curious32s

[curious32s]

“Permanent Placement”

By the time he realized what kind of prison this really was, it was far too late to stop the changes.

⸻

Chase Donovan was the kind of man who could walk into any room and command it. A star athlete, square-jawed and broad-shouldered, he had coasted through life on charisma, muscle, and confidence alone. Football captain, minor celebrity on social media, and a golden boy with a full-ride scholarship waiting—until he got involved in a high-profile bar fight that ended with two men in the hospital and a viral video that shattered his reputation.

Convicted on aggravated assault charges and deemed a danger to society, Chase expected prison—cold walls, violent cellmates, maybe a shank in the ribs if he didn’t assert dominance fast enough. What he didn’t expect was a facility with glass doors, marble floors, and a front desk staffed by a perky receptionist who greeted him like he was starting a corporate internship.

“Welcome to Vireon Correctional Solutions,” she said with a bright smile. “We’re not a prison—we’re a workplace rehabilitation environment. You’ll be joining the Data Intake Division. Orientation begins at 0800 sharp.”

He blinked, confused, as two uniformed guards flanked him and guided him not into a cellblock, but into a sleek elevator that chimed softly as it rose. His muscles tensed. Something was wrong. Too clean. Too quiet.

They brought him to a sterile white room labeled “Conversion Unit A.” Chase barely had time to protest before he was strapped to a reclined chair. A soft hiss filled the air. Something sharp jabbed into his neck.

Then nothing.

⸻

He woke up disoriented. His muscles felt… wrong. Weak. There was a tightness around his chest, and when he looked down, he choked. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt, starched and buttoned all the way up. A navy blue clip-on tie pinched his throat. His arms, once proud displays of biceps and veins, looked thinner. Pale.

His pants were high-waisted and pleated. Too high. Cinched with suspenders and a belt. His legs were shaved clean and swaddled in beige slacks that stopped above white socks and black orthopedic loafers.

There was a mirror on the far wall.

He staggered toward it and stared.

The reflection wasn’t right. His jaw was softer. His cheeks thinner. His hair, once floppy and sun-bleached, had been neatly side-parted and slicked down with some greasy product. But the worst part? His eyes. The cocky gleam was gone, replaced with a flat, compliant fog.

He stumbled backward and slammed into the wall. The door opened.

“Intern Donovan?” A bespectacled woman in a pencil skirt stepped in, holding a clipboard. “You’re late for keyboard drills. Please follow me.”

“I’m not— I’m not staying here! You can’t keep me here like this!” he growled, but even as he shouted, his voice cracked—meeker, reedier than it used to be.

The woman smiled, coolly. “That’s the aggression talking. It’ll fade once the serum stabilizes.”

⸻

Week 1.

Chase was assigned to the third floor—Data Processing, Unit 14. The work was endless: intake forms, records, corrections, timestamps. Ten hours a day, five-minute bathroom breaks, identical cubicles. Every movement tracked. Every mistake logged.

Each morning, he was lined up with the other “interns” for inspection. Dozens of former athletes, criminals, alphas—now lined up like sheep in too-tight shirts and nerdish uniforms. White briefs. Starched collars. Glasses. Pocket protectors. High-waisted trousers. If one forgot to tuck in their shirt or wore their tie crooked, they were punished—hours of posture correction drills or injected with additional compliance serum.

Chase tried resisting at first. He tried spitting out the daily pills. Tried yelling. Tried running.

That earned him two weeks in Compliance Therapy. When he came out, he shuffled like the rest. Eyes lowered. Shoulders stooped. He didn’t even realize he’d been fitted with braces until he looked in the mirror and saw the glint of metal in his once-pristine smile.

⸻

Month 2.

The serum had done more than dull his mind—it had softened his body. His muscles were practically gone. His once-bold strut was a timid scurry. He wore thick glasses now, required at all times. “For screen use,” they said, but he couldn’t see clearly without them anymore. His hair was recut every week into the same greasy, schoolboy side-part.

The worst part was how normal it was starting to feel. His morning began with shirt-tucking drills and ended with spreadsheet accuracy tests. The others barely spoke—just occasional whispers about how long they’d been here. No one ever got out. The “life sentence” wasn’t figurative. Once you were in the system, you were processed forever.

He heard rumors—of how the serum couldn’t be reversed. Of how outside contacts were told you’d died or vanished. Of how your social identity was scrubbed, and a new, pathetic one created in its place.

He tried writing to a lawyer once. The letter came back censored, rewritten in a weak, apologetic tone—“Dear Sir, I apologize for my past aggression and accept my new station. Thank you for your correctional guidance.”

He had no memory of writing that.

⸻

Month 5.

Chase no longer sat—he perched. Upright, knees together, spine straight. His tie always centered, his pants always pulled high, the waistband digging into his softened gut. He still remembered the man he’d been, but it was like a fading dream—someone else’s life.

He now responded to “Intern Donovan” without hesitation.

His coworkers were the same—former CEOs, gang leaders, influencers. All of them transformed into meek little clerks. Glasses. Braces. Sweater vests. Silence.

No one fought anymore.

⸻

Year 1.

Chase’s old name had been deleted from the system.

Now he was simply Donovan, C. His ID badge displayed a bespectacled, unassuming office drone. No mention of his past. His workstation had been upgraded to “Level 2 Administrative Processing,” a meaningless title. The real reward was a tighter uniform and a new pocket calculator.

Once a week, he was brought into a small room for a compliance review. A supervisor in a tailored suit would observe him as he was asked questions:

“What is your function?”

“To process, correct, and comply.”

“Are you dangerous?”

“No, ma’am. I am safe. Efficient. Meek.”

“Do you have any desire to leave?”

“…No, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“Because… because this is my placement. I… belong here.”

And somehow, he meant it.

⸻

Outside, the world forgot him.

Inside, the company buzzed on.

Row after row of former powerhouses sat hunched in their pastel cubicles, typing, calculating, correcting—forever.

All with tucked-in shirts. All with parted hair. All with fogged-over eyes.

Chase Donovan—the once-golden jock—was now a quiet, obedient intern with braces, glasses, and no future.

[curious32s]

looking for a bully

i’m wanting to find a bully to push me to become the nerd I’m supposed to be. Expect me to send pictures and be told what to wear.

[curious32s]

[curious32s]

[curious32s]

Put on a couple lbs

[curious32s]

[curious32s]

[curious32s]

I love getting fatter and looking older. I feel free and happier. I am free from social constraints on the concept of beauty.

I love it too

[curious32s]

[curious32s]

[curious32s]

Becoming a German Stereotype

George didn’t know what Chorweiler was. He had heard the name once — probably in a news segment, or when the nanny warned him to stay out of “problem zones.” But here he was now, in a barbershop where the price for a haircut was painted directly on the cracked wall: 12 Euros. No appointment. No oat milk cappuccino while you wait. Just clippers, attitude, and the faint smell of testosterone and kebab.

George had been sent here to “pick something up.” What exactly? No one told him. “You’ll know when you see it,” his uncle had texted. That was all.

He sat down. The chair creaked. The air was thick. A Turkish flag hung above the mirror. A man in a tracksuit nodded at him. Another lit a cigarette — indoors.

George adjusted his cuffs. Tried to hold eye contact with his reflection. Tried not to flinch as someone shouted something in Turkish. He didn’t understand the words. But he understood the energy.

He wasn’t in Marienburg anymore.

And whatever he was here to “pick up”…

The moment he sat down and closed his eyes, George didn’t know what hit him.

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the strong scent of the shaving lotion. Maybe it was the way the clippers buzzed in the background like a lullaby from another world.

But suddenly — the chair swallowed him whole. His breath slowed. His muscles went slack.

He wasn’t asleep. Not quite. Not yet dreaming, but no longer fully awake either.

A trance. A descent.

The shop's chatter faded. Someone said something in Turkish. Someone laughed. The door jingled.

George didn’t move. Didn’t notice the hand reaching for the clippers. Didn’t notice the cape tightened slightly around his throat.

Whatever he was here to pick up… It had already begun picking him.

He blinked.

The light was too bright. The mirror too close. Something scratched around his neck — a chain? His ears were pierced. Thick silver studs. His jaw clenched on instinct. His reflection didn’t flinch.

He was still George. But also… not.

Tracksuit. Adidas. Royal blue. His shirt buttoned itself away. His thoughts too.

"What the f—?" he mumbled. Except it wasn’t George’s voice anymore. It was deeper. Harder. Rougher. Cologne-Mülheim rough.

Inside his head: chaos. One voice whispered, “You need to go home.” Another growled, “This is home now, Bro.”

He stared at the mirror, breathing hard. The longer he looked, the more he forgot what he used to see. George was somewhere in there. But Günny had just opened his eyes — and Günny was wide awake.

No more George.

Now just Günny. One room, eighth floor, view of the Lidl parking lot. A closet full of identical Adidas tracksuits. A bedside drawer full of gold chains and nicotine gum. Two drawers down — something else, zipped in mesh. For special nights.

Rent's late again, but the Golf’s cleaned twice a week. Chrome rims, booming bass, Turkish flag hanging from the mirror. He rolls through the Viertel like a local celebrity. People nod. Boys stare. Girls giggle. He doesn’t smile back.

He spends his days in the gym. His nights… Well. Depends who's asking.

There’s still a voice, sometimes, barely a whisper: “This isn’t you.” But it’s quiet now. Easy to ignore.

Cigarette between his lips. Glare sharp as his fade. He exhales slow and mutters, "That’s just how I am, bro. Comes with the territory."

Peter, 19, had never set foot in this part of town before. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here — only that he had been supposed to meet someone for a tutoring session. Maybe it was a wrong address. Maybe it was something else entirely.

The barber shop smelled of tobacco and cheap cologne. Old-school posters lined the tiles. The mirror in front of him showed a version of himself he no longer recognized — and not just because of the ridiculous paper collar around his neck.

He blinked. The barber hadn’t said a word. No music. No phone reception.

Just the humming of the clippers being plugged in.

Peter sat up straighter. “Sorry, there must be a mistake,” he said, half-standing.

A heavy hand on his shoulder pushed him gently, but firmly, back down. “No mistake, abi,” came the voice from behind. “You’ll feel like yourself in no time.”

Peter frowned. But which self? And why did his heart suddenly beat faster, not out of fear — but excitement?

He slept.

Not peacefully — not like someone who needed rest — but like someone who had slipped under, deeper and deeper, through layers of himself he hadn’t even known were there.

In his dream, Peter was leaning against a yellow Manta parked outside a kebab joint. A pack of cigarettes in one hand, the keys in the other. Around him, guys with feathered mullets, chain necklaces, and smug grins gave him approving nods. One of them winked. Another called him "Brudi" and passed him a beer.

Peter looked down. His shirt was open halfway. His chest tanned, gold chain gleaming. He should’ve been disgusted. He wasn’t.

He ran a hand through his bleached mullet. Even in the dream, he frowned.

"This can’t be me," he muttered. But the others laughed like it was the best joke they'd heard all day.

And somehow... it kind of was.

He opened his eyes.

At first, he thought the mirror in front of him was broken. Warped. Or mocking him somehow. But it wasn’t. It was just… him.

Blonde mullet. Tight jeans. Leopard-print shirt unbuttoned almost to the navel. Chest hair. A gold chain that didn’t even try to be ironic. A mustache straight out of 1987.

“What the f—?”

The words didn’t come out. Not fully. His throat felt dry. His jaw slack. Somewhere, deep inside, the last fragments of Peter were still screaming.

But on the outside?

He looked like he’d just parked his Manta around the corner. And he didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon.

His name was Pitt now.

Nobody called him Peter anymore, and honestly, it wouldn’t even make sense. Peter wore loafers and polo shirts, went to law school and corrected people’s grammar. Pitt? Pitt leaned against his bright yellow Manta, a cigarette clinging to his lips, chest hair on display, and a gold chain that shimmered like a punchline.

Somewhere, far off in the back of his mind, Peter still existed. Faint. Muffled. Like a radio left on in another room. But Pitt didn’t care. He liked the tight jeans, the attention, the smell of gasoline and cheap aftershave. He liked being loud. He liked being looked at. He liked being himself. Or whoever he had become.

And in Chorweiler, that was more than enough.

Lars had attitude. Always had. Always would. Or so he thought.

He slouched into the barbershop with his arms crossed and his jaw locked in defiance, a walking Ralph Lauren ad with a superiority complex. His uncle Wilhelm had dragged him here under some vague pretense about “learning respect” and “getting a proper cut,” but Lars wasn’t buying it.

“Just a trim,” he muttered.

The barber didn’t reply.

The chair reclined.

The cape was fastened.

Something in the air changed.

Lars didn’t know it yet, but he wasn’t here for a haircut. He was here for a lesson. