’s thoughts aren’t me!” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon the image of his former partner, the tender moments they’d shared, but the memory blurred, replaced by a visceral hunger for a woman’s curves, a desire that made his stomach churn with both disgust and arousal.

His hands, now strong and veined, balled into fists as he resisted the creeping arrogance. “I won’t be a cashmaster—I won’t humiliate people like he did to me!” he growled, but the words felt hollow. A smug grin tugged at his lips unbidden, and he caught himself imagining the new Daniel—trapped in his old, chubby body—cowering as he demanded more tribute. The thought sent a thrill through him, and he shook his head violently, trying to dispel it. “Stop it! I’m not a homophobe—I’m not a fat-shamer!” he shouted, but the echo of his deep, commanding voice mocked him, laced with Ryan’s disdain.

The struggle intensified as his mind flickered between identities. He pictured his old apartment, the cluttered sanctuary of his former life, and a pang of loss hit him—only for it to be drowned by a surge of superiority. “That dump? Fit for a weak loser like him,” he thought, and the words weren’t his own. His original self clawed harder, whispering memories of pride parades and vegan potlucks, but they were swept away by a flood of MAGA rhetoric—tax cuts, border walls, the glory of traditional values. His homosexuality slipped further, replaced by a straight swagger that made him adjust his stance, puffing out his broad chest with a confidence he couldn’t suppress.

“No, I’m Daniel—I’m kind, I’m—” he gasped, but the effort was futile. A wave of arrogance crashed over him, washing away the last vestiges of his old persona. His eyes snapped open, gleaming with a cruel delight as Ryan’s persona took full control. He straightened, running a hand through his thick, styled hair with a smirk. “Kind? Kindness is for the weak,” he scoffed, his harsh voice now a perfect match for the cashmaster he’d become. “I’m Ryan—young, ripped, and in charge. That fat old queer can grovel all he wants; I’ll bleed him dry and love every second of it.”

He turned to the mirror, admiring his reflection—the chiseled jaw, the muscular torso, the aura of dominance—and laughed, a sound rich with contempt. He struck a pose, chest puffed out, abs tight, reveling in the power and allure of Ryan’s body. His mind buzzed with euphoric realization—he was no longer the timid, middle-aged man he’d been, but a young, muscular force of dominance. He imagined logging into his old accounts, taunting the new Ryan-in-Daniel’s-body with demands for cash, savoring the reversal of roles. The glee was intoxicating, his reflection a mirror of his corrupted soul—conservative, straight, and cruel—embracing the humiliation he once endured with a triumphant, unrestrained joy.

His piercing blue eyes glinted with a predatory glee as he scrolled through his phone, a smirk playing on his lips. The former Ryan—now trapped in Daniel’s chubby, 43-year-old body—had sent a desperate message from the cluttered Chicago apartment, a plea that only fueled the new Ryan’s cruel delight. “Time to show that loser who’s boss.”

The video call connected, and the screen lit up with the pitiful sight of the new Daniel. His once-sharp features were buried under a sagging double chin, his thinning hair plastered to a sweaty forehead, and his rounded belly strained against a stained t-shirt. The contrast was stark, and the new Ryan leaned forward, his voice dripping with mockery. “Well, well, look at you, you fat old fag,” he sneered, flexing his biceps for the camera, the muscles bulging with a power the new Daniel could only dream of. “Lost your pretty little body, huh? Bet you miss these guns—too bad you’re stuck waddling around in that disgusting flab.”

The new Daniel’s eyes widened, his hands trembling as he clutched the phone. “Ryan—please, I don’t know what happened, I just want my life back!” His voice cracked, a pathetic whine that sent a thrill through the new Ryan.

The former Daniel, now fully embracing his role as a straight cashmaster, chuckled darkly, running a hand through his thick, styled hair. “Your life? This is my life now, you pathetic pig. And you—look at you, a sweaty mess begging like the weak little homo you are. Disgusting.”

The new Daniel’s face flushed with shame, but beneath it, a familiar kink stirred— the same masochistic thrill that had once dominated the old Daniel’s mind. He shifted uncomfortably, the sensation of his soft thighs rubbing together igniting an unwanted arousal. The new Ryan caught the flicker in his eyes and pounced. “Oh, I see it—that body's still a cash pig at heart, isn't it? Can’t help yourself, can you? Send me some cash, fatty—let’s see if you can still get off on it like the loser you’ve always been.”

