bluecollarchub

[bluecollarchub]

Break Out

"Psst! Hey! Hey, Red!"

I tossed my ginger curls out of my face, looking up at the fellow detainee across from me. ‘Red...’ such a dumb fuckin’ line, everyone drops it thinking they’re the cleverest person in the room. I have red hair, hardy har, so people call me Red, tee hee, give me a break.

He’s short, maybe a hair over 5’6”, but a fireplug of a man. Sure, darker blonde, but a fireplug. Even in his baggy clothes, I could tell that he was pretty beefy, like in a got a little too into juicing after high school kind of way.

“What’ll it be, Yellow…” I mumbled back.

He shoots me a weird look. I mime at my hair. He narrows his eyes and shakes away the confusion.

"Give me 50 pounds!"

I shot him an even weirder look than he gave me, and he just gestured back and forth to me and himself excitedly, with both of his wrists tied together with the thick, industry standard zip ties that the pigs always carry around by the dozen at protests.

“What?”

“Jss—Fuckin’ give me 50! I’ll get us outta here!”

“… Pounds.”

“Yeah, c’mon!”

I scoffed, “You can eat 50 lbs of shit.”

“Dude, just—ARGH, just say it, man! Trust me! You can spare it, you’re a big dude! Look, I promise I’ll get us out of here.”

He wasn’t wrong, I probably weighed the same as him. Sure, on a frame easily half a hoot taller than him, but I’ve paid my dues at the alter of vain size building. Anything to at least minimize the amount of ginger jokes I had to endure in school. Thanks a lot, South Park… Wait, 50 lbs of…?

“50 lbs of what then?”

“You, dude! Muscle, size! C’mon dude, we gotta be quick!”

Great, stuck in holding, again, with another horny tweaker, again. It’s like I’m a magnet for this type of shit.

“You want 50 lbs of muscle from me, huh? What, you’re gonna Superman your way outta here?”

“W—I mean, kinda,” he chuckled and shrugged as I rolled my eyes with a grin. I had to admit, Yellow was charming, in a dorky, too much adrenaline kind of way. “And ‘our’ way outta here, man!… C’mon, I’ll give it right back! Trust me, like, we were at the same protest, we’re already on the same team?”

I chuckled behind my grin, “Even you gotta admit that turned into a little more than a protest.”

He shrugged again behind a smirk, “No justice, no peace.”

I outwardly laughed this time. I scratched my knee with my wrists bound together, feeling my forearm graze against the slight chub I was forming. This guy’s clearly got a few screws loose but his charisma was undeniable. Was it because he was built to exactly my type? Whatever, may as well play along, we were likely going to be spending the next few hours together in holding.

He caught me studying him, and opened his palms upwards and raised his eyebrows in a game show host imitation.

I snorted, “Fine, Yellow. You can have 50 lbs of my muscle. Now, how a—!”

My breath caught in my throat and my jaw shot open as I sucked a whooping gasp, my fists clenching and my shoulders tensing up, my abs knotted up and my hips thrusted forward like I was yanked by lasso.

The moment the words left my mouth, I was instantly, fully, throbbingly rock hard. My dick was pulling like an iron rod towards him, making my sweats tent in a way I didn’t know the fabric was capable of handling. In my dizzy, star-spangled vision, I could see the same was true for Yellow. He was similarly tensed and flexed, but smiling widely and dumbly with droopy orgasmic eyes and seemed to be experiencing it much more relaxed way than I was.

He panted quietly, “Don’t worry, dude, it’s just the connection being made, you’re gonna love th—HOOOOOO!!”

It must have hit him the same moment it hit me—it felt like a massive, pillowy, slobbering set of lips smooched down onto my mushroom head, tightly forced itself down the length of my shaft, and began thirstily sucking me off! I continued with my shuddering gasps as he gritted his teeth and hissed with his eyes pinched shut, shushing me as he did, so as to… what? Not alert the pigs making calls and typing up reports? I felt like I was going zero to ten in seconds, on the very verge of busting!

Then as I was gonna bust, the wildest sensation imaginable hit me. It felt like thick, oozing, orgasmic energy like mound after mound of warm, lubricated meat was being sucked directly out of my shaft. I looked down at the throbbing tent in my sweats to get an eye of what was happening, but I would only see my mushroom head flaring over and over again, catching an eye of Yellow’s doing the same through the fabric of his pants.

As the energy shot out of my shaft towards him, I could feel what could only be described as levitating. It felt like my body was becoming lighter and lighter and lighter, with pulse after orgasmic pulse. I rolled my eyes back with lustful, dumb laughter, feeling like I could float away. With each pulse, I could feel my clothes breathing gusts of air out around my neck, arms, waist, and feet as they settled loosely on my smaller frame. As I felt my height shrink considerably, I looked down with a dumb giggle as I watched my cock throb, then thin, throb, then shorten, throb, throb, throb, then—

I pinched my eyes shut and yelped involuntarily as finally came. And came. Shit, and came some more! I swear to god I’d never had an orgasm last as long as it did. Plus, judging by the warm soupy feeling in my boxer briefs, I shot more than I think I ever had!

Then—and at this point I knew I had to be going insane—because then? Yellow was… changing.

He kept his breaths heavy but his volume low as I watched his entire body pulse, and pulse. With each consecutive pulse, his stature stretched taller, his frame stretch wider, and—

“Hhuurrrrrnnnnngg…” he arched his back with a gurgling, euphoric growl, clearly also involuntary, since he’d been such a nag about our volume, as he continued to pulse like a giant heart, only this time his muscles appeared to be joining in on the action. They swelled thicker and broader under his increasingly tightening clothes, the ones that were seconds ago basically hanging on him like a tent, making them audibly stretch and become deliciously tighter. I heard the leather of his boots creak and I watched as they appeared to inflate from within as his thighs and claves rounded with size. He gurgled again as his torso, chest, and abs widened and grew and his throat thickened, making each button down his henley pop, pop… pop pop pop down to reveal his chiseled cleavage.

He seemed to hurry now, his breath quickening, as he rushed his bound hands down to his buckle. As he did, his job was made more difficult by his expanding, bulging arms, each snaking with angry chords of veiny muscle, as he frantically undid his belt. He threw his too-tight zipper down, quickly dug in, and liberated his throbbing boyfriend cock. Ah, so he clearly knew what was coming—the sexy fucker could’ve at least warned me.

“MMMPFF, MMPF, MMMNuuhh…” he lightly moaned behind tight lips as I watched his dick bloom outwards and upwards, encouraged by his bucking hips, lifting higher and thicker into the air like a flower searching for sun, until he—! He gasped in a quick breath as he leaned over, making his bench groan under his new weight, as he erupted thick squirting volleys of cum onto the floor adjacent to us.

Splat, splat, splat, splat, splat… Splat. I watched each load shoot out of him in disbelief. Both obviously at the quantity and also what had just been shared—or exchanged—between us in… Well shit, now that the haze from my orgasm was clearing, it couldn’t have been more than 10 seconds since those last words left my lips to now! Now we were both left in a panting fog, the room saturated with our stink, as he finally started to tuck away his fresh donkey dick.

He glanced over at the splatters on the floor he’d made, “Sorry about that,” he muttered, struggling to zip up his pants. “Didn’t want to… y’know, soak my shorts.” He nodded at my sweats—not overtly soaked themselves but threatening to start showing signs, if my overflowing briefs were any indication—and laughed a bit, wincing as he slowly forced his zipper up, doubtlessly strangling his now-sizable package.

I huffed out a laugh along with him, “What—..” I swallowed dryly, hearing the cracks in my voice. “What did you d—?”

“No time, we gotta bounce,” he grinned with a rich, cocky baritone.

He stood up. And up, and up, towering over his former stature. Yellow’s face pinched with effort as I watched his arms flex angrily.

“RRRNNnngg,” Yellow grunted with an animalistic huff. I swear I could hear his guns tightening like rope! With a sharp “NTCCHuuuh…” and an accompanying defeated *SNIP!* the industrial strength zip tie broke like it was made of cheap plastic. He looked down at where it’d landed and glanced back up at me with another cocky grin.

“Well shit,” I remarked with a chuckle, panting out the last of my exhaustion from my sudden transformation. He popped his firm pecs with that cocky grin as he kneeled towards me.

He sniffed as he leaned in, “Woof! You really made a mess didn’t you?” He grinned up at me, slipping a finger then two under my zip ties. I must’ve blushed a little at the comment, because he chuckled back up at me, “No sweat Red,” He tilted his head back to the creamy puddle on the floor. We both huffed a laugh.

My “cuffs” had loosened from the transformation quite a bit. Still not enough to slip out of, but enough for him to slip two of his thick fingers through. He grunted again and pulled until mine snapped too. He tossed mine to the floor with his and held out a hand to help me up from the bench. I accepted and he lifted me up, making me bounce on me feet a little once

I felt… Hell, I looked pretty sick actually! Had a little bit of the look I remember when I was going straight into undergrad! Minus the nubbier but wickedly more sensitive hog I was now sporting. Used to get laid constantly back then, at least way more than now. But now with gig jobs, keeping a steady gym schedule, taking care of my siblings for my deadbeat folks… Who’s got the time? But… fuck! Yellow had really worked his magic… on both of us!

“You just gonna stare?” He snapped me out of it, “Or should we get out of here?”

“Y-you lead, I guess,” holding up my sweats and briefs (being sure to clutch the briefs tightly so none of my spunk dribbled out, couldn’t handle more embarrassment) the with one hand.

He approached the door to our holding room, grateful that it was some cheap office door with a shitty lock, and quickly but forcefully pushed outwards with his boulder-like shoulders. He and I both huffed out a satisfied laugh as it gave with little of his effort, uttering only a small *crack* as the lock gave up its measly effort inside and swung open.

We hurried it to the end of the long corridor of other holding rooms until it T-intersected with another hallway, and we looked both ways. On one end of the connecting hallway, we could hear the click-clacking of keyboards, the cacophony of calls coming through too-old landlines, and the hubbub of the chatter coming from the station’s staff. On the other end, a fire exit door, with the trademark red illuminated EXIT sign over it with the machinery connected to the door that would set off the alarm once the door was opened.

He leaned in to whisper to me, “We’re gonna have to split up once that alarm goes off. You know Francisco’s?”

“The diner?” I replied back. Good old Francisco’s Diner, always there late at night when you need a ton of carbs after a night of binging. “Waaay too well, yeah I know it.”

“Let’s meet up there. 7 o’clock? Gives you about an hour to get more, uh, decent?” He chuckled back at me.

“Fuck you,” I laughed back, “Ain’t my fault I need to clean up.”

“HEY! What the hell you think you’re doing?!”

We both looked down the other end of the hall, where some fatass pig was moving towards us. Both of our hearts jumped.

“Remember, 7 o’clock, Francisco’s!” Yellow grabbed onto me and shoved me in the direction of the door. I stumbled forwards, making my way to the fire exit, looking back behind me to see Yellow give the pig a linebacker’s shove, forcing him to the floor and knocking the wind out of him, then turning to sprint the way I was going.

I pushed out of the fire exit door, momentarily blinded by the afternoon light and deafened by the accompanying ring of the alarm and bolting to the right, out of the parking lot. I only looked back once to see Yellow sprinting out of the building too, laughing out loud as he ran away from the three cops uselessly chasing after him, tripping over themselves. Thankfully with all of their attention on him, the last thing I saw before I turned the corner was him effortlessly hopping the stone fence on the other side of the parking lot.

I continued running—gliding honestly, the lighter size feeling totally abnormal but thrilling—block after block after block, until I made it to the courtyard of my building. What spunk hadn’t dried against my crotch had spilled out of my briefs and down the leg of my sweats creating a sticky, cool sensation. I checked the time on the ornate courtyard clock. 5:45. Still plenty of time to get cleaned up!

Cleaned up, plus a little exploration. Damn, I felt the same way looked: svelte and sexy as hell. My nubby cock was already greedily throbbing before I unlocked my apartment door.

———

The bell hanging above the door of Francisco’s Diner jingled as I walked in (a fashionable 20 minutes late—what the hell, I got, uhh, distracted). Of the things that would’ve fit me in my closet, I settled on a skate brand tank top I hadn’t worn since college and a pair of gym shorts, drawstring tied extra tight. All of it still hung off me, I must’ve looked emaciated.

“Ay, Red!” Yellow waved over at me from one of the booths along the window. He sported an undershirt and vest along with his own pair of gym shorts, except all of his looked way too tight, compared to my way too loose apparel. What a pair we made!

I slid into the booth, grinning and sighing, “Sorry I’m late, I—”

“Had to give it all a test run, huh?” He chuckled into his coffee mug. I shrugged with a grin. “Don’t sweat it! Meee too, man, me too. I only got here like 5 minutes ago.”

“That was crazy how you got us out of there, man. Any trouble?”

“None! Actually, once I was over the fence around the parking lot, they’d basically given up. You?”

“Not at all. Thankfully all of their attention was on you!”

“Not surprised! Can you imagine what a prize it would be for them if they caught all this? I’m lookin’ like fuckin Superman now.”

He punctuated his cocky brag with a tight flex of his guns, bursting with both his and my combined strength.

“Gotta say,” I shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee he’d ordered me. “Looks fucking good on you, dude.”

“Hey, yeah?” He raised an eyebrow with a grin, bouncing his pecs at me. “You’re looking pretty good yourself there, Red.”

We sat for a few moments sipping our mugs, the obvious horny mist between us simmering and the unspoken recognition of each of our hard-ons adding to our admiration of one another’s bodies. I had to admit, Yellow had one me over. Whether it was because of his charm, his solidarity, his magic, or his bod, the short time we’d come to know each other had caused some kind of spark to ignite.

At the moment I was going to quietly ask that we go somewhere more private, he piped up, stretching and arms and back behind him against the booth.

“Well, a promise is a promise. You ready to get your size back?”

I smiled, “That would be great... Wait, here??” I remembered the mess we made at the station. Surely a mom and pop diner like Francisco’s wouldn’t appreciate a display like that in their establishment.

“I think the bathroom might be a better option. After you,” he gestured his arm out of the booth.

I sauntered over to the bathroom located behind the counter of Francisco’s open kitchen, looking back to see if Yellow was following. He’d left a $10 on the table for our coffees plus a generous tip for the staff and was already close behind me. I opened the door to the single use bathroom, while he held the door, slapping my ass inside as we both chuckled.

I heard him click the lock of the door as I turned around, “So how are we gonna d—”

Yellow had me pinned against the sink before I could finish my question, his hard body pressed against me as his lips and tongue danced against mine, pausing only to shuck his vest off with his undershirt, as I lost my tank top. We grinded our bodies together, feeling our hard tools poking into each other’s hips as we made quick work of liberating them from our shorts. Once we were both completely of our clothes, we resumed our intense make out, each of our hands ravenously feeling up the others, gripping firm mounds of muscle here, sliding fingers down cascading backs there…

“I should thank you properly for helping us both out,” Yellow panted.

He forced me down onto the toilet seat by my shoulders, then slid his hands down my torso, then gingerly tugged at my raging nubby boner. I could see that his was a throbbing, eager railroad spike as he knelt down in front of me and leaned in to swirl his tongue around my mushroom head.

“Fucking hell, Yellow, where you been all my life?” I panted with an exhilarated gasp, running my hands through his stiff dirty blonde hair, feeling his head bob up and down on me.

He released me with a sucking *pop* and grinned up at me, “I’m Doug, by the way. Douglas, but call me Doug.” He continued his greedy assault on my cock while I gasped a few more orgasmic breaths.

“C-Curtis. I’m Curtis,” we both laughed, having only just exchanged names while his mouth was around my dick. His deep laughter reverberated splendidly inside of his mouth against my leaking glans, stuffing his mouth with my pre, without a doubt.

Releasing me once more, he looked up at me. “Hey?”

“Yeah what’s up?”

“You can have your 50 pounds back, Curtis,” he grinned then quickly buried his face back into my crotch.

It happened just as quickly and just as intensely as it did the first time. I felt the same electrifying jolt of energy shoot through me, making me groan and arch my back as I felt waves of pleasure crash into me. Now fully nude, I could see the transformation affect both of us with delicious clarity. I watched my perspective grow taller and taller, seeing and feeling my legs, arms, and torso stretch back to their normal size. “Fuuuuck yeeeeaaah,” I couldn’t help but moan as I watched my arms, legs, thighs, pecs, feet, hands, abs, fucking everywhere, throb and swell with dull, increasing pressure, flexing everything as my size returned to me. Then, feeling my balls pulse and sag, I dropped my hands to his head, gripping fistfuls of his hair, as I animalistically bucked into his mouth, feeling my meat throb, lengthen, throb, thicken, throb, lengthen, throb, thicken, deeper and deeper and deeper into Doug’s throat. He gripped my rounded, swelling ass as I gripped his head, finally feeling the dam burst as I flooded his guts with another massive serving of my seed, only causing him to gag just a few times, but still swallowing it all like a champ.

Both of us gasping with exhaustion, he stood up, his cock appearing to do some king of hiccuping motion as it shrank back. He was still shrinking in intermittent spurts, his arms deflating back to their respectable size, his pecs receding back to their typically sized mounds, his arms and legs dwindling back to their normality as he shook them out. His stature had diminished back to his short king height, and I could tell my the quickening of his cock’s hiccuping motions that the last part was coming. I reached out with both hands to tug his shrinking tool and massage his balls, hearing him whine/moan as his hips bucked with my motions. Very soon after, he erupted several copious volleys at me, splattering against my arms, my pecs, and my upper chest.

He collapsed onto me with exhaustion, his thick thighs and massive ass resting on top of my thighs, both of us panting in the orgasmic fog we’d created as he leaned his smaller self against my larger. His seed squished between our heaving, panting chests as he and I wrapped arms around each other to make out again.

Doug was unlike anyone I’d ever been with… Shit, by a long shot. And it’s crazy how much, though unspoken, he and I were both into this whole size play thing. Hell, I could spend way more time yo-yo’ing with him, seeing how big we could really make him. Creating a gym schedule with him so we could both add more mass to ourselves and go even crazier with this gift of his. Tricking assholes to loan him some of their size so he could turnaround and dump it all into me.

As we made out more in the bathroom of Francisco’s Diner, the whole room reeking of our sex and humid with our effort, I knew that our unlikely but fortuitous relationship was only just beginning.

[bluecollarchub]

The Jock, The Jerk, And The Wardrobe

(Hey all, I wanted you to know that I'm still working on some longer story request but have still been quite busy irl. I wanted to give you all something short and steamy to hold you over and let you know I haven't forgotten about you lol, thanks a ton for the support and I hope you enjoy!)

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"THIS IS RIDICULOUS!!"

Ryan couldn't believe it.

One tiny little prank and he was kicked off the football team.

"Ryan you're 21 now, you need to mature, what you're doing is bullying, blah blah blah."

"I mean I'M the one paying for this over-priced ass university!"

What's even worse is Ryan has to move into a smite affordable dorm until he's back on the team, and that's not even the kicker!

Ryan has to be roommates with Caleb, the dweeb he was so called "bullying"

I mean yeah he made fun of the guys tits and six chins, I mean he was practically made of fat!

Unlike Caleb, Ryan actually took care of his body, he excersied regularly, ate right, didn't spend all day moping around the house eating junk food and playing video games.

It was a rocky first few weeks, the two argued about everything, the bathroom, the kitchen, the thermostat, EVERYTHING!

And they both were tired of it.

One day Caleb decided to finally break the tension between the two.

He offered Ryan a blunt.

Initially Ryan refused, I mean what was Caleb trying to pull right, he knows they drug test the players on the football team and-oh that's right...Ryan isn't on the team anymore.

Caleb continued offering Ryan blunts, buds, and edibles, but Ryan continued to refuse.

Without the coach to get some of the professors off his back Ryan became overwhelmed by their school work and needed something to take his mind off of it.

Once more Caleb offered Ryan and blunt and this time Ryan obliged.

That wasn't the last time Ryan got high however.

After the first night Ryan was hooked, he'd hadn't felt such peace in MONTHS.

And Caleb was all the more happy to oblige his roomate.

Another upside to weed is that good tasted SO much better when Ryan was high. He'd gorge himself on snack cakes, ice cream, cereal, chips, then he'd sleep, wake up, smoke and do it all again.

Weeks of this non stop binging cycle had passed and was finally starting to show.

Ryan was not able to go to the gym as often as he once did thanks to his excess school work, and not that he wanted to give how much fun he was having smoking and eating.

Oddly enough, he discovered Caleb had begun going to the gym.

Ryan would laugh at his roommates ginormous "workout" clothes. His oversized bedsheet of a shirt and parachute for shorts

Unfortunately this only made the embarrassment of Ryan's jeans not being able to button, burn all the worse.

How had Ryan's thighs gotten so thick and his belly so chubby without him noticing?

"195?!"

How had Ryan gained 20 pounds in a month and a half, I mean he has been eating a bit more lately and working out less but, geez.

Still, what should've been a wakeup call was nothing more than a momentary upset in Ryan's haze of smoke, eating, and masturbation.

He'd spend his days grazing on food, smoking, watching porn, and recently he'd discovered the amazing world of gaming.

It was strange Ryan could almost swear he was getting fatter but his clothes never really seemed to change.

Everything in his closet was the exact same but Ryan could almost swear they were bigger, though none of the sizes were present on his clothing, even stranger...

2 months had passed and Ryan was STILL off the football team. Totally not fair.

Caleb had been nice enough to do Ryan's school work for him while Ryan just sat at home eating, smoking, sleeping, and eating again.

Caleb's weight loss had started to become noticeable. He was still rather fat but his stomach was much smaller than Ryan remembered.

And turns out Caleb wasn't all that bad looking with some of the fat off his face.

And that huge ass of his had really melted down, and those H cup tits were starting to look more like a B.

There was never a shortage of junk food and snacks in their dorm, which was strange given Caleb had been sticking to his diet pretty heavily and Ryan didn't do much in the way of shopping.

2 more months passed and the strangest thing ever happened.

Caleb made a joke about Ryan's "tits".

Ryan's laughed it off of course, I mean he and Caleb had gotten surprisingly close, they were practically best buds, and it's not like any of Ryan's football buddies had checked on him since he got kicked off the team.

Still, Ryan couldn't get Caleb's comment out of his head.

"Tits? I don't really have tits do I? I mean sure I've been enjoying life lately, not working out as much, eating a little more, but l I'd definetly notice if I got tits, I mean my clothes still fit perfectly fine.

One night, after a long day of smoking and binge eating, Ryan went to the restroom and stopped by the mirror.

He just stood there observing himself.

He stared at his face. It did seem a bit rounder, but maybe it was just his facial hair, it has gotten a bit out of control lately.

Then, after minutes of contemplation, Ryan decided to lift his shirt.

God! Caleb was right!

Ryan had tits.

Big, juicy B cup tits. Looked like you could get milk out of them.

Ryan's face burned red as he stared at his chubby belly scorched with rows of firey red stretch marks.

In Ryan's constant state of euphoria he'd truly hadn't notice just how much his body had changed.

As Ryan continued to stare at himself, enveloped in feelings of embarrassment, disappointment, and shock, his penis began to pulsate.

As Ryan's hands explores his body, jiggled his belly, cupped and squeezed his man tits, his cock became harder and harder until it began to leak pre-cum.

Snapping back into reality at the feeling of his rock had cock, Ryan noticed something.

The tent in his pants was significantly smaller than it should've been.

Ryan hesitantly unbuttoned and unzipped his pants...

"Fuck!"

Ryan's fears were correct, his cock was significantly smaller than it should've been.

His once 8 and a half inch cock was now barely even six rock hard.

He wondered how that would even be possible until he noticed.

His dick was being swaloed by fat.

A thick chubby pad of fat, and public hard had began to devour his cock.

Ryan remembered the time he saw Caleb in their campus gym lockeroom.

He had teased Caleb about his fat pad, about how small his cock looked, and now the same thing was happening to him!

For some reason these thoughts only turned him on more.

The embarrassment that the every thing he made fun of Caleb for was beginning to happen to him.

His cock started leaking.

He began to stroke his member as he imagined the humiliation of Caleb discovering what was happening to Ryan, of making fun of him for it.

Caleb's joke about Ryan's tits, all the times Ryan made fun of Caleb's weight repeated in Ryan's head as he stroked himself in front of the bathroom mirror.

As he watched his belly and tits jiggle, his fat body become slick with sweat. Ryan felt like such a pig and he'd never felt hornier.

Ryan finally came as he imagined Caleb humiliating him, mocking his weight.

Ryan stood there in silence for minutes, what the fuck had happened to him?

Why was that so hot?

Ryan thought about that night in the bathroom for days.

No matter how hard he tried he just couldn't get hard.

But then Ryan noticed, when he stuffed himself, when his belly was so full that he felt he could explode, his cock would get hard.

He felt like a freak! At first Ryan refused to touch himself but after a few weeks, after so much pent up horniness he finally gave in.

Ryan stuffed himself until the point he felt he would explode and low and behold, his cock was rock solid.

This cycle continued for several months, he would smoke, stuff himself, jerk off, sleep, repeat.

Months had passed and Caleb's "jokes" about Ryan's weight became more rampant.

Daily Caleb would poke fun at Ryan's breast, squeeze his love handles, jiggle his belly. And it turned Ryan on SO much.

Everytime Ryan looked at Caleb coming back from the gym, seeing his body become more and more muscular, reminding Ryan of what he used to have, and what he's eaten away.

Sometimes Ryan could almost bring himself to ask Caleb for tips on losing weight, but the humiliation was too hot to bare.

After one particularly long day of stuffing and smoking Ryan to a good hard look at himself.

"Fuck." he whispered as he jiggled the mound of fat that enveloped his lap.

Ryan waddle his weight to the restroom, panting as he did so and stood in front of the mirror.

"Shit."

Ryan looked at himself in awe, he was humongous.

And even stranger, his clothes still fit somehow, though some items were suspiciously missing as of late.

Puzzled, Ryan decided to strip and weigh himself.

Hesitantly pulling the scale from under the sink and placing it behind the bathroom door.

With a waddle and hefty lift of his gut, Ryan stood on the scale.

"426?!"

Ryan couldn't believe it, he had gained 271 pounds since his prime footballer weight.

Ryan was almost brought to tears, if it wasn't for the raging boner he had.

Ryan rushed to his bedroom and plopped himself upon his bed, creaking under the sheer stress of his heft.

Ryan had never considered himself gay, bi, or even attracted to men at all. However of late, Ryan has been watching porn featuring overweight guys being bullied and fed by fit muscular men.

Ryan was so horny he didn't even care to put in his ear buds or lock his bedroom door.

"What the fuck?"

Not even five minutes into his bating session Ryan was interrupted by Caleb.

Caleb was glistening with sweat, his muscular biceps poking out of his cut up tank top.

Caleb should've still been at the gym, what was he doing home so early?!

"I-I-I-" Ryan was speechless.

"Is this the type of shit you're into?" Caleb began with a giggle.

Caleb walked over toward Ryan with a confident stride. You'd hardly think he walked in on his roomate beating his cock to strange pornography.

"Geez look at you, you can hardly reach your cock."

Caleb laughed as he observed Ryan's awkward positioning, trying to reach his arm over his wide, water bed of a gut, his chubby fingers struggling to grasp his thick stub of a cock.

"And look how small it is..." Caleb continued to laugh as he reached his hand to grasp Ryan's cock.

Ryan froze, breathless. He was so taken aback he didn't even try to move or tell Caleb no.

Caleb began to message Ryan's cock, up and down methodically.

"Look how fucking pathetic you are, I remember those pictures of you from a year ago, your cock was what, six, seven inches hard?"

"E-eight-" Ryan managed to choke out.

"Eight fucking inches?! Geez!"

Ryan's cock leaked even more, he began sweating bullets at Caleb's teasing.

"And how big are you now?" Caleb asked sensually, as he rubbed his thumb in circles on the head of Ryan's leaking dick.

"Uhm I-I don't know."

"Bullshit!" Caleb shouted, he swiftly moved his free hand under Ryan's mass and gripped what he could of his balls and squeezed as hard as he could.

"Shit!" Ryan screeched.

"It-it's the truth, I couldn't see it, I couldn't measure!"

Caleb burst out laughing, "Oh god, you couldn't see your own cock, how fucking pathetic is that?!"

"Hold on."

Caleb left the room, Ryan could see him head across the hall, it looked like he was rummaging through a backpack.

Ryan's mind began to race, "what's going on? I should stop this! I can't let him do this! I'm still the star of the football team...I could get this weight off easily! No problem, I-"

But befoe he could finish that though Caleb returned, giddy and giggling.

"What-" *SLAP*

"Shut up pig." before Ryan was able to finish his sentence, Caleb had slapped him with the very object he began to inquire about.

It was a clear, plastic blue ruler, seemed to be about a foot and a half long.

Ryan was silent, he didn't know why, he couldn't belive he'd just let Caleb bitch him out like that, his face was tomato red.

Caleb walked toward Ryan's dresser and pulled out a box of snack cakes. Unraveling one before Ryan had enough time to register.

"Eat this."

"I-" *SLAP*

"I said eat it pig!"

And Ryan did, he ate it, and another, and another, and another.

Caleb shoved cake after cake into Ryan's mouth, his fingers practically reaching the back of his throat.

Ryan's chest became covered with sweat, crumbs, and frosting. His thick dusty blonde chest hair becoming matted.

His tits had outgrown his chest hair long ago, looked like to sacks of ice cream spilling out of a forest of hair.

Once Caleb was satisfied he took a breath and pick up his ruler.

He lowered the ruler down toward Ryan's cock and without a moments notice, burst out into hysterical laughter.

"Fuck! You're barely two fucking inches I can't believe this!"

Neither could Ryan, two inches?! Never in all his life could he imagine his thick 8 inch cock would ever become that fucking pathetic.

Ryan was speechless. Before he could even manage to form words, Caleb was already on his knees.

Caleb's mouth enveloped Ryan's pathetic excuse for a cock.

It had been so long since Ryan had sex, let alone a blowjob.

It was minutes before Ryan began to quiver.

"Ah-ah-uhn!" Ryan moaned as he felt himself reach his climax.

"Oh man, I can't believe you came so fast, I must be really good." Caleb joked as he slowly lifted himself onto his feet.

Ryan was in awe. Standing before him was one of the hottest guys he'd ever seen. Caleb's steel abs, a striking contrast to Ryan's blubbery belly before him.

And to think he'd been making this man's life hell for months.

Ryan felt sick, pathetic, and at the same time...aroused.

"You know..." Caleb began.

"I used to dream that some day I'd get my revenge on you. I'd hit the gym and ruff you up. That somehow I'd make up for all the hell you put me through-" Caleb began to laugh.

"But look what you've done to yourself!"

Caleb slowly reached his hand toward Ryan's stubby cock, messaging it tenderly.

Ryan's penis was still sensitive and slick with sweat, cum, and saliva.

Caleb then leaned on top of Ryan, his hand still teasing his cock, and began to whisper in his ear.

"I'll admit, in the beginning I'd sneak a little appetite enhancer in your food, a little extra heavy cream,sime gaining powder. I'd offer you an extra beer here, an extra blunt there. And you just began to pack on the pounds."

Ryan was stunned, he couldn't make sense of what Caleb was saying. But his large strong hands on Ryan's dick, and his warm, moist breath, whispering in Ryan's ear, his cock began to betray him.

Caleb noticing Ryan's renewed excitement continued.

"I mean I'd even been swapping your clothes out for bigger sizes, and it took your dumb ass MONTHS to notice! I mean I did have to get rid of a few items so you wouldn't grow too suspicious, I mean normal stores only go up to a certain size y'know? You should stick to big and tall.

Ryan's cock shot a load of pee-cum as he felt the sting of Caleb's words, and how similar they were to the very teasing Ryan used to inflict on him.

Caleb began to kiss Ryan's ear, moving down the folds of his neck to his large supple breast.

Caleb began kissing, biting, and squeezing at Ryan's tit, and all the young man could do was moan in ecstasy.

Ryan hadn't noticed just how sensitive his tits had grown.

Ryan let out a whimper has he felt the sheer length and girth of Caleb's cock as he ground it against the crack of his thick ass.

"Oh, you like that don't you?"

"Y-yes..." Ryan moaned in a hushed tone.

"You want to know how big it is!"

"Yes!" Ryan let out, much louder than he intended, he felt like a cat in heat.

"Twelve inches."

Ryan paused. "twelve inches?" He thought. There's no way all that was hiding under that blubber-

Ryan cut his thought short as he realized the hypocrisy in his words. As he remembered the former stud that's now hiding under the flabby mass he'd accumulated on his own body.

"I'm going to fuck you Ryan, do you want that?"

"Yes!" again Ryan answered without thinking, too horny for caution.

As soon as Ryan said it he'd realized he made a mistake, there was no way he could take twelve whole inches, I mean he'd never done anal, never even stuck a finger up there.

"The first you have to eat, I'm going to shove so much food down your throat you'll think you're gojng to explode, thr I'm gonna fuck you like the pig you are."

"Caleb wait I-" before Ryan could finish his sentence, Caleb had stuck his tongue down Ryan's throat, kissing him passionately, then *SLAP*.

Ryan felt the sting of Caleb's hand against his cheek.

"Now thank me."

"I-wha-"

*SLAP* this time instead of Caleb's face it was his fat belly, and it jiggled wildly.

"Thank. Me." Caleb said again sternly.

"Thank you." Ryan said, his face red, partially from the slap, partially from blushing.

"Thank you what?"

"Thank you sir!"

"And what are you thinking me for pig?"

"I-" Ryan began to ponder and almost instinctively or maybe sub-conciously knew what Caleb deserved to be thanked for.

"Thank you for helping me become a fat pig sir! Thank you for making me see the pathetic bitch I always was! Thank you for taking potty on me and sucking my pathetic cock. And thank you for finally fucking me like the fat bitch I am."

Caleb's knees almost buckled at hearing Ryan's words., Ryan could see the peak cum leaking through Caleb's shorts.

"Shit! I can't wait anymore!"

Caleb hurriedly pulled his shorts down and inserted his member into Ryan's sweaty hole.

Ryan's thick, pillow ass cheeks developed Caleb's cock like moist cushions.

All Ryan could do was gasp for air at the feeling of Caleb's large member dug it's way into his guts.

With Ryan's mouth wide open, Caleb reached for an unwrapped snack cake and shoved it in.

It was at this moment Ryan knew that he truly was thankful for Caleb, that he was finally put in his place. And he loved him for it.

[bluecollarchub]

DADDY’S DORM: part 1

Thank you to Wesley Bracken for the inspiration.

Chapter One: Daddy Arrives

It started on a Tuesday. Troy, Wyatt, and Beau had just finished shotgunning beers in their dorm common room. ESPN was blasting, the air reeked of Axe body spray and microwaved nachos, and their shirts—tight, collegiate, and branded with their fraternity letters—were soaked in sweat. They weren’t scholars. They weren’t deep thinkers. But they were jocks. Kings of Kent State. Untouchable.

Then came the knock.

Three slow raps.

“Bro, who the hell—?” Wyatt barked, stomping over in socks.

He opened the door.

There stood a man—late 40s, balding but thickly bearded, his frame massive and unbothered. He wore a stained mechanic’s shirt over a faded white tank, jeans darkened with grease and age. His eyes were brown, but there was something bottomless in them. He held a paper bag and smiled just a little.

“You boys hungry?” he asked.

Beau laughed. “What is this, a prank?”

The man stepped inside without waiting. “Name’s Daddy.”

He set the bag on the counter and pulled out three foil-wrapped packages. Burgers. Big ones. Juices already soaking through.

Troy eyed the meat. “I mean... we didn’t order anything.”

Daddy shrugged. “You boys eat like athletes? Or do you eat like men?”

There was a beat. Then Troy grabbed one.

That was the moment it began.

The moment they let him in.

They devoured the burgers. Grease slicked their chins. The meat was strange—spiced like nothing they’d tasted, heavy with flavor and something else... something ancient. Wyatt licked his fingers. Beau burped so loud it made Troy laugh.

Daddy sat in their recliner, legs spread, watching them chew. He didn’t eat.

“You’ll be different come morning,” he said simply.

They didn’t understand. Not yet.

But when the sun rose the next day, none of them could find their deodorant. Or their razors. Or the drive to even care.

They had eaten.

And Daddy had arrived.

————————————

Chapter 2: The Orientation Game

The door to Room 204 creaked open with theatrical slowness, the kind of sound that made your chest tighten even if you had nothing to hide. But Kyle knew he did. Not something illegal. Something deeper. Something he wasn’t ready to name.

Inside the dorm room, the air was thick with the scent of fresh paint and something... muskier. It didn’t smell like college. It smelled like a locker room that hadn’t been cleaned since spring. Like worn elastic. Like sweat under cologne.

Ty, his roommate—bigger, broader, and already lounging with his shirt off—grinned.

“You’re just in time, bro,” he said, flipping a coin in the air. “Daddy’s running orientation.”

Kyle blinked. “Who?”

Before Ty could answer, the lights dimmed. Not off—just lower, yellower, like someone turned the whole dorm room into a memory. And there he was: **Daddy**.

He wasn’t old. But he wasn’t young either. He looked like the kind of man who used to coach, then quit mid-season and got better at yelling than winning. Hairy arms. Thick chest. Open flannel. Cargo shorts. Socks with slides.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the desk chair.

Kyle sat. He didn’t mean to. His legs moved before he decided to.

“This dorm isn’t like the others,” Daddy said, pacing slowly. “Here, we do things by feel. By scent. By how deep your grunt is when you tie your shoes.”

Ty chuckled. Kyle swallowed.

“You like being clean?” Daddy asked.

Kyle nodded.

“Too bad.”

From the drawer, Daddy pulled out a gray tank top. Faded. Pitted. The kind that looked like it had been part of a man before it was clothing.

“Put this on.”

Kyle didn’t move.

“PUT. IT. ON.”

He did.

It stuck. Not tight. Just... *present*. Like it had memory.

“Smell it,” Daddy said.

He did.

It smelled like dust, sweat, and a stranger’s back seat. Kyle gagged.

“Smells like *you*,” Daddy said. “You just forgot.”

Ty laughed from the bed. “Told you, bro. Daddy *knows*.”

The mirror across the room shimmered.

Kyle looked.

His hair had flattened. His skin looked... shiny. His shoulders had widened just a bit. Not muscle. Something... heavier.

“You’ll start getting hairier, in fact look how much has grown in already,” Daddy said, matter-of-fact. “You’ll sweat more. Talk slower. People will stop asking what you’re studying and start assuming you work maintenance.”

Kyle opened his mouth. But he didn’t say anything.

Because part of him... agreed.

“You’re gonna be a good boy,” Daddy said, placing a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “A thick boy. A useful boy.”

And Kyle nodded.

Because it already felt true.

——————————————

Chapter 3: Rules of the Floor

Kyle didn’t sleep that night.

He lay in the bed—no sheets, just the scratchy twin mattress—and stared at the ceiling fan spinning slow like it was watching him back. Ty had already passed out, snoring with one sock on and one off, reeking of beef jerky and fabric softener that couldn’t keep up.

The tank top still clung to Kyle like a contract. His armpits itched. His thighs stuck together. He tried to take it off once—but the second he lifted it, a wave of something hot and dizzying rolled over him, and he dropped it back down.

It had a weight now. Not just fabric. **Identity.**

At 3:04 a.m., the hallway lights clicked on. Not all of them—just the ones outside their door.

Then came the knock.

**Three slow pounds.**

Ty sat up instantly, rubbing his face. “Floor time.”

Kyle groaned. “What?”

Ty was already pulling on a tank of his own—ripped at the neck, stained yellow down one side.

“Floor rules, bro. You miss this? You’re out. Or worse—Daddy rewrites you by hand.”

The knock came again.

**Louder. Lower.**

Kyle stood, swaying. His stomach gurgled. He looked down and realized he’d slept in cargo shorts he didn’t remember putting on.

---

The hallway was dim. Not dark—just *foggy*, like the lightbulbs were behind curtains of sweat.

There were six guys already lined up. Some shirtless. Some in undershirts with stains under both pits. One wore jeans cuffed over slides. Another had his hair slicked back with a little too much grease.

Daddy stood at the end. Arms crossed. Clipboard in hand. Whistle around his neck like a joke no one ever dared laugh at.

“You will follow rules,” he said, pacing. “You will obey rhythm. You will forget refinement. You are now **dorm men**.”

He stopped in front of Kyle.

“You shower tonight?”

Kyle hesitated. “I—yeah.”

Daddy sniffed him.

“No. You rinsed. That’s not showering. That’s pretending.”

He shoved the clipboard at him.

“Read the rules.”

Kyle held it up. His hands were shaking.

1. **No deodorant stronger than your armpits.**

2. **Shirts must be worn twice before washing.**

3. **Speak in grunts before noon.**

4. **Your last name is your job now.**

5. **If you shave, you must apologize.**

Kyle looked up. “This is a joke, right?”

The whistle blew.

Once. Sharp.

“No jokes here, Mr. Janitor,” Daddy said. “That’s what your last name is now.”

Ty elbowed him. “You might end up Mr. Vending Machine if you’re lucky.”

---

Later that night, back in the room, Kyle stood in front of the mirror.

His neck looked thicker. His face looked... broader. His tank top had *stuck* to him. Like the threads had woven into his skin.

Ty lit a cigarette near the window.

“You did good tonight, man,” he said, exhaling. “You’re gonna make Daddy proud.”

Kyle didn’t answer.

He just scratched his chest.

And stared.

——————

Chapter 4: Janitor by Morning

The alarm didn’t wake Kyle.

His own breath did.

It was loud—*nasal*, a little wet, like it got caught in the corners of his nose. He blinked hard and sat up. The tank top was twisted around his chest, damp in the back, stuck to his stomach like it had been steamed on.

He didn’t feel sore exactly.

He felt... **used.**

Ty was already up, digging through a pile of clothes at the foot of his bed. “You got orientation shift this morning.”

Kyle rubbed his eyes. “Orientation shift?”

“You didn’t think Daddy would let you just *be* Janitor Grady, right? You gotta earn the keys.”

Kyle tried to stand. His knees popped. His thighs ached. His skin felt oily.

He walked to the mirror.

And stopped.

His face looked... tired. Not from sleep deprivation. From *adjustment*. His neck had that slight roll now. Not fat. Just thicker. Stronger. His jawline blurred under a sheen of stubble—not the clean college boy growth, but **heavy**, textured hair that clung like it had a purpose.

He scratched his cheek.

His fingers were calloused.

He didn’t remember them being that rough.

Ty tossed a bundle at him. “Here. Uniform.”

Kyle unfolded it.

Gray work shirt. Name patch already sewn:

**GRADY** in block letters.

Pants with reinforced knees.

Boxers he didn’t recognize. Loose. Already warm.

He blinked.

“These aren’t mine.”

“They are now,” Ty said, chewing gum. “It’s part of the rewrite. You’ll remember wearing them by lunch.”

---

The basement of the dorm was colder. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead, flickering like a dare.

Daddy was waiting.

Arms crossed. Cargo shorts. Shirtless, belly proud, chest hair flattened under sweat.

“You’re late,” he said, without looking.

Kyle shifted.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just sweat faster.”

He tossed him a mop.

“Room 003. Frat puke. Teach the floor who you are.”

Kyle walked down the hallway, the mop slung over his shoulder like a weapon. The hall smelled like body spray, old socks, and stale beer.

Room 003 had a towel under the door.

He knocked.

“Go away.”

“I’m janitor now,” Kyle muttered. “I... gotta clean.”

A pause.

Then: “Whatever, man.”

He opened the door.

It was a disaster.

And for the first time, Kyle didn’t flinch.

He just started working.

---

Thirty minutes later, Kyle sat outside the room. His back ached. His hands were blackened. His shirt clung to him like another skin.

He didn’t feel **gross.**

He felt *grounded.*

Daddy walked by.

Nodded once.

“Good boy.”

Kyle smiled.

And didn’t even know why.

————————————————-

Chapter 5: The Smell of Belonging

Kyle sat in the rec room with a plate of microwaved mozzarella sticks in one hand and a borrowed Xbox controller in the other. His tank top had gone from damp to clinging to dry to damp again—he’d stopped caring which phase he was in. Ty was sitting cross-legged on the floor, shirtless, rubbing his foot while shouting at the screen.

“Pass it, bro! You’re hoggin’ it!”

“I’m lagging,” Kyle muttered, his thumb slipping off the joystick. “Controller’s sweaty.”

Ty didn’t look up. “So are you.”

He was right. Kyle’s hair was matted down against his forehead, his chest hair—what used to be peach fuzz—had grown into something real. His shoulders had a different slope now, rounder, heavier, more settled. Even his voice, when he muttered insults at the game, sounded *slower*.

Then the door opened.

The hallway lights didn’t reach the room, but they didn’t need to.

They all smelled it first.

**Grease. Leather. Something bitter, almost sweet.** Like gym clothes hung too long in a closet that doubled as a snack drawer.

And then came **Daddy**.

He carried a white cardboard bag in one hand, grease stains already bleeding through the bottom. In the other? A six-pack of cheap soda that clinked together like bones.

“Dinner,” he said, holding the bag up like it was holy.

Ty jumped up. “No way—burgers?”

Daddy grinned. “Fresh-ish. From the lot behind the gas station. Grill guy owes me.”

Kyle made a face. “They smell like... floor.”

“They smell like *family*,” Daddy corrected.

He tossed a burger to each of them. Kyle caught his reluctantly. The wax paper was translucent, the sandwich inside already warm with body heat not his own.

“You’re not eating?” Kyle asked, nodding at Daddy.

Daddy pulled one from his back pocket.

“Already had mine,” he said, biting into it with a wet crunch. “Had it while driving. Shirtless. Windows down. Didn’t even stop.”

The room went quiet.

Kyle peeled back the wrapper. The patty looked tired. The cheese had hardened at the corners. He hesitated.

Ty nudged him. “First time?”

“Yeah.”

“You only get your first once, bro. After that, it’s all just hunger.”

Kyle took a bite.

And everything changed.

The taste was salt and smoke and onion and regret and heat. It stuck to his teeth. It coated his tongue. It filled his mouth and then his throat and then *his chest.*

He coughed. Gagged. Then swallowed.

His arms itched. His ears went red.

Ty laughed. “That’s how it starts.”

“What?” Kyle rasped.

“You start craving it. Not just the food. The *you* that eats it.”

Daddy dropped onto the couch, spreading his knees wide and exhaling deep.

He looked at Kyle, licking grease from his thumb.

“You’re not who you were before that bite. You’re closer now. Closer to me.”

Kyle looked at the burger in his hand.

Took another bite.

And said nothing.

[bluecollarchub]

I'm an athletic, muscly guy. I look dominant, but I want to be submissive to an older, overweight dude who slowly takes my muscles and looks, so I can be his limp dicked pussy boy. Is there a way to make it happen?

Sup

Looking at the photos you sent me I was really surprised. You really are what you said you were. Athletic, muscular, dominant looking and most importantly, young and in your sexual prime. 

My name’s Dave. And as you can see I’m an overweight ugly fat fuck.

I was assigned by the agency to deal with your problem. I know you’re desperate to continue your transformation to become a fag. 

Some would wonder why you desire to give up your hunky stud body in exchange for mine. But I have read your profile that you have sent us and I understand you are a “Trans-Fag” which means you were born into an Alpha body when you really are just a submissive fag deep inside.

And i’m more than happy to take this burden off of you. You deserve to be happy in a body that would be more appropriate to your liking.

I’m here to help you. But first let me lay down some important groundrules.

1. I will be addressed as “SIR” at all times

2. You will not speak to me unless spoken to

3. I own you. So everything you own belongs to me now.

4. You will eat my leftover scraps and only with your mouth. No hands allowed.

5. I ain’t swapping back ever.

6. I reserve the right to dump you as my fag and kick you out of my house whenever I want.

Read the rules?

Good

We can begin.

You can start by getting on your knees… 

And my cock is only gonna leave your mouth after I cum. 

I don’t care if you choke or gag.

I’m gonna suck up all your youth, pretty boy muscles, dashing good looks and sexual energy.

You will surrender your god given right to be an Alpha stud to me.

Got it bitch?

And when you’re not sucking me off I’m gonna make use of everything you once owned and use it for my own pleasure.

Right now I’m gonna take your sunglasses and relax in your pool. Since I will become a hunky stud soon, I should learn to put on your cocky shades and look like one.

Already i can feel the fats on my belly and arms getting smaller while you start to become a fat fuck.

While you are still muscular and fit now. I would make sure you use that body to the best of what it can do now. Namely cleaning the house.

Occasionally i’m gonna make you spread your pussy boy hole to me as i bang you till your eyeballs pop out.

And you’re gonna absorb my butt ugly face , acne scared skin, bad breath, disgusting fats and beer belly.

Your asshole might tear. But do i look like i care?

The process will take months.

But as you can see my cock has already grown 3 fold from what it once was and my fats have almost been transferred out of my body. Soon I’ll take in all your rock hard muscles and I’ll be able to wear most of your clothes.

Oh, and thanks for giving me the luxury car you once owned. Not that you have any choice not to give it to me.

But to be able to absorb all your muscles and pretty boy good looks is gonna take an extra long time. So I’m gonna make sure that you are gonna learn your new place as a fag during this time.

You will learn to lose your freedom

You will learn new ways of respect

You will learn new table manners.

You will discover new ways to use your tongue. 

And you will begin to appreciate new ways of seeing things

But as always there will finally come a time many months later when the transformation is almost complete.

You would most likely have become a fat blob of shit.

And chances are, I would have grown sick and tired of how ugly, disgusting and old you are now. Honestly I’m starting to have trouble getting hard and jerking of on your face even though you beg for my cum everyday.

I on the other hand would have taken your place in life as the Alpha stud I rightfully deserve to be. 

Youthful, good looking and in my sexual prime.

I would still be by the pool you once owned. Taking a tan as I allow my glorious golden hunk of a body to be displayed to the masses. And living the life you were supposed to live in the mansion you once called your home.

As I look down on your pathetic existence of a fat fucking pig and invoke number 6 of my groundrule.

Now get the fuck out of my house fag

[bluecollarchub]

Serbian Exchange Program

It's a bit longer, but I am super happy with how this one turned out. Enjoy!

The email about the Serbian exchange program hit my inbox on a Tuesday morning, buried beneath the usual flood of meeting invites and project updates. I almost deleted it on reflex, but the subject line—Host Opportunity: Belgrade Team Visit—$5K Bonus—caught my eye. Five grand wasn’t nothing. And besides, I’d heard murmurs about it before—last year, a handful of engineers from our Belgrade office had filtered through the US branch for a few months, shadowing teams, attending meetings, and, from what I gathered, drinking heavily at every happy hour within a ten-mile radius. Nobody I knew had hosted, though. Or if they had, they hadn’t mentioned it.

I skimmed the details. The company was flying over a dozen employees from Serbia, all of them mid-level or higher, for a three-month immersion program. The idea was to give them a taste of life at the US office—how we worked, how we (allegedly) collaborated, how we complained about the same corporate nonsense in a different language. And if they liked it? Well, then maybe they’d angle for a sponsored transfer. The host bonus was just grease to make sure enough of us volunteered to house them.

I didn’t think too hard before signing up. My apartment had a guest room that had been functioning as a glorified storage closet for the better part of a year. A real, live human being might actually put it to good use.

A few days later, the assignment email landed in my inbox. I clicked it open, scanning the spreadsheet until I found my name paired with Nikola Vasić, DevOps Engineer. His photo showed a guy in his late twenties—maybe a few years younger than me—with a sharp jawline, short-cropped dark hair, and sleeves of tattoos running down both arms. His bio read: 5 years with company. Powerlifting, MMA, craft beer.

Hell yeah. This was going to be easy. We’d hit the gym, crush some deadlifts, maybe grab a beer after. I could already picture it—Nikola nodding approvingly at my protein shake stash, me pretending I knew anything about MMA. A total bro situation.

I shot him a quick LinkedIn message—Hey man, looking forward to hosting you. Let me know if you want me to pick you up from the airport. He replied almost immediately: Appreciate it! Will send flight details soon. Excited to train together. Perfect. This was going to work.

Then, three days later, another email.

Subject: Host Assignment Update

Due to a last-minute adjustment in seniority prioritization, your guest has been reassigned. You will now be hosting Dragan Kovačević, Infrastructure Architect. Nikola Vasić has been reassigned to Mark Teslik. Apologies for any inconvenience.

I pulled up Dragan’s profile, which I hadn’t bothered to check before.

It was a selfie—dim lighting, the kind taken in what looked like a basement, the camera angled slightly upward. And Dragan was, inexplicably, shirtless and flexing, but not in a particularly attractive way. The bio beneath read: 20 years with company. Enjoys hiking, chess, and American whiskey.

I sighed. Of course. Instead of a gym buddy, I got a middle-aged, bare-chested supervisor.

Well. At least it was only three months.

---

A few weeks later, the Belgrade team arrived, and the office threw a welcome reception in the cafeteria—plastic cups of cheap wine, a sad platter of cubed cheese, and a banner that read Welcome Serbian Colleagues!

I spotted Nikola first. He was even bigger in person—broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of guy who looked like he could deadlift a car. He noticed me and walked over, his expression serious.

"Sam," he said, his accent rough around the edges. "Is shame we are not paired."

I shrugged. "Yeah, but we can still hang out. Hit the gym, grab a beer."

He nodded, but there was something off in the way he said, "Mark is... very skinny." He flexed one arm slightly, as if to emphasize the contrast. "I did not want to be him for three months."

I frowned. His English was a little broken, so maybe he meant something else—like he didn’t want to train him, or room with him? Before I could ask, the HR coordinator clinked her glass and announced, "Alright, everyone, find your host or guest and take a seat!"

I scanned the room for Dragan.

He was sitting at a table in the corner, watching me. Not in a casual oh-there’s-my-host way, but in a slow, deliberate stare, like he was sizing me up. When I approached, he stood and shook my hand—his grip was firm, almost testing.

"American Sam," he said, his voice deeper than I expected. "I am very excited."

There was something in the way he said it—not quite enthusiasm, more like anticipation. I forced a polite smile. "Yeah, it’ll be nice to have you."

The HR coordinator clinked her glass again, signaling for silence. "Thank you all for participating in this year's cultural exchange program," she said with a smile that felt a little too rehearsed. "The swaps will begin first thing tomorrow morning. Please report to the designated conference rooms by 8 AM."

A murmur of confusion rippled through the American employees. I glanced around—most of the American team looked baffled, but the Serbians all had placid looks on their faces.

"Swaps?" I muttered under my breath.

Dragan leaned in slightly, his voice low. "You did not read paperwork?"

Before I could respond, the HR coordinator continued. "For full immersion, participants will temporarily inhabit one another's bodies, with access to each other's memories. To avoid legal complications, you are expected to maintain your host's professional and personal life as closely as possible during the exchange."

My stomach dropped. What the hell?

A guy from Marketing shot his hand up. "Wait, so we’re just—switching bodies? Like, for real?"

"Yes," the coordinator said, unfazed. "It’s all outlined in the consent forms you signed. Section 12, subsection C."

I didn’t remember signing anything about body swapping. Then again, I’d skimmed most of it, clicking through the digital paperwork just to get to the bonus disclaimer.

The coordinator wrapped up with a cheerful, "Get a good night’s sleep! Tomorrow’s a big day."

---

The next morning, they led us into sterile white chambers that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. Two by two, employees disappeared behind frosted glass doors, emerging minutes later—swapped.

Just before my turn, I watched Mark stumble out, his movements awkward in Nikola’s muscular frame. He kept flexing his tattooed arms, his eyes wide with childlike wonder. Nikola followed behind in his body, just seeming borade

Dragan gave me a knowing smirk before we entered. Then inside, there was a flash of light, a sensation like falling—

—and then I was standing again, but wrong. My center of gravity was lower, my shoulders heavier. When I lifted a hand, it was thick-fingered, lightly hairy. Dragan’s hand.

Across from me, my body blinked rapidly—then broke into a grin. "Ha!" Dragan said with my mouth, his English flawless, his tone giddy. "This is perfect!"

Meanwhile, my thoughts were... sluggish. Words didn’t come easily. Instead of English, my brain churned in Serbian, the syntax heavy and familiar. When I tried to speak, the accent rolled thick off my tongue. "Šta je—? What the—?

Dragan barked a laugh. "You sound just like me!" He clapped my shoulder, delighted. "And I don’t understand a word you’re saying!"

---

That night, he vanished into the city the second we got home, leaving me to wrestle with his body alone. The weight of it, the way it moved—none of it felt right. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and grimaced. A gross longish beard. A thicker neck. A patchwork of ugly tattoos.

Dragan stumbled in past midnight, reeking of whiskey. He leaned against the doorframe, my usually neat shirt unbuttoned halfway, his—my—face flushed. "You missed a hell of a night," he slurred, though his English was still weirdly perfect.

I scowled, struggling to force out the words. "You... left me... like this." The accent mangled the sentence, made it sound like a complaint.

He grinned, swaying slightly. "Aw, poor Dragan," he mocked, using his own name like a joke.

I wanted to snap back, but the English tangled in my throat. Instead, I muttered something crude in Serbian.

Dragan just laughed harder, pointing at me like I was the funniest thing he’d ever seen. "God, this is even better than I thought."

---

The next few months were pure, unrelenting hell.

Dragan, in my body, was like a kid who’d been handed the keys to a candy store. He wanted to do everything—especially the kind of obnoxiously American shit I’d never even bothered with.

"We’re going to go shooting today," he announced one Saturday morning, already pulling on my favorite jacket.

"What? No, we—" I fumbled for the English words. "I don’t shooting."

"You do now!" He grinned, clapping me on the back. "Your friends think it’s funny you’re bringing your ‘Serbian coworker’ to the range. Play along."

So I did. I had to stand there in Dragan’s bulky frame, nodding awkwardly while he laughed and high-fived my buddies, pretending to be me. He was a disturbingly good shot.

"Damn, Sam," my friend Jake said, slapping him on the shoulder. "When the hell did you get so good at this?"

Dragan just smirked and said "natural talent," before pulling the trigger of his shotgun, exploding the clay disk.

---

The dating was worse. He always dressed to the nines and I have to admit, it looked great.

But , he came home one night, still buzzing from whatever bar he’d crawled out of, and flopped onto the couch. "American women," he sighed, stretching my arms behind my head, "are very impressed with you."

I glared. "You—what?"

"They assume you’re boring in bed," he mused, inspecting my fingernails. "But then—surprise! Serbian passion!" He winked. "They like it."

I wanted to strangle him.

---

Then there was the shirt thing.

Dragan refused to keep it on. Ever. Working out? Shirtless. Drinking whiskey on the balcony? Shirtless. Cooking (badly)? Shirtless, with an apron that barely covered anything.

"Put on a damn shirt," I growled one evening, my Serbian accent thickening with frustration.

"Why?" He flexed my biceps—which, thanks to him, were actually looking better. "This body is so in shape, I just want to show it off."

He would also smoke all the time, somethg I never did. When I complained to HR, Dragan, smug bastard that he was, dug up a single photo from my buddy’s bachelor party two years ago, where I’d half-heartedly smoked a cigar.

"See?" he said, waving the evidence in front of the HR rep. "Sam smokes."

They caved.

---

The final insult was the wedding.

My college friend Chris was getting married, and of course, Dragan insisted on going.

Chris had been talking about setting me up with his fiancée's cousin for months. "She's perfect for you, man," he'd said.

But of course, Dragan went instead of me.

I spent that night alone in the apartment, stewing in Dragan's body while he was out living my life. The photos started popping up on social media around midnight—there I was, looking sharper than I'd ever looked in my life, my arm around the bridesmaid Chris had wanted to set me up with. She was beaming up at me like I'd hung the moon.

Dragan stumbled in at 3 AM, reeking of whiskey and expensive perfume. "Ahhh," he groaned, flopping onto the couch next to me. "American weddings. So much food. So much drink. So much..." He made a crude gesture.

My stomach dropped. "You didn't—"

"She was very disappointed when I said I don't do girlfriends," he chuckled, inspecting a hickey on my neck. "But not too disappointed, if you know what I mean."

I nearly punched him.

---

By the last two weeks, I was done. Completely, utterly done.

Dragan, of course, was in the best mood of his life. He sprawled across my couch—shirtless, obviously—sipping whiskey while scrolling through visa application forms on my laptop.

"The company wants someone in US for my same infrastructure role," he mused, grinning. "And when we swap back, my English will be even better thanks to you practicing all this time. Its perfect."

I clenched my jaw. My English had improved slightly—enough to get by without sounding like a complete beginner—but it wasn’t perfect the accent still clung stubbornly.

"Great," I muttered in Serbian-inflected English, not even hiding my bitterness.

Dragan finally glanced up, studying me. "You hate this," he said, not a question.

"Yeah. I do."

A long silence. Then, to my surprise, he sighed and closed the laptop. "We could swap back early."

I froze. "...What?"

The whiskey glass clicked softly as Dragan set it down on the coffee table. For the first time since the swap, his expression was completely earnest—no smirk, no teasing glint in his eyes. Just quiet gratitude.

"Sam," he said, my own voice sounding strangely solemn coming from my lips. "I see how much you hate this. And... I want to thank you." He gestured to himself—to my body. "This has been... more than I hoped for. The freedom, the experiences. And you—" He nodded at me, sitting stiffly in his heavier frame. "You worked hard. My body will return to me much improved.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "We can swap back tomorrow. Before HR arrives. No one needs to know."

"Yes," I blurted, the Serbian accent rough with urgency. "Yes. Let’s do it."

Dragan smiled—soft, almost relieved. "First thing in the morning, then." He stood, stretching my arms overhead with a satisfied groan. "One last night as you, yes? I think I will enjoy it."

He grabbed his keys and headed for the door, pausing just long enough to throw me a wink over his shoulder. "Do not wait up."

The door clicked shut behind him.

I sank back into the couch, Dragan’s body suddenly feeling lighter, the weight of those final two weeks already slipping away. Tomorrow, I’d be myself again.

Tomorrow, this nightmare would be over.

---

The predawn darkness clung to the empty streets as we drove to the office in silence. My truck’s headlights cut through the gloom, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional sigh from Dragan in the passenger seat. He kept rubbing his face—my face—with a look of quiet regret, like he was already mourning the loss of my younger, fitter body.

Meanwhile, my fingers tapped impatiently on the steering wheel. Every second in his overweight, middle-aged form had been torture, and now freedom was so close I could taste it.

When we pulled into the deserted office parking lot, Dragan hesitated before getting out. "Maybe we should—"

"No," I cut him off, already unbuckling. "We’re doing this."

The security guard wasn’t at his desk—convenient—and Dragan led me through the maze of cubicles to the sealed-off wing where the swapping chambers were kept. He punched in a code I didn’t recognize, and the door clicked open.

"How the hell did you get access?" I asked.

He ignored me, walking straight to the pod controls.

Inside the sterile room, Dragan stripped off his clothes without hesitation. I averted my eyes at first—then did a double take. Damn. My body did look good. Leaner than before, muscles more defined. Dragan had clearly been putting in work.

The machine hummed to life with a low, ominous whine. We stepped in. Dragan hesitated one last time, his hand hovering over the activation switch. "You sure about this?"

"Do it."

He pressed the button.

A flash of blinding light—

—and then, relief.

I stumbled forward, catching myself on the pod’s edge. My hands were mine again. Slimmer, familiar. I patted my chest, my face, no more thick beard. Just me.

Across from me, Dragan flexed his fingers, his expression unreadable. He ran a hand over his own thicker frame, his mouth twisting slightly.

"Happy now?" he muttered.

I didn’t answer.

I was too busy grinning.

---

The day before the official swap-back ceremony, I pulled Dragan aside, my stomach twisting with nerves.

"What’s the plan?" I hissed. "They’re expecting to swap us tomorrow. If they find out we already did it—"

Dragan waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. I talk to the Serbian tech who runs the machine. He know we already did swap. He fake it tomorrow—will not activate it for us. We walk in, play along, walk out. Easy."

I frowned. "And he’s cool with that?"

"Of course," Dragan said, grinning.

The next day, we lined up with the rest of the swapped employees in the sterile white chamber room. The air buzzed with nervous energy—some people looked relieved, others apprehensive. I caught the eye of the Serbian technician, a wiry guy with a buzzcut, and gave him a subtle, knowing smile.

He barely glanced at me. Just shook his head slightly and turned away.

Right. Discretion.

Dragan nudged me as our turn approached. "Ready?" he murmured.

I nodded, stepping into the pod beside him. The glass door hissed shut, sealing us inside.

Then, just as I was getting ready to get out, the machine whirred to life. A wave of panic washes over me and I turn to Dragan expecting to see a similar look. Instead, he smile and whispers "I will love being you, American Sam."

My blood ran cold.

The light flashed—

—and suddenly, I was staring at my own face from across the pod.

My face.

Wearing the widest, most triumphant grin I’d ever seen.

I looked down.

Thick fingers. Heavy frame.

Dragan’s body.

Again.

Across from me, Dragan—now me—stretched luxuriously, rolling my shoulders with delight. "Ah," he sighed, his voice mine now. "Much better."

[bluecollarchub]

"Sebastián"

-Oh shit ! I knew the price was too good to be true- When I bought this leather suit on the internet, I couldn't believe how cheap it was. I had been saving for years to buy one of those suits, but now that I have it on I think I have to admit it is a scam.

It is supposed to be the body of a handsome dark skinned Puerto Rico guy, but this is far from the sample photo on Amazon.

The package arrived at my house early, and I was very excited I even cleared my schedule to enjoy my new suit as it deserved, the package was wrapped in a whole roll of tape which seemed strange at first, I ran excited with a couple of scissors in one hand and the package with the suit in the other towards my room despite being completely alone in my house I closed the door. Slowly, I undressed in front of the mirror to take one last look at my original body.

It's not that I was ugly, I actually considered myself an athlete, strong athletic, handsome and maybe a little arrogant, I wanted to experience being someone else, someone new, and no one better like “Sebastián” I didn't know where that suit came from, but it was exactly what that I wanted, handsome and exotic.

Impatiently I quickly removed my clothes just leaving my red underpants on taking one last photo of my body

I took the suit out of the box and spread it out on my bed, completely ignoring the sheet of paper that was at the bottom of the box. It looked a little strange, maybe a little bigger than normal, but it was the first time I had seen a leather suit in real life, so I did not give it much importance and I undressed completely.

I sat on my bed and slowly unzipped the leather suit and inserted one of my feet inside the leather suit, inside it was sticky and somewhat tight, but I didn't stop, I inserted my other foot until my feet touched the bottom of I suit followed with the rest of my legs and then the rest of my body, the suit somehow looked bigger than it was seen in the photos -Maybe ... are they muscles? - I said to myself as I put my hand behind My back to be able to close the zipper of the suit, maybe I did it fast or too hard or maybe the suit was of poor quality but when closing the zipper it detaches from the suit and falls to the ground.

When the suit was completely closed my body began to change as the skin clung to my body a lot of fat began to fill my body, my sixpack was replaced by a huge belly and my hard pecs turned into a pair of tits of Fat. Something was wrong now, he was sure of that.

When I saw myself in the mirror I was horrified by my reflection I was no longer the handsome and thin athlete, now I was "Sebastian" an overweight nerd, as if my life depended on finding the zipper I started looking for it on the floor of the whole room but something I was wrong with my eyes, I went to the box and was able to find a pair of glasses that allowed me to see correctly.

In addition to the glasses, there was the note that he had not read "in case of wanting permanent suit, break off the zipper and enjoy your new self it "said in huge red capital letters, I think I will have to stay as Sebastian for a while until I solve this.

Hey! You can support me to continue creating stories and see all my stories on my patreon and have access to the stories on my discord server.

[bluecollarchub]

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

It was my birthday again. I was suck in my 40s and was going through a mid life crisis. I emphasize was. I was depressed and fat and working all the time. An opportunity came my way I couldn’t say no to. Someone gave me the ability to swap age, muscle, and vigor from my son. The guy approached me at the gym and I can’t say too much but sufficed to say, I was hesitant. I mean, just because I’d been given the chance didn’t mean I had to go through with it…right? 

Well a few months went by and I didn’t use the birthday dream I’d been given. It was a magic box and if I opened it, I would de age and gain muscle and my son would grow older and fatter. I finally broke one night. I held the box open and this magical light poured forth. It felt so good, like a drug. I closed it after about thirty seconds. I didn’t feel much different. Then I checked the scale. 5 pounds had disappeared! I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t feel that much thinner. 

That night at dinner my son was sullen. He lived at home to save money since the state university was in our town. He was like that several nights in a row. I finally asked him what the deal was and he said he’d gained a couple pounds of fat and he was hitting the gym hard every day. He just didn’t know how it happened but he was determined to lose it. He was a college athlete, played tennis and rowing. Played. Past tense. 

Well, I couldn’t help it after that. I took another look at the box. Light poured forth. I couldn’t help but bask in it for a full minute. I had lost ten more pounds. My son was in panic and anxiety for days and I told him to try to chill out. I offered him a beer and told him it happened to everyone. I know, I know. But look, I just couldn’t believe how much better I felt losing all that weight. My son had some trouble because he no longer fit into his pants anymore. I bought him some new pairs. I told myself I wasn’t going to use it again. My son’s waist had already gained too many inches at my expense. 

I told myself I would only try the box out one more time. I couldn’t help myself. It felt so good. Magic light poured up at me giving me nourishment and strength. My waist slimmed and my body started to look better. The gray in my beard disappeared, I could see it in the small mirror on the far side of my den. I smiled as my body ruptured into muscle. I stared in awe as my waist became taut and muscular and abs started to form for the first time since high school. Oh god. “OH GOD!” I yelled as my body erupted into muscle beyond my dreams! 

I shut the box. I was ten years younger, at least. 

Of course, that means my son took all those years and all those pounds for himself. He looks like a typical 28 year old who got fat. Even though he’s supposed to be 18 and a huge jock. His tennis days are behind him now and he can barely row. I have his muscles and decided to take up the sport myself. Joined a rowing class at the uni just to take advantage of my new frame. My new coach loves me. He says even though I’m 30 years old, I might still consider trying to row professionally. Of course if I was even younger, it might be easier. 

But no, I can’t use the box again. My son became hysterical when it happened. He was screaming and cursing and raising hell, finally accusing me of somehow doing this. We “figured out” his body was draining into mine. But I feigned not knowing anything about happened and played dumb. I mean with a body like this, I just can’t lose. I am getting work a lot more than before. Clients seem to love the new me! And as for my son, he’s trying to lose the weight. I keep trying to get him to come to the gym with me but he doesn’t want to be humiliated so he just works out at home. I managed to get him to go to the beach but he humiliated himself by coming on to some pretty college aged girls, who dismissed him and called him gross. He actually cried on the way home. I comforted him as best I could but truth be told, I got those girls phone number after he ran off. I’ll be seeing both of them soon and probably fucking their brains out. 

Of course, things would be even easier if I used the box again and got to be a young college stud 22 year old and put my son into middle age. 

Not that I would do that. I couldn’t do that. 

I mean, what kind of father would I be? 

I would be huge, unstoppable, a god amongst men. A sex machine unlike anything I’d ever been able to think of. My son would be lucky to find size 45 jeans that fit him. But think of it. He’ll hate you, most likely. But I’ll be so happy. And I’m sure one day, he’ll understand. 

I deserve this. After all, it was my birthday present.

I reach for the box. 

[bluecollarchub]

Enough Credits

The first time I found Metamorph, I thought it was a prank—some elaborate role-playing scam or a dark web trap for the desperate. But the testimonials were too raw, the credit system too brutally efficient, the rules too meticulously structured to be fake.

Metamorph was a body-swapping marketplace.

The setup was simple, almost deceptively so. You signed up, submitted to a biometric scan to register your "profile," and got a handful of starter credits. Then—if you had the points—you could slip into someone else’s skin. Every swap you initiated cost credits. But if someone else chose your body, you’d be paid in theirs.

There were two kinds of swaps: temporary and permanent.

Temporary swaps were the most common—brief trades lasting anywhere from an hour to ten days. The catch? You couldn’t refuse them. If someone had the credits and wanted your body, they took it. No warning, no consent. Just a sudden, violent lurch—your consciousness torn from your flesh and dumped into theirs, no matter how unfamiliar or unwelcome. Some users described it like blacking out mid-breath: one second you’re yourself, the next you’re choking awake in a stranger’s life, their pulse hammering in your throat.

Permanent swaps were rarer, more deliberate. Unlike temporary trades, they didn’t cost the initiator credits. Instead, they could offer to take your body outright. If you accepted—and this time, you did have a choice—Metamorph would deposit enough credits into your account for three years of temporary swaps. Three years of bouncing between models, athletes, even the occasional washed-up celebrity. Three years of borrowed lives, no regrets. That’s because once you agreed, your old body was no longer your home—and the person who took it was locked out of Metamorph forever.

As I scrolled through the catalog of profiles—each tagged with vitals, photos, even user ratings—my pulse spiked. Damn. So many hotties. Sharp jawlines, gym-sculpted arms, guys who looked like they’d walked straight off a billboard. And I knew my own worth. My body was lean, angular, the kind that turned heads in a club. Some of these high-credit users would absolutely burn points to step into me for a night. I mean look at me:

At first, I was right. It was electric. I woke up in lawyers, musicians, a guy who owned a yacht in Miami. I racked up credits fast, riding the thrill of each new swap. Sure, none were keepers—one guy had a nicotine habit that left me wheezing, another had a wife who side-eyed "his" sudden indifference—but it was fun. Until it wasn’t.

Max was easily the worst body I’d been dumped into yet.

Not some wealthy muscle god, not even a guy with decent charm. He was soft around the middle, patchy stubble, the kind of face that made waitresses forget to refill his water. I groaned, rolling off the sagging mattress and stumbling into his dingy bathroom. The mirror confirmed it: dull brown eyes, thinning hair, a nose that had clearly lost a fight with a door frame.

What the hell?

I grabbed his phone, swiping to the Metamorph widget. 10 days. The max lockout period. My stomach dropped. Ten days in this?

Then I saw his credit balance.

My breath stalled.

87,430 credits.

An obscene amount. More than I’d ever seen—enough to live in other bodies nonstop for decades.

A note sat on the counter, scrawled in messy handwriting:

Hey, If you’re reading this, congrats—you’re my first pleasure swap in 10 years. I’ve been playing the long game. Take an ugly body, train it up, swap it permanently for another ugly one, stack credits. Rinse and repeat. Twelve times. This body (Max) is my home now. But I saved all these credits for one reason: to finally have fun. Yours was the first body that tempted me in years. Enjoy the credits! —M

I stared at the note, then back at the phone.

A weird mix of flattery and dread coiled in my chest.

Ten days later, I snapped back into my own body like a rubber band. My skin hummed with familiarity—the lean muscles, the sharp jaw, the way my shirt draped just right. I exhaled, running my hands over my face like I was checking for damage.

Home.

Another note waited on my desk.

Thank you. —M

I thought that was the end of it. And hey, now I had credits to burn, right? Wrong.

Two days later, I was brushing my teeth when the world tilted sideways.

I was back in Max’s bathroom, staring into his tired eyes, my hands gripping his chipped sink.

“What the—?!”

His phone buzzed. This time a DM:

Max: Hey, gorgeous. Miss me? Sorry for the surprise. Cut my Rio trip short—some Brazilian adonis is gonna wake up very confuse (and probably very relieved). You’re just… different.

I hurled the phone onto his unmade bed.

The next ten days crawled. Max’s body was a wreck—aching knees, a back that popped when he stretched, a fridge full of microwave meals. I barely left his apartment, counting down the hours like a prisoner.

When I finally snapped back into my own skin, I collapsed onto my floor, kissing the familiar creaks of my hardwood.

Four days of freedom. Then—wrench. Back to Max’s sagging couch and doughy love handles.

Another DM:

Max: Okay, hear me out. I tried to resist taking you again. But then I took over some hedge-fund bro’s body (6’2”, abs, yawn) and all I could think about was your biceps and the curve of your hips. Pathetic, right? Anyway. Ten more days. Try not to hate me. (Or do. That’s kinda hot now that I think about it.)

“You creep,” I muttered.

Enough. I opened a support ticket, fingers jittering:

"How do I block a user from repeatedly swapping into my body?"

The reply came fast:

Metamorph Support: "User blocking is not currently supported. If a participant has sufficient credits and respects the 48-hour cooldown, swaps are permitted. Adjust profile visibility or spend credits to remain in other bodies longer to avoid unwanted exchanges."*

I stared at the screen. Adjust visibility? Useless—he already knew my ID. Spend credits to hide? A temporary fix.

I was trapped.

I waited out the ten days in Max’s body, scrambling for a solution. Nothing. Maybe he’d get bored. Finally, I was back in my own skin—my hands, my apartment, my reflection—when the app chimed.

A notification:

PERMANENT SWAP REQUEST User ID#4492-LL would like to swap bodies with you. Max: I feel so right as you.

My stomach lurched. I smashed REJECT so fast.

“Fuck no.”

The app blinked. Request denied.

He wanted to be me?

Another DM popped up:

Max: Worth a shot. ;)

[bluecollarchub]

SHORT STORY, TURKISH COFFEE

Kyle stumbled on the Tumblr site almost by mistake. Tumblr had become his favourite pastime and some of the sites showing sucking, fucking, piss, leather and public toilets had given him hours of pleasure and on many occasions a good wank. As he progressed over the months he found himself being more and more attracted to hairy men and especially those from the Middle East. There was something about their raw sexuality that  really turned him on. As he moved from one site to another he came across Hairy Turkish Men.. For Kyle it was a revelation. Photo after photo of amazing Turkish men all with thick black hair and heavy beards and their chests and legs covered in a forest of black hair. On some of the photos you could see the black dense hair vanishing over the shoulders and clearly making their backs as hairy as their fronts. However whether it was a religious thing or not there were few if any showing their cocks which Kyle longed to see. Only a few showed them in swim gear and then he imagined what might be stirring underneath in that forest of black pubic hair. It was almost the imagination that made him always horny and he would wank while thinking of that heavy cock and balls were underneath.

After a while much as though he liked all the photos of Turkish men he wanted to see them in reality and gaze and hope that in real life they were as hairy and oozing sex. He realised that the best way would be to find a Turkish cafe where they sold their coffee and he could just sit quietly and watch with his cock getting hard under the table. He remembered are area of the city where he had seen a number of kebab shops, and signs in Turkish. 

This has to be a Turkish area he thought and so one day he took the bus across the city to the areas he remembered. Sure enough the signs showed it to be popular for Turks and he then saw a café with a few outdoor tables but only one guy sitting at a table. Hoping more might turn up to wet his sexual appetite he sat down at a table and ordered  a Turkish coffee from the heavy built waiter who came out. The guy looked at Kyle almost with disgust and unwillingness to serve which threw Kyle so he thought as he had ordered he might as well drink the coffee and get the hell out of the place

While hoping for others to turn up he heard the guy at the adjacent table turn to him and say 

‘Hi’.

He was big built as some might say ‘built like a brick shit house’ at least 6’’ 3’ and thick set with shaved head and massive thick black beard. He looked more like a wrestler and had what had to have been a broken nose. He was dressed in quite a tight fitting black track suit the zip of the jacket undone to half way down his chest. Kyle could see the thick black hair spilling out all the way up until it met the beard.

‘You are not from around here?’

‘No’ Kyle answered softly

‘This is a Turkish café. Best that you are here now as when busy the guys would not be happy to have you here.’

‘Oh,’ replied Kyle, ‘shall I quickly drink my coffee and get out of here.’

‘No you are Ok for now. So tell me why you come here.’

‘I like Turkish coffee ‘was all Kyle could think to saying and blushed immediately.

The Turk smiled

‘I see. So you like Turkish coffee. All Turkish men drink Turkish coffee. So perhaps you like Turkish men.’

‘Er hm,’ Kyle did not really know how to reply.

‘Well Yes I suppose so.’

‘So why you like Turkish men. Tell me’

‘Well they are all very masculine, like you and they have all great black hair and are hairy.’

‘You are right. And you are not any of these. Perhaps that is why you like Turkish men.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Perhaps you would like to look like a Turkish man. To also have good black beard and be hairy.’

‘Er yes.’

‘Perhaps you wish to be a Turkish man’

‘I would but that of course is impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible my friend ‘the man leant over and stroked Kyle’s leg immediately giving him a boner which he hoped was not obvious.

‘Coffee  here not good. Why do you not come to my apartment and I make very good Turkiah coffee. Ok you come with me’

As he said this the guy stood up and looming above Kyle he seemed massive with his broad chest, the shaved head and thick beard looking almost slightly frightening. At first Kyle thought he should quickly pay up and get the hell out of the place but the man looked at him in such piercing way that Kyle felt almost hypnotised to agree and go with him.

‘I had better just pay first ‘Kyle said.

‘No need’ the man said ‘this is my café. I live upstairs so you come now.’

The Turk’s cock looked to be straining inside his trackie bottoms

They entered the apartment and Kyle was shown into the livjng space full of big leather and gilt sofas and chairs looking like something straight out of Istanbul

‘Sit while I get the coffee.’

Kyle could hear everything being got ready and after a few minutes the Turk came into the room carrying a tray with two coffee cups and a packet of Turkish cigarettes.

‘You take cup.’ The main said standing in front of Kyle , his crotch almost in his face. As he took the cup Kyle could see the bulge of a long thick cock and he so hoped that the Turk would rub himself so he could see exactly how big the prick was.

‘So you now in home of Turk so you have Turkish cigarette with your coffee’

‘I don’t smoke’ Kyle said meekly

‘All Turkish men smoke cigarette with coffee aan as our coffee is strong so are our cigarettes’

‘I really do not smoke I am sorry’

The Turk leant over Kyle

‘You are in my home and when I offer you a cigarette you take and you smoke. Ok? I light one for you.’

Putting a cigarette to his lips the Turk drew in deeply releasing a thick puff of smoke and Kyle was able to smell the strong Turkish tobacco 

‘The first puff you take you not like. The second you like more and you will feel a bit different, the third you smoke like a Turk and feel much more like a Turk. And the fourth, well you see.’

‘So first you take cigarette and then sip coffee. I watch you.’

Kyle knew he had no option but to smoke given how dominant the Turk had been in his insistence.

As he drew on the cigarette he did not inhale properly but the strong Turkish tobacco almost overwhelmed him as he coughed and coughed.

‘I told you first time not good but now sip your coffee and it will be better. I promise you next will be better. Watch me.’ 

Kyle saw how he inhaled deeply and let the smoke out through his mouth and nose. It looked so easy and natural for him.

‘Now you try again.’

Dreading his next puff he found he was somehow able to at least inhale a little and breathe it out. To his surprise it was easier just like the Turk had said.

‘I told you better so now take another sip of my coffee. How you feel?’

He could feel between the cigarette and now the coffee, like a quiet fire spreading throughout his body. It did not worry Kyle, in fact he felt warm and comfortable and relaxed

‘I do as you say feel better.’ As Kyle said this he looked at the cigarette in his hands. Were they his hands? His hands were getting bigger more like workie hands and more brown in colour but not just brown, he could actually see the dark hair sprouting across the back of his hands, not just a light covering but they now looked very hairy. 

‘What is happening ?’ Kyle asked. 

‘You are just relaxing and enjoying a Turkish cigarette and coffee but you feel good?’

‘Yes I do’

‘Then no worry’.

Feeling more confident and also feeling that he needed another drag of the cigarette, he automatically took the ciggie between his thumb and next finger just like a workie and also the Turk. This time he wanted to take in the smoke and let it circulate inside him, blowing out a large cloud of intense Turkish tobacco. He started to feel that he had been smoking all his life and now he took another sip of the strong coffee.

‘You now smoke like a true Turk and I think you start to feel like a Turk.’

‘I do ‘Kyle replied and looking at his clothes he said.

‘My clothes are suddenly starting to feel really tight on me, I feel as if I am about to burst out of them.’

‘We are just two men together ‘The Turk answered ‘so I think better for you to take your clothes off and let me have them. All us Turks see each other naked in the Hamman and maybe you want to see your body.’

As soon as Kyle loosened and took of his clothes his body starting quickly to expand in all directions. He felt he was becoming as big as his Turkish host. As his chest expanded so the colour of his skin became a very tanned brown and just like the hands the dark hair started to sprout at first in small patches and the quicker and quicker until his entire chest was a forest of curling black hair. The hair on the hands now moved up his arms  and met his hairy chest.  He looked down at his legs and he was suddenly more like a gorilla with so much black thick hair and as he then put his hand behind his back it was just as hairy and even right into the crack of his arse. Between his legs was a long thick cock circumcised and showing signs of an erection. He now had the body of a hairy Turk. As he looked at his physique so he felt his heads become foggy and he was trying work out what to say

He looked at his host and started to say.

‘I think difficult to speak English. I no remember how to speak. I want to speak different.

So I understand what language you want to speak. I think Turkish but not sure.’

‘You must be sure my friend’

‘I think you need one more puff and a sip of coffee and it is decided for you. Now you have good Turkish body but your face not Turkish.’

‘No? I must have Turkish face,’ Kyle said. ‘I not know my name.

‘Soon you will. What you think is your name’

‘I think Kyle’

‘Not a good Turkish name. Now you are Karim. You like that name?’

‘Yes it is now for me’

‘But first you take the fourth puff and finish coffeeI so want a Turkish cigarette

That is good like all us Turks’

This Time Karim drew in the smoke to the point of almost finish the ciggie. He suddenly felt his head swimming and yet he was happy. He put his hand up to his mouth when taking the final sip of coffee and could at last feel a thick big beard stretching around his face and down to meet his hairy chest. He touched his head and could feel a short but thick stubble oi hair. The change had happened just like the Tuk said

Şimdi sadece Türkçe konuşuyorum. Kıllı bir Türk erkeği yapmışsın.

Now I only speak Turkish. You have made a hairy Turkish man

Artık bir Türk kardeşiniz, dilediğiniz gibi ateşli ve kıllı bir erkeksiniz. Her şey mümkün demiştim

Now you are a Turkish man, hot and hairy as you wished

Orada çıplak duran çok azgın bir Türk'e benziyorsun. Erkekliğine bakarken sikimin sertleştiğini hissedebiliyorum. Ben sana bir iyilik yaptım, şimdi sen de bana bir iyilik yapabilirsin. Türk erkekleri en iyi horoz emer. dizlerinin üstüne çök ve şimdi senin Türk efendin olduğumu hatırla. Her zaman dediğimi yapacaksın.

You look a very horny Turk standing there naked. I can feel my cock getting hard looking at your masculinity. I do a favour for you and now you can do a favour for me. Turkish men suck cock the best. get down on your knees and remember I am now your Turkish master. You will always do as I say.

Karim could see the bulge getting bigger and starting to tent inside the trackie bottoms. His mater clearly had a big cock and Karim wanted to make him happy and return the favour. As he looked at The Turk’s cock making a huge bulge his own cock was now rigid. Gone was the decent size white circumsized cock. As he looked down he also had a dark brown cock bursting out from his hairy pubes, the bulbous head pink and showing the first signs of precum.

Karim got down on his knees and rubbed the Turk’s erect cock through the trackies and then put his hand in to the waistband to get it out as all he now wanted was to suck his master’s boner

Ona uzun süre bakma dostum, ağzına al ve sikimin boğazından aşağı kaydığını hisset. Sen bir Türk erkeğisin. Seksimiz sert ve erkeksi

Do not look at it for long my friend you take it into your mouth and feel my prick sliding down the back of your throat. You are a Turkish man. Our sex is rough and manly

Karim wanted to devour the thick heavy cock as he took it into his mouth his heavy beard rubbing along the shaft

The Turk grabbed hold of Karim’s beard so he could force his cock further and further inside the mouth. Seeing Kyle become Karim had made him so horny. It always did when he could transform a stupid white boy into a manly Turk. Karim was one of his best, so rugged and exactly the type of man the Tiuk wanted as his bitch.

Sen benim kardeşim olduğun için Türk Beni emerken mastürbasyon yapmana izin veriyorum. O büyük kıllı elinin şaftını aşağı yukarı ovuşturduğunu ve ne kadar cesaretin olduğunu görmek istiyorum.

As you are my brother Turk I let you masturbate while you suck me. I want to see that big hairy hand of yours rubbing up and down your shaft and see what spunk you have

The Turk pushed Karim’s head back and forth with increasing speed, his moans becoming louder and louder. Hearing the Turk react to the way Karim was sucking made him wank more and more, so he could feel his spunk in his balls getting to release all that white stuff. Karim could have taken an even bigger cock. He was now a Turk and Turkish men can take anything.

İşte bu. Gerçek bir Türk gibi sikimi yala. Bütün döllerimi o kıllı ağzına ve sakalına akıtmaya hazırım.

That's it suck my cock like a true Turk. I am ready to shoot all my spunk into that hairy mouth and beard of yours

Karim wanted every drop of his master’s cum and with his hairy hands he grabbed the Turk’s leg and pushed him in do the cock was all the way down Karim throat He felt the Turk’s cock trobe so hard that he knew it was time to come and he was also ready his cock even without any further rubbing of his shaft was ready to explode.

Tüm cesaretimi al

Take all my spunk

And with that Karim felt wave after wave of hot creamy sticky spunk force its way down his throat. There was so much that even as he tried hard to swallow he could feel it soaking into his black beard. The sense of the cum finding its way into Karim being was enough for him to shoot his load even without touching his shaft. He had never felt more horny and his spunk shot between the Turks legs.

Şimdi kalk kardeşim. Git yıkan ve yatağımda yeni kıyafetlerini gör. Onları giy ve buraya geri gel.

Now get up my brother. Go and wash and you see your new clothes on my bed. Put them on and come back here.

Karim washed his heavy cock as it slowly went soft but there was still an element of hardness. After all all Turkish men have semi hard dicks.

He put on a white T shirt and stuck tight to his chest , his large nipples clearly showing. His black hair spilt out over the neck line and from the arms. The contrast between his black hair and white shirt could not have been greater. Then there was only a pair of shiny black trackies. No underwear so as he pulled them up  his meaty cock stuck out so anyone looking for a cock could see. He then put on the sandals the black hair on the upper part of his feet showing. Finally a heavy silver chain . He looked at himself in the mirror. He was the finest specimen of a Turkish man. He was all man.

Karim came back into the room .

Şimdi dostum, benim kafemde çalışacaksın. Tüm Türk misafirlere iyi kahve ikram edeceksiniz. Eğer senden hoşlanıyorlarsa ve aletini hissediyorlarsa onlarla git. Emmek ya da sikmek onların karar vereceği bir şey. Sana ödeme yapacaklar ve kafeme geri döndüğünde parayı bana vereceksin. Sen artık benim orospumsun, benim Türk orospum.

Now my friend you will work in my cafe. You will serve all the Turkish guests good coffee. If they like you and feel your cock then you go with them. Suck or fuck it is for them to decide. They will pay you and when you come back to my cafe you give me the money. You are now my bitch, my Turkish bitch.

[bluecollarchub]

[bluecollarchub]

The buy in

Logan Fairchild arrived in Las Vegas with the sun behind him, mirrored sunglasses gleaming and custom luggage wheeled behind him by hotel staff. He was the kind of man who turned heads the moment he entered a room—not just for his looks, though those were unfairly perfect: tall, broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and golden skin that practically glowed under the desert sun—but for the way he moved. The cocky stride of a man who had never been told “no.”

Born into oil money, raised in international schools, and hardened in Ivy League secret societies, Logan didn’t come to Vegas to gamble. He came to win. He always did.

His destination was no ordinary casino. It was whispered about in elite circles, an invitation-only parlor beneath the Strip, accessible only through an elevator behind a fake concierge desk at the Ariston Hotel. There were no neon signs, no tourists. Just whispers. The House of Helix.

As Logan entered the private lounge, his phone buzzed. His broker. He declined the call.

Tonight wasn’t about stocks.

The lounge was quiet. Velvet walls. Gold accents. And a single empty chair at a blackjack table, waiting just for him.

“Mr. Fairchild,” said the dealer, with a voice as smooth as old whiskey. “Shall we begin?”

Logan smirked and pulled a roll of thousands from his jacket. “Let’s make it interesting.”

⸻

Five Hours Later

His wallet was empty.

Then his watch. Then his shoes. Then his car keys, traded for one more hand.

And still, the house took everything.

Logan sat slouched in the leather chair, eyes wide with disbelief. His perfect hair, once artfully swept back with matte pomade, now hung damp over his forehead with sweat.

“This is rigged,” he hissed.

The dealer merely smiled, and a new man—tall, gliding in with a smoothness that didn’t feel human—approached the table. He wore a black suit that shimmered like ink.

“I can offer you another stake,” the man said softly, laying a contract between the cards. “You’ve gambled your wealth. Now you can gamble yourself.”

Logan scoffed. “What the hell does that mean?”

The man just smiled.

“You’ve been rich. Handsome. Popular. Dominant. Trade those in. One hand at a time.”

Logan stared.

And then—arrogance flaring—he signed.

⸻

First Hand. Lost.

The dealer flipped a quiet twenty-one. Logan cursed and leaned forward.

Then froze.

It was subtle, at first. Just a tingle across the skin of his scalp. Like static. Then a strange sensation—his hair, which had always been thick and voluminous, suddenly began to fall flat, strands clinging to his temple. He reached up, alarmed, and his fingertips brushed dampness. Grease. His pomade wasn’t holding. In fact—it wasn’t there at all. His fingers came away shiny.

His heart kicked. He touched his temples again. The sides of his head felt… thinner. Like the hair was retreating. Not all at once. But gradually. Steadily. Enough to make his once-rich locks look a little patchy at the edges. A little off. A little sad.

“What the—”

A sharp snap echoed in his ears.

His sunglasses were gone. No—replaced. As if blinked out of existence and replaced by something far worse. Heavy. He reached up and felt the thick, oily plastic arms of massive prescription glasses now clinging to his face. Thick, Coke-bottle lenses distorted the world just slightly. Just enough to make him feel… off-balance. Smaller.

The dealer was already shuffling.

“You’re looking a bit pale, Mr. Fairchild. Shall we continue?”

Second Hand. Lost.

The cards landed. A jack and a seven. Logan stared, willing the dealer to bust.

The dealer revealed a nine. Then a two. Then a ten.

Twenty-one.

Logan blinked.

Then it began.

He felt it first in his mouth—a curious tightness along his gumline. His lips twitched. Something metallic brushed the inside of his cheek. His tongue hit metal.

His brow furrowed. “What the—”

His teeth shifted beneath the pressure, tilting slightly, subtly. Not enough to scream. But enough to feel. His once-perfect, straight white smile—carefully maintained with whitening trays and $300 dental polish—was moving. Becoming crowded. Uneven. Juvenile.

Click.

A band of cold metal wrapped around his upper molars with an audible snap. Logan jolted as braces—actual braces—materialized on his teeth. Thick, old-fashioned metal brackets. None of the sleek invisible kind. These were silver, clunky, and unrelenting, digging against his lips, catching the light when he gasped.

His voice cracked as he groaned, nasal and unfamiliar: “No. No, no, no—”

But it didn’t stop.

He suddenly became aware of his posture. Or rather, the collapse of it.

His shoulders began to curl inward. Not all at once. Slowly. Shamefully. It was like the strength bled out of his back, his arms drooping with the weight of defeat. He used to move with a lion’s grace. Now… his neck pushed forward, his chin began to tuck timidly toward his chest.

His spine tensed as the muscles weakened. Not from injury. From disuse. It was as if his body had simply forgotten what power felt like.

His collar itched.

He glanced down.

His once-sleek charcoal shirt was changing. Right there. In real time.

The Italian fabric began to dull—its threads coarsening, losing their lustrous sheen. The sleeves drew back to reveal pale forearms. Short sleeves. The buttons shifted—cheap white plastic. A small, embroidered name tag blinked into existence over his chest.

“L. Fairchild – Data Entry.”

And then, worse—a loud pop! as a plastic pocket protector inserted itself squarely in the chest pocket, already filled with mismatched pens and a bent-up ruler.

His mouth opened in a silent scream as he stumbled to his feet. The movement felt wrong. He was aware now—painfully—of the looseness in his arms, the slight pudge forming beneath his chin, the way his hips seemed to narrow while his stomach softened just slightly. Nothing dramatic. But real.

His voice cracked again. “Wh-What’s happening to me?!”

No one answered. The dealer just gestured, serene, toward the chair.

“Next hand?”

Third Hand. Lost.

Logan’s hands trembled as he reached for the next cards. His palms, once tanned and strong, now looked… softer. Paler. Clammier. His fingernails, which used to be perfectly manicured and lightly buffed by his personal assistant every Friday, now had uneven edges and faint crescent-shaped indentations from nervous biting.

The dealer dealt.

Eight and a six. Logan hit. Pulled a ten.

Bust.

The moment the word settled in the air, something shifted at his waist.

He gasped, instinctively reaching down—and felt his trousers tighten unnaturally. Not across his thighs like tailored slacks. No, the pressure moved upward, climbing inch by inch until the waistband was straining somewhere just beneath his ribs.

His designer belt was gone, replaced with a pair of elastic suspenders that had snapped into place over his shoulders, holding up a pair of hideously pleated, tan trousers—the kind sold in department stores under sad fluorescent lights. They were thick, unfashionable, and hung too loosely around his shrinking hips, yet somehow cut into his waist like they had no business fitting.

Logan let out a strangled yelp and stumbled back from the table.

But the changes didn’t stop.

His shoes—those hand-stitched Italian loafers—deflated. The leather thinned, darkened to a dull brown, the soles thickened grotesquely until they looked like something orthopedic. The kind of shoes sold in catalogs for men who worried about arch support.

His socks pulled into view next—white crew socks, bulging above the shoes like soft cylinders of cotton shame.

A tremor ran through his legs. Not a cramp. Something more profound. His thighs thinned, his calves weakened. He wasn’t just being dressed like a nerd. His body was conforming to one—rebuilding itself.

A trickle of sweat slid down his temple.

“Stop it,” he hissed, but his voice came out squeaky, anxious, uncertain. That same nasal edge crept in, pairing now with a faint lisp from the braces.

Then, in front of everyone, his shirt changed again.

It wasn’t just white now. A pattern seeped into it—blue grid lines forming a graph-paper check, like a bad math teacher’s wardrobe. The fabric grew stiffer. Cheaper. A faint ring of yellowed sweat stains ghosted into the armpits. And something tugged at his collar—

A clip-on bow tie, red and pre-tied, snapped tight at his throat.

He let out a squeal of discomfort, fingers clawing at the collar—but the shirt had already tightened into place. There was no removing it. No escaping it.

Something broke inside him.

He whimpered—not out of pain, but out of panic. The mental shift had begun.

This wasn’t the confident, arrogant heir to the Fairchild fortune anymore. This was a man aware of his growing awkwardness, mortified by how the dealer stared at him with smug amusement, desperate for someone—anyone—to pull him out.

He backed away from the table, breathing fast, hunched now, shoulders curled forward as if trying to disappear.

But the dealer just tapped the cards again, calm, patient.

“Next hand, Mr. Fairchild?”

Fourth Hand. Lost.

Logan’s hand shook as he drew his next cards.

Nine. Five. He hit.

A queen.

Bust.

He exhaled sharply, already bracing—but this one hit differently. Not with a physical jolt, but a creeping, crawling sensation under his skin.

It started in his face.

A slow, uncomfortable pulling in his jawline, like something was softening from within. The masculine angularity that once made women glance twice—the sharp cheekbones, that chiseled cleft chin—dulled. His jaw became rounder. His cheeks puffed slightly, subtly. A soft, babyish curve replaced his proud, square frame.

He saw it first in the reflection on a chrome napkin tray.

And horror rooted him to the spot.

He still recognized himself. But it was like someone had traced over him with the outline of a loser. His features weren’t just changing—they were being weakened. Diminished.

His skin, once sun-kissed and healthy, grew pale. Slightly blotchy. A faint sheen of nervous oil appeared on his forehead, catching the light under the table lamp. His hair, already slicked with grease, now hung limply over one eye. His hand rose to push it back—and froze.

His fingers.

Ink-stained. His nails bitten, dirty at the edges. Fingers twitchy, thin, callused in strange, unfamiliar ways. His wrists—once strong—now looked bony and narrow, like they belonged to someone who hadn’t lifted anything heavier than a binder in years.

The bow tie itched.

He scratched at his neck—and recoiled.

The fabric under his collar was different. Thicker. Wool.

He looked down.

At some point, a sweater vest had appeared. A hideous one—faded blue with burgundy diamond argyle stitched across the chest, too tight under the arms, the hem clinging to his high-waisted trousers.

The transformation had moved beyond mere parody.

This was becoming permanent.

His clothes sagged in places and constricted in others. His body wasn’t just changing—it was forgetting what it once was.

The final indignity came with a click near his beltline.

He looked down.

A bulging plastic clip-on pager now hung from his waistband. Outdated. Sad. Blinking uselessly. He hadn’t seen one since middle school.

That was when the whisper came—not aloud, but from somewhere within.

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t belong at this table. I’m just… just a data tech now. A junior assistant. I should be in the back, not—”

He caught himself.

No.

No, damn it. I’m Logan Fairchild. I own buildings. I fly private. I date supermodels.

He gritted his braced teeth, fury surging beneath the humiliation.

But that fury was buried under something thicker now.

Shame.

He was aware of how he looked. The glasses. The bow tie. The sweater vest. The pants swallowing his torso. The visible socks. He was aware that if his old friends walked in now, they wouldn’t even see him. They’d see a background extra in a high school science fair. A punchline.

And worse—he was beginning to worry they were right.

The dealer gave a small nod.

“Still holding on. Impressive.”

Logan clutched the arms of his chair, breathing hard.

He didn’t speak.

Because for the first time since he sat down—

He was afraid to hear what he’d sound like.

Final Hand. Lost.

Logan stared down at the cards, sweat misting his brow, his breath hitching under the thick wool of the argyle vest clinging awkwardly to his sides. The overhead lights buzzed louder than before—or maybe his ears were just more sensitive now, tuned to the fluorescent world of spreadsheets and silence.

He should have walked away. He should have run. But something in him—some last ragged scrap of pride—refused to back down.

The dealer dealt.

Seven. Three. Logan hit.

A face card. Again.

Bust.

The word might as well have been a sentence.

Immediately, the world slowed.

His body stilled.

Then—

A tight squeeze clutched his waist, firm and humiliating. His trousers, already high, rose even higher. A new button fastened above his navel, locking the waistband tight across his softening middle. The suspenders strained, digging into his bony shoulders.

Then, with an audible rustle of fabric, his shirt changed—again.

The pale blue grid lines vanished, replaced by a dingy, beige short-sleeved button-down, stiff and shapeless. The fabric felt scratchy, synthetic—some factory blend that trapped heat and clung to sweat.

The sleeves cinched around his biceps. Not that he had biceps anymore.

He blinked, dazed.

His sweater vest grew heavier. The blue diamonds darkened into a tired brown-and-orange pattern, the neckline sagging slightly. It smelled faintly of mildew and vending machine coffee.

The glasses slid further down his nose, thicker than ever.

He pushed them back up with one trembling finger—

—and froze.

There was a faint twitch in his face.

Then another.

His lips parted just slightly, and with a sudden, mortifying certainty, he felt it:

A lisp.

Permanent. Soft. Passive.

He tried to swallow it down.

But the change had begun to sink deeper.

Mental.

Social.

Personal.

He looked around the room and suddenly felt small. Insignificant. The kind of person others glanced past. A support tech. A cubicle warmer. Someone who didn’t speak unless spoken to.

His old memories pulsed behind his eyes. Yacht parties. Sorority twins. C-suite meetings.

Gone.

No—still there. But behind a pane of glass. Unreachable. Impractical. Embarrassing, even.

“Logan Fairchild…” he whispered, like he was trying to anchor himself. “I’m—I’m Logan—”

BZZT.

The name tag on his chest glitched. Just for a moment.

Then reprinted itself.

“Leslie Finkle – Junior Data Reconciliation Assistant (Unpaid Intern Track)”

His breath caught in his throat. “No,” he gasped. “That’s not—no, that’s not my name!”

But the table didn’t care. The dealer didn’t blink.

And the sensation that followed—

Oh God, the final sensation—

Was like a collar tightening invisibly around his life.

He tried to stand, but his body disobeyed. His knees locked. His spine bowed. His legs, now pale and knobby, quivered beneath those awful trousers. He looked to the dealer in panic.

“I want out,” he wheezed. “I want to leave.”

The dealer smiled coolly. “You signed for credit. And you’ve spent it. That means you’re now property of the House.”

The lights dimmed. A bell rang from somewhere behind the wall.

Two figures stepped out from a back door—both wearing the same uniform: oversized glasses, brown polyester pants, and laminated badges swinging from lanyards.

They approached him gently, without judgment.

“You’re late for orientation, Leslie,” one of them said with a kind, pitying smile.

“I’m not—” he tried to protest, but his own voice faltered. “I’m not Leslie. I’m—I…”

He looked down.

The badge didn’t lie.

The shoes didn’t lie.

The bow tie, the pens, the pants, the vest, the crippling social terror now pulsing in his chest when anyone looked directly at him—they didn’t lie either.

He was Leslie Finkle now. A junior accountant in training. No salary. No stock options. No escape.

[bluecollarchub]

[bluecollarchub]

[bluecollarchub]

[bluecollarchub]

You ever wake up and feel like a different person?

I don’t mean emotionally—I mean literally. Like, the hands you use to rub your eyes aren’t yours. The breath in your lungs tastes different. That’s me. I’m a body hopper.

Not in the sci-fi movie way. Not with machines or wires. Just… me. I look at someone, I want it bad enough, and click—I’m them. They get stuck with the leftovers.

The guy I woke up as today? Some chubby older dude I met last night. Kind eyes, decent apartment, soft in all the places I used to be sharp. I sat on the edge of his bed, scratched his belly absentmindedly, and slid on his glasses. They pinched the bridge of my nose—but I could see just fine.

I made toast. Bitter coffee. Watched sunlight hit the kitchen tiles like it always had for him.

Then he—me—came shuffling out of the bedroom, rubbing my old face like it was still his.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t beg. Just asked, “Why?”

I shrugged. “You looked like you needed a break.”

He blinked. Looked down at his—my—arms. His mouth tugged up at the corners. Like he agreed.

Then he found the car keys and just… left. Just like that.

I stayed in that guy a few days. Took walks in his worn sneakers. Watched TV in his recliner. But it wore thin. Comfort turns stale fast.

So I swapped into a flight attendant. Caught him on his walk to the terminal. Made some joke, shook his hand, and that was it. His name was Marco. Liked bad cologne and didn’t believe in socks. I wore the uniform. Made flirty comments. Rode red-eyes across the country like I’d done it for years.

But two weeks later, I met Larry.

Loud. Sweaty. Arrogant. He was yelling at staff mid-flight. I couldn’t resist.

The second we landed, I traded skins with him.

I should’ve known better.

His whole body complained. His joints, his neck, even his eyebrows felt annoyed. He was just naturally grating. I stuck it out for one day, then bailed.

I grabbed a cab. The driver had a thick accent and big dreams. He said he wished he’d been born American. I told him, “What if I could make that happen?”

He said yes before I finished the pitch.

The cab smelled of stale food and worn plastic. Customers barked orders. Laughed at the way I mispronounced streets.

But cab life was brutal. Smells, stares, crap pay. I hadn’t even mastered yet. I lasted 36 hours.

Then one of my customers was a priest.

He was kind. Real. Said he saw something dark in me and wanted to help.

I said I believed him.

Then I took him.

He chased me to the chapel door, shouting I had promised not to. Said he trusted me.

I looked back once. “You still helped,” I said.

Then I smiled, adjusted the collar, and stepped into the pulpit.

Some sins, I guess, preach themselves.

[bluecollarchub]

The first time David Whitaker tried to go undercover in his own company, he wore a ten-dollar polo from a strip mall, khaki pants a size too tight, and an ill-fitting baseball cap he found in the back seat of his driver’s car. He looked like a man playing dress-up—more sitcom character than sanitation technician.

Still, he tried.

He showed up at the Midlands BioWaste Division unannounced, with a fake name, a fabricated work order, and a cheap badge that looked real if you didn’t look too long. His assistant, Andrew, had arranged it all—found a makeup artist to darken his skin slightly, widen his nose with putty, even add faint calluses to his palms using silicone. The wig was glued down with care, short and curly, and he’d grown out just enough facial hair to pass for a bearded guy who didn’t quite keep up with his grooming.

When he walked in that morning, he believed—deeply—that he could pass.

“Hey, new guy,” one of the crew had barked. “You lost or something?”

David gave a tight smile, trying to adjust his voice. “Nah, man. I’m supposed to be with Tony’s team?”

The other man squinted. “You got a whole-ass camera crew followin’ you?”

“No,” David said quickly. “Just… orientation. Transfer from another plant.”

But someone was already pulling out their phone. Someone else muttered, “That look like Mr. Whitaker to you?” and then, louder, “Yo, isn’t that the CEO dude?”

The prosthetics had taken four hours to apply.

They lasted twelve minutes.

David didn’t make it past the safety training room. He’d barely sat down before a supervisor recognized the shape of his jaw, the cadence of his voice, the way he walked with his hands half-clenched like he always did on investor calls.

By noon, the whole floor knew.

He had to call security—not to remove anyone, but to extract himself.

That night, sitting shirtless in his penthouse, scrubbing adhesive from his cheeks with industrial remover, David stared at himself in the mirror.

It wasn’t just that he had failed. It was that who he was was un-hideable. He had crafted a life so specific, so visible, so perfectly elite, that no disguise—no matter how well done—could ever let him fade.

“I don’t want to play pretend,” he said aloud, to no one.

He wanted something real. Something where he didn’t have to act like a different person. He wanted to become one.

That’s when he made the call.

⸻

Two weeks later, in a nondescript facility under a NovaGro lab in Raleigh, he stood in a concrete chamber lined with biometric locks and fiber-optic panels.

Alina, head of Transformation Ops, met him with a tablet and a thick file. Her eyes flicked down to the bruises still faint on his cheek from removing the nose prosthetic too quickly.

“You’re sure?” she asked. “This isn’t reversible. Not in the short-term. It’ll be full integration. Your body, brain, endocrine system, vocal cords, memories—will all take on the template of the subject.”

“I’m not interested in partial,” David replied, already pulling off his tailored jacket. “No cameras. No makeup. I want a life that’s not mine. I want to feel what it is to be them.”

Alina nodded. “We ran compatibility scans. Based on your baseline metrics, there’s one candidate we believe will give you the most extreme—and instructive—contrast.”

She tapped a file and turned the screen toward him.

Jamal T. Thompson.

David stared at the photo. Then another. And another.

Sweat glistening down heavy shoulders. A grin that curled upward only on one side. Southern-born. Grew up in a single-bedroom home with four siblings. Works waste ops. Likes basketball, black-and-milds, homemade biscuits. Gay, proudly. And solid. Stocky. Compact like a brawler. Loud laugh. Tattoos up both arms.

The file scrolled, showing more pictures, video clips, audio samples.

David leaned closer, watching the way Jamal’s body moved, the way he talked with his hands, the ease with which he leaned into his own life.

David whispered, almost surprised at himself, “He’s… perfect.”

“We thought so,” Alina said. “You’ll be his twin. Not just in body. But in culture, behavior, hunger, and temperament. You’ll feel what he feels. Desire what he desires. You won’t just know what it’s like to be him. For a time… you will be him.”

David nodded slowly. “Then let’s begin.”

This time, there’d be no wig. No latex. No cheap accent. This time, he’d disappear entirely.

And when he came back?

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, ozone, and engine grease. David stood on the metal platform in nothing but a black cotton robe, arms outstretched like he was about to be crucified. Overhead, a dozen articulated scanner arms moved around his body, flashing beams of blue light across his skin, taking full biometric and skeletal reads.

He’d already shaved—everywhere. Head, face, groin, chest, legs. They needed a blank canvas. His scalp felt raw, almost vulnerable. His jawline, now completely exposed, looked sharper than he remembered. Alina had noted that with a slight smirk.

“You’re going to miss that cleft chin,” she said, scrolling through readouts. “Jamal’s got a softer jaw. You’ll be chewing differently. Speaking differently. Swallowing’s going to feel odd at first, especially with the shift in tongue thickness and palate height.”

David just nodded. “I’m ready.”

“You say that now,” she muttered.

The table rose with a hydraulic hiss, angling him backward. Soft cuffs secured his ankles and wrists. His heart began to race—not from fear, exactly, but the kind of adrenaline he hadn’t felt since his Series B pitch fifteen years ago.

A nurse dabbed his temples with cold gel. “You’ll be under in sixty seconds. Just focus on what you’re doing this for.”

“I am,” he said quietly. “I built this company with people like Jamal on the ground floor. I need to know what it really cost them.”

The IV slid in. The lights dimmed.

Warmth hit him first—a heavy, smothering warmth, like waking up beneath a lead blanket soaked in sweat. His limbs felt thick, like they were submerged in syrup. He tried to roll to one side and couldn’t—his body didn’t move how it used to. Muscles responded, but not with the sharp, clean coordination he knew. These were denser muscles. Bulkier. Slower. The joints flexed differently.

David’s eyelids peeled open with effort. The ceiling was low. Concrete, unfinished. A fan spun lazily above, stirring air that smelled like antiseptic, cocoa butter, and… funk. His own funk. That realization hit somewhere deep in his groin.

“Good morning,” came a voice. A man in slate gray scrubs stepped into view, tablet in hand. His badge read Technician HERNANDEZ.

David grunted.

The voice that came out wasn’t his. It was deep. Resonant. With a Southern rasp to it. It rumbled through his chest and vibrated at the base of his skull.

“Yeah…” Hernandez chuckled. “She’s calibrating. That’s yours now.”

Another tech appeared. A Black woman with long braids and a no-nonsense air. “Vitals holding. Let’s start full integration.”

David felt the soft weight of a robe over his body. His hands rested across his belly. Or rather—Jamal’s belly. Round, heavy, firm with thick muscle and a layer of fat. He lifted one hand slowly.

The skin was deep brown. The fingers thick. The knuckles worn. A callus sat below the ring finger—decades of hard grip. The nails were blunt and imperfect. Hair dusted the back of the hand. A dark tattoo curled along the wrist: BLESSED, in bold gothic font.

“Try wiggling your toes for me,” Hernandez said.

David shifted. The sensation was dull at first, then overwhelming. His feet were broad—flat. The soles ached even as he flexed them. He had never felt such pressure just from lying down.

“That’s all you,” the woman said. “Your new feet. Years of concrete floors in those. No arches. When you stand, you’re gonna walk wider, heavier. You carry weight differently now. Thighs rub. Calves thick. Your center of gravity’s lower, further forward.”

David grunted again.

“You’re sedated slightly,” Hernandez said. “Not fully. Just to keep the memory integration smooth. You’ll feel flashes. Desires. The sound of your new laugh. How you like your eggs. Let that stuff settle naturally.”

David nodded. Or tried to. His neck was thick. When he lifted his head, the weight of it shocked him. His traps tensed automatically—meatier now. It wasn’t pain. Just… density.

“Go slow,” the woman murmured. “Gettin’ up’s gonna feel like moving furniture inside your skin.”

David flexed his abs—only they weren’t abs. They were thick slabs of core muscle padded by soft fat. He felt the roll bunch and shift as he leaned forward. The robe stretched.

“Take a look at your chest,” Hernandez said.

He did. Broad pecs—soft but firm—hung heavy. His nipples were darker, thicker, surrounded by curly hair. He reached up and felt his beard. Coarse. Damp with sweat. It connected to thick sideburns and a tight fade that met a shaved neckline. The skin of his scalp was different too—more sensitive.

“Can you speak for us?” the woman asked.

David licked his lips. They were full. When he parted them, his tongue felt wide and heavy. He blinked, then rasped, “Mornin’.”

Even he startled at the sound. The accent. The rhythm. It didn’t just sound like someone else. It felt like someone else.

“Good,” Hernandez said. “Nice and gravelly. You’ll smooth out by lunch.”

David took a slow breath. Beneath the robe, he could feel his balls resting heavy against his thighs. His cock hung warm and wide, resting sideways. He could feel it in a way he never had before—every swing, every pulse.

“Alright, Jamal,” the woman said, eyes warm but focused. “Let’s sit up.”

He gripped the sides of the bed. His hands grunted against the rails. Arms strained—thicker now, tattooed, bunched with strength. His belly compressed as he sat forward. Sweat beaded along the curve of his spine.

He sat up.

And groaned—his own sound now, low and guttural.

“We’ll walk you through standing in a moment,” Hernandez said. “But first… we’ll give you a few minutes to explore. You need to understand what you’re working with.”

They both stepped back.

David looked down at his body—his new body—and let out a long, shaky breath.

He reached for the belt at the front of his robe. His pulse ticked faster. The cotton was damp against his chest. His new scent rose from under the fabric—earthy, sour, familiar in a way he didn’t want to admit yet.

He loosened the knot.

And slowly, deliberately, opened the robe.

The cotton robe fell open.

Heat rushed up from his groin like steam from a manhole. His chest expanded on instinct, like he had to make room for what he was seeing—what he was now.

His belly rose in a wide dome, a stretch of rich, dark skin mottled with freckles and a faded scar to the left of his navel. His pecs were thick, meaty, each with a dark nipple that pointed slightly outward, ringed in curly hair. A gold chain rested in the valley between them. His thighs spread wide beneath him, black and powerful, touching from mid-groin to knee. A stretch mark shimmered silver on one hip.

David’s breath caught as his eyes dropped lower.

His cock was half-hard already, wide at the base and resting sideways against his thigh, heavy and uncut. The skin there was darker, smoother. It looked used to friction. Behind it, his balls hung low and full, twitching slightly from the breeze of the overhead fan. His pubic hair was trimmed—more from wear than grooming—and sweat made it glisten.

Jesus… that’s mine now.

He swallowed. His new tongue rubbed differently inside his mouth. Focus. Just breathe.

He reached out slowly with both hands. The palms trembled—calloused, broader than his old ones. When his fingers touched his belly, a shock ran up his spine.

“Shit,” he muttered. But the voice came out with drawl and grit: “Shiit…” The way the ‘i’ curled and the ‘t’ dropped… it wasn’t David’s accent anymore. That was Jamal’s.

He tried again, softly, talking to himself. “C’mon now. Ain’t no reason to be actin’ scared.”

What the fuck did I just say? The voice didn’t sound scared at all. It sounded practiced, like this body already knew how to calm itself down. The cadence. The rhythm. It wasn’t rehearsed. It just was.

He touched his pec next. It gave under pressure, but bounced when he let go. Then he pressed in again—thicker, weightier than anything he’d ever had on his chest. His fingers lingered on his nipple. It twitched.

David exhaled through his nose. “Damn, this body don’t miss.”

Who even talks like that? He did now, apparently.

He ran both hands over his stomach, feeling the way it sat. Solid. Not flat like before, but strong. He twisted a little, watching how it folded, how the weight shifted. When he bent forward, his thighs compressed his balls in a way that made his whole lower body twitch. Not pain. Just… mass. Heat. Life.

The scent from under his arms hit him next—cocoa butter and musk, something faintly like peppercorn and sun. That’s me now. I smell like that. I carry that.

He reached up and touched his face. The beard was dense, wiry. A little damp. He rubbed his cheek, watching the way his hand looked against his own skin. Dark on dark. Real.

He stood.

Slow. Careful.

His thighs tensed to lift him, and he immediately felt his center of balance had changed. Wider hips, heavier ass. His feet settled flat on the floor with a dull thud. Toes splayed wide, grounding him.

“Feel like I gotta… walk different,” he murmured.

The woman tech nodded. “You do. You’ll lead with the thighs now. Your knees don’t lock the same. And your back’s shaped to lean just slightly forward.”

David stepped once. Then twice. The robe swayed open behind him.

He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck, chuckling low. “Damn. I walk like my ass just told the room I showed up.”

The accent was undeniable now. Southern. Smooth. Deep in the throat. That wasn’t David pretending. That was Jamal, rising to the surface.

“Vitals holding,” Hernandez said. “Integration is stabilizing. You’re thinking like David but moving and speaking like Jamal. Your subconscious is doing its job.”

David scratched his chest absently. “This is wild… I ain’t never— I mean—I’ve never felt this grounded in my body. It’s like… I take up space now. People gonna look at me different.”

“That’s the point,” the woman murmured.

David turned and looked at her. “Yeah… yeah, I see that.”

His hand brushed his cock, shifting it to the left side out of habit. It bounced slightly, swaying from the base. He caught himself smiling.

“This man got a lot goin’ on,” he laughed.

[bluecollarchub]

The Wrong Wish (revamped)

inspired, once again, by the iconic @bigfuckingdudes. more stories to come! appreciate all the asks and excitement. hope y'all weren't trying to lose weight while i was gone.

Kyle slouched on the couch, his lean, 19-year-old frame tense with disgust. Craig, his mother’s new husband, waddled in from the kitchen, his beer gut swaying, sweat stains blooming under his armpits. The man let out a ripe fart, chuckling as he scratched his hairy belly, crumbs from a bag of BBQ chips tumbling to the floor. “Hey, lighten up, squirt,” Craig leered, winking with a crude grin. “Life’s too short to be so uptight.” Kyle’s stomach churned. Craig was everything he despised: loud, vulgar, and shamelessly gross. Worse, his mom seemed blind to it, laughing at Craig’s lewd jokes, blushing when he groped her. Kyle was the opposite—quiet, introspective, a college kid who valued discipline and order. This slob was ruining his life.

That night, Kyle lay in bed, his mind racing. “I’d do anything to get Craig away from Mom,” he whispered, his voice cracking with desperation. The words hung in the air, heavy with intent, as if the universe itself was listening. Exhausted, he drifted into a deep, uneasy sleep.

And then the sun rose on a new reality.

Kyle woke to a suffocating weight, his body sinking into the mattress like it was quicksand. His limbs felt sluggish, pinned by an unfamiliar and quivering bulk. His chest heaved, each breath a labored wheeze, as if his lungs were squeezed by layers of dough. He tried to move, but his neck—now a thick roll of fat—resisted, creaking as he turned his head. In the dim light, Craig loomed beside him, propped on one elbow, his doughy face split into a smug, intimate grin. “Mornin’, my sexy hog,” the man purred, his voice dripping with lust. His meaty hand reached out, stroking Kyle’s cheek, fingers lingering on the stubble of a double chin.

Kyle’s heart pounded. “What the—” His voice was alien, a deep, raspy growl, thickened by years of grease and smoke. He tried to sit up, but his body rebelled. His belly, a massive, quivering dome, spilled across the bed, its pale, stretch-marked surface trembling with every breath. Rolls of fat cascaded down his sides, pooling against the sheets, each one soft and heavy, like warm dough. His thighs, thick as tree trunks, rubbed together, slick with sweat, their friction sending a jolt through him. His arms were flabby slabs, jiggling as he flailed, and his man-tits sagged, dusted with coarse, dark hair that trailed down to his navel. A sour, musky stench clung to him—sweat, body odor, and something earthier, like unwashed skin. It was his smell, and it made his stomach lurch.

He raised a hand, fingers now fat and clumsy, nails yellowed, and saw a gold wedding band glinting on his ring finger. His chest tightened. He was married. To Craig. “No, no, no,” he rasped, his voice trembling. He tried to roll off the bed, but his bulk made it impossible. His belly sloshed, dragging him back, and his joints ached under the strain. Beneath the layers of fat, his cock stirred, buried under a thick pad of lard that jiggled with every movement. It throbbed, hard and aching, the pressure intense but humiliatingly inaccessible, smothered by his new girth.

“Look at you, my big, blubbery boy,” Craig teased, his hand sliding down to knead Kyle’s belly, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh. “Fuck, you’re so heavy, ain’t ya? Bet you can’t even get outta bed without me.” He chuckled, his own gut pressing against Kyle’s side, their sweaty skin sticking together. Kyle’s cock pulsed harder, betraying him, and a wave of arousal hit so strong he gasped, his cheeks flushing under his chubby cheeks.

“Get… away,” Kyle managed, but his mind was foggy. He was not himself—or was he too much himself? Memories flickered, not his own. He saw himself as Kyle, the lean, disciplined kid who planned his workouts, who cringed at fast food, who valued control. But new memories—vivid, invasive—pushed in. He was 48 now, not 19, a man who’d spent decades indulging, gorging on pizzas and beers with Craig at their favorite diner. He was no longer quiet; he was loud, laughing at crude jokes, belching in public, reveling in his bulk. He was Craig’s husband, a role model for excess, a gainer who lived for the scale’s climb. Their wedding day: Kyle, 400 pounds, waddling down the aisle, his suit splitting at the seams, Craig whispering, “You’re my perfect pig.” Nights in this bed, Craig feeding him, their bodies entwined, sweat and musk mingling as they fucked.

“No, I’m not that guy!” Kyle growled, shaking his head, his jowls quivering. He clung to his old self, the college kid who hated Craig’s filth—his farts, his sweat, his lewdness. But it was fading, like a signal drowned out by static. Craig grinned, undeterred, and grabbed a tray from the nightstand, laden with donuts, their glaze glistening, alongside a pitcher of cream and a stack of bacon. “Time to eat, big man,” he said, holding a donut to Kyle’s lips. “Gotta keep my hog nice and stuffed.”

Kyle’s stomach roared, a deep, hungry rumble that shook his frame. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to open his mouth. “I’m not… your fucking pig,” he spat, but the scent of sugar and grease was intoxicating. His cock throbbed beneath his fat pad, the pressure building, and he hated how good it felt. Craig’s teasing didn’t stop. “Oh, come on, babe, you love this. Look at that gut, all swollen with lard. Bet you can’t even reach your dick anymore, huh? Need your husband to take care of that for ya.” He jiggled Kyle’s belly, sending ripples through the fat, and Kyle moaned, the sound raw and involuntary.

His mind begged him to fight. You’re Kyle. You’re not this slob. You hate him. But his body had other ideas. His mouth opened, and the donut slid in, the sweet, doughy taste exploding on his tongue. He chewed, glaze smearing his lips, and another moan escaped. Craig fed him another, then a strip of bacon, the grease dripping down Kyle’s chin, pooling in the folds of his neck. Each bite was a surrender, his old personality crumbling. The disciplined kid was gone, replaced by a man who craved excess—food, sex, filth. He was becoming Craig’s mirror, a loud, crude gainer who laughed at restraint, who loved burping contests and farting in bed, who got off on being too big for chairs.

“Fuck, you’re such a greedy pig,” Craig growled, his hand sliding under Kyle’s belly, fingers brushing the fat pad where his cock strained. “Look at this. All that lard’s got you so hard, but you’re too fat to do shit about it.” He squeezed, and Kyle bucked, his bulk quivering, pleasure overwhelming his resistance. Craig leaned in, kissing him, his stubble scraping his sensitive skin, his breath hot and sour. Their bellies pressed together, sweat and musk mingling, and Kyle’s mind frayed. Craig’s filth—his filth—wasn’t gross; it was hot. His farts were funny, his sweat was sexy, his crude love was perfect.

“I… I’m not…” Kyle whimpered, but the words were a lie. The wedding band felt like it had always been there, a symbol of their kinky bond. New memories solidified: him and Craig at a buffet, Kyle’s shirt riding up, Craig feeding him ribs until he couldn’t breathe. Their honeymoon, Kyle stuck in a hot tub, Craig fucking him as the water sloshed. He was a gainer, a hog, proud of his 500-pound frame, his immobility a trophy of their love. His personality had shifted—he was no longer introspective but boisterous, cracking lewd jokes, goading Craig into stuffing him fuller.

“More,” Kyle gasped, his voice thick with need. “Feed me, Craig.” His mind screamed one last desperate plea, but it was drowned out by his hunger. Craig’s laugh was deep and triumphant. “That’s my big, filthy hog,” he said, stuffing a pancake into his mouth, syrup dripping onto his man-tits. His hand worked under the fat pad, teasing his cock, and Kyle moaned, his body quaking. “Gonna make you so much fatter, babe. My perfect husband.”

Kyle surrendered completely. He was Craig’s, body and soul. His old life—discipline, restraint—was a distant dream. He loved his filthy, kinky husband, loved the sweat, the stench, the excess. As Craig fed him, fucked him, worshipped him, Kyle knew this was where he belonged: a massive, smelly hog, bound to his fat man forever.