The new Daniel hesitated, his liberal guilt warring with the resurfacing desire, but the new Ryan’s relentless taunts broke his resolve. “Come on, you flabby freak, tribute your master! You lost your youth, your muscles, your dignity—hell, even your gay little fantasies are mine now. I’m straight as an arrow, and I’d rather bed a hot chick than look at your saggy ass. Send me $200, or I’ll post your pathetic pics all over X for the world to laugh at.”

Tears welled in the new Daniel’s eyes, but his fingers moved to his banking app, the act of submission sending a humiliating rush through him. The new Ryan laughed, a cold, homophobic edge to his voice. “That’s it, you queer cash cow—keep funding my life while I enjoy this body you’ll never have again. Fat-shaming you is too easy—look at that gut, you’re a walking joke. Maybe I’ll find some young thing to show off for, while you rot in that dump.”

The transaction confirmed, and the new Ryan leaned back, smirking as he admired his reflection in a nearby mirror—his chiseled jaw, broad chest, the epitome of masculine dominance. “Pathetic,” he muttered, ending the call with a flourish, reveling in the power to humiliate the man now forever trapped in his former, chubby shell, who had unwittingly fallen victim to the same degrading kink that once ruled Daniel’s life.

[unity30868]

Kristian, my current Tinder date, is literally altering reality as he sees fit with the way he upgraded himself from a rather dull-looking 27 years old slightly overweight junior consultant to this bonafide blond hunk that is surely going to rock my world. He said it's the beta version of the soon-to-be launched premium smartphone app called Chronivac, something his client worked on and he's helping the deployment of.

Honestly, if an app can be that powerful, might as well download it and upgrade your own life as you wish, even a couch potato can become the ultimate hunk with porn-star sized cock if they have access to app like this! Shit, I can imagine how well I will look like if I can snatch a taut twunk body like those bottom whores I saw scattered across Onlyfans, maybe I should ask him to do some works on me!

"Oh of course I'm not done with just myself, I'll take you for a surprise," he said as he leaned closer to me with a knowing subtle smirk that makes butterfly swirl in my stomach, his thumb hovers above the Chronivac

I cannot fully see what he typed into the app, but I can catch a glimpse of "service" and "obey" and wait what-----

*ZAP*

"Hey, are you even paying attention, whore? I'm talking to you,"

I somehow lost track of time and my surrounding for a couple seconds. I probably dozed off or something, but his voice snapped me back to reality. I quickly grabbed my mojito and take a big gulp instead of using the straw. I'm somehow so fucking thirsty and this blazing Caribbean weather is clearly intensifies that

"Well, glad you're back. Cmon then, you seem lubed up pretty well and ready, pretty face. Come here and surprise me, you said you have the best tongue game in the island, well, let's put that into a test,"

[unity30868]

3TH93USA

--- Originally posted on 2024-04-09 by dumb-and-jocked ---

Encouraged and spurred on by @mrrharper

The building in front of Nathan was nothing more than a gray warehouse. It was absolutely massive, stretching to either end of the block. Nathan had no idea how far back it went, and with no windows he had no concept of floors either. Nathan considered that it may have been a poor idea to apply after all. The job had been looking for candidates with highly flexible hours and at least 10 years of experience. But Nathan, a desperately-underfunded college student in his final year, was badly in need of some quick cash. Holding his head high, he strolled towards the building's entrance.

Nathan had received a notice of a job opportunity through his email. At first, he had assumed it was some kind of spam, but after reading a bit more discovered it was indeed a legit company. Falcon Security, somewhere Nathan would have never placed himself to be applying for, had not only sent a rather dull email, but had a dull interior. Everything with this company was informative and straightforward, apparently details and color did not matter.

In the open, almost liminal space, Nathan felt as if a spotlight were on him. He had not dressed too flamboyantly, a floral-patterned dress shirt with blue slacks. But he definitely felt out of place in such a starkly-monotone place. Not only that, but he knew he did not fit in. Just under six foot, red hair with freckles, lanky enough to be considered paper-thin, Nathan had to remind himself this job was not based on looks. Falcon Security meant IT, and all he had to say was he looked younger than his actual age. In a few months, he could be gone, the company nothing more than a blip on his resume.

The orientation process was a lot easier than Nathan had expected. After navigating through a few empty halls, he eventually found himself in a large room with a plethora of other men. None of them matched each other, all presumably in desperate situations like Nathan. After a bit of waiting, the presentation began on the huge screen projected opposite of the door.

It was nothing Nathan had not seen before, a male AI voice narrating the company’s background and history. When they began listing some of the more famous companies Falcon Security had aided in the past, Nathan was surprised at how many he recognized. Many names were politically-affiliated, all right-leaning but nothing concerning Nathan. Business was business, and he would be working IT anyway, so he would not inherently be supporting anything he stood against. The one anti-LGBT organization startled him a bit, although he did not show it. As a gay man, he would simply avoid any tasks related to that client. Money had influenced his standards a lot, but not to the point of changing his morals.

Once the presentation had finished, all the men received a text to their personal devices for their next station. Nathan pulled out his phone and after looking around, began to follow the other men out of the room. They herded down the hallway, passing by the different facilities available in the building. A cafeteria, restrooms, a huge gym with a few people the size of bodybuilders already hard at work. Nathan was beginning to think this was some kind of complex. Once they ventured past the sleeping quarters with bunk beds galore, questions formed as to how hard the company would be working him.

Eventually, each of the men began diverging off into different directions, finding their corresponding rooms. Nathan tried to remain optimistic of the situation, following along the instructions from his phone. Third floor, hallway T, room H93. It took a little strength to open the door, Nathan assumed it had to have been made of some metal. He entered his room and heard the door click shut behind him. Room H93 was small, with nothing in it but a chair facing away from the exit. Once Nathan took a seat, the projector lit up.

“Welcome to Falcon Security,” the male AI voice announced. “The following education supplement is broken into three segments.”

Nathan peered around the room once more, finding it strange as to why he was separated from the other men for this portion of the orientation.

“Cerebral Manipulation activated, engaging Cleanse.”

Suddenly, Nathan was bombarded with a combination of blinding visuals and piercing audios. The projector was strobing violently, quickly flashing colors back and forth and scorching his eyes. The speakers out of Nathan's sight were blasting discordant notes, the high pitches scrambling his neurological pathways. He immediately shut his eyes and went to cover his ears, trying to tune it all out, but the damage had already been instituted. Overwhelmed by the stimuli, his brain carried out the emergency function, shutting itself off completely. Nathan’s hands dropped to his sides as his mouth hung open, staring lifelessly at the paralyzing screen before him.

“Cleanse complete, Cerebral Manipulation disengaged.”

Nathan made no movement as multiple ceiling tiles lifted up, revealing vents. He continued to stare ahead, no thought forming in his emptied mind.

“Physical Manipulation activated, engaging Vapor.”

Slowly, a hiss began to sound out from the vents opened within the ceiling. A reddish gas softly descended from the ceiling, filling up Nathan’s room in a minute. Before long the air had completely left the room, leaving Nathan’s mindless husk to breathe in the pure red fumes.

“Displaying mandatory characteristics,” the AI rattled off. Through the red haze, the projector booted up a loading screen with an array of fields.

HEIGHT - 75 Units

WEIGHT - 200 Units

ADIPOSE TISSUE - 12%

MUSCULATURE - 85%

FEET - 13 Units

PHALLUS - 9 Units

LIBIDO - 80%

HAIR (B) - 67%

HAIR (C) - 1B0C05

EYE (C) - 200C05

Although Nathan could not recognize it, these inputs were standardized by the company.

“Vapor engaged, activating Reactor.”

A relaxer began to escape, mixing thoroughly with the red fumes already present in the room. Carefully slinking down, it eventually slithered up Nathan’s nostrils and tickled his brain. Triggered, Nathan began taking larger, deeper breaths, thoroughly absorbing the red gas.

The effects of the vapor rapidly assimilated into Nathan’s system. His bones began to crack, his tendons and ligaments shifting and expanding. The edges of his tight outfit grew taut, threatening to rip before a laser quickly scanned the room, erasing every article of clothing. Now naked, Nathan’s body was free to grow in any direction it needed. And it did, stretching out across the chair as Nathan evolved. With each filtrating breath, Nathan pumped himself larger and larger, eventually reaching a height of 6’3.

Nathan's muscles continued to bloat as the vapor was continually absorbed into his systems. His once lanky body was broadening: longer legs, longer torso, longer shoulders. His calves and upper arms swelled with power, thickening and plumping with strength and testosterone. His quads widened, now along with his new eight abdominals bolstering immense durability. Nathan’s backside curved outwards, better filling in his seat while his hardware up front enlarged into a thick 9 inches. Although not in a conscious state, Nathan separated his legs to accommodate for his new, massive bundle, his toes inching forward as his feet puffed out into a sturdy Size 13.

Nathan’s head arched back to allow the remainder of red gas to be consumed. His neck distended to accommodate for the emerging Adam’s apple, his vocal chords thickening to create a deeper tone. His jaw and cheekbones jutted forward, stretching his nose and accentuating his brow. In a flash, Nathan’s roots and eyes darkened into a steep brown, tainting his hair as it pulled into a tight crew cut. The rest of his body adapted accordingly, his skin tone tanning slightly before being washed over with dark hair through the pits, down the sternum, across his crotch, and throughout his arms and legs.

The last of the red fumes disappeared down Nathan’s nasal passages, coating his more masculine jaw with a well-maintained beard. The AI voice confirmed this completion.

“Vapor installed, engaging Auxiliary Supplements: 3TH93USA.”

AGE - 29 Units

When Nathan had applied, he had not met the company’s standards of employment. This forced Falcon Security to take the necessary action of moving him to meet the minimum experience requirement. A small tube appeared from one of the open vents directly above Nathan. With his head in position and mouth lazily ajar, the pipe distributed seven blue drops directly down Nathan’s throat. He did not have to swallow, the liquid absorbing on impact.

After a moment, the aging began to show. Nathan’s muscles stiffened slightly, toughening after more years of constant conditioning. His body odor grew denser, his voice gruffer. His libido remained the same, but now served a different purpose. It had matured into a machine for fertilization, built for a purpose rather than for pleasure. As the tiniest beginnings of frown lines formed, the process moved forward.

“Auxiliary Supplements complete, Cerebral Manipulation reactivated, downloading Cognition.”

The ceiling tiles lowered, the vents closing as the screen booted up with new diagnostics.

“Displaying mandatory characteristics.”

CEREBRAL CAPACITY - 20%

INTELLIGENCE QUOTIENT - 73 Units

SUBORDINATION - 95%

AGGRESSION - 90%

INTERPRETATION - 15%

INDEPENDENT ANALYSIS - 10%

Uploading SECURITY package…

Uploading SELF-MAINTENANCE package…

Installing CODE RED

“Download complete, engaging Cognition.”

Once again, the room was filled with the blaring visual and audio combination. Because Nathan’s brain had already been turned off, the repetition now triggered the opposite effect. Soon, Nathan’s mind reanimated, becoming coherent to his surroundings. His former self had been deleted, leaving an open canvas ready to become something completely new. Before Nathan could become cognizant and recolor his gray matter, the program instituted new effects.

Delicately, the strobing lights and screeching notes were honed into the background. New media quickly infiltrated the pattern. Flashes of words and phrases flashed the screen, branding Nathan’s mind. Images of loyal men, bulky men, masculine men burst through Nathan’s retinas, establishing only one precedent. Mixed in were scattered opinion pieces to erect the bare minimum of personality features. Pictures of conservative leaders, Christian motifs, and clips of straight sex, enough to align with the company’s agenda.

“The company is always right,” “The clients are always right.” A male narrator had begun instructing different phrases into the room. His words crawled into the open crevice of Nathan’s shrunken brain, filling up the emptied space. “Every guard is completely loyal to the company,” “The company never makes mistakes.” Every instruction repeated over and over, accompanied by the images of Falcon Security and their work.

Nathan had been wrong to assume the Falcon Security had been an information technology firm. The company was actually a high-tech, military-grade safeguard who prided themselves with muscles promising complete protection, surveillance, and performative obedience. When they had discovered their investors in conservative businesses, they tailored their focus a bit more, pledging their guards would not only work for them, but vote for them too. Focus groups and trial operations provided them with the perfect formula for their clients.

In an instant, the program went into overdrive. The male AI returned, drilling “Ejaculate, Ejaculate, Ejaculate,” over and over. The stimulation exploded Nathan’s brain with ecstasy, his cock rising directly up and pulsing with excitement. The images on the screen ran twice as fast, the audio tracks looping quicker. With a manly grunt, Nathan howled as his swollen weapon blasted the remnants of his former will across the room. The laser from before returned, erasing the ejaculation and covering up the newly transformed guard in the company’s in house uniform: black sweats and a black cap

Blinking, 3TH93USA stood up as the door to the room opened behind him. He marched out of his room, the other new guards like fraternal clones of him doing likewise. They all filed down to the halls back to where they had come from. Some steered off into the cafeteria, others navigated to the sleeping quarters. 3TH93USA was one of the few who arrived in the gym, beginning his workout immediately as instructed. Security was his function, and if he was not doing that, then 3TH93USA was either eating, maintaining, or sleeping.

3TH93USA began his pull up routine as a few men in suits walked by, looking in on the gym.

“One needs a soldier, completely obedient and always following orders,” one of the businessmen stated. “Each of our men are customizable, programmable to any of your needs. Their only purpose is to be a security guard.”

They watched on as 3TH93USA continued his workout, no other objective in his mind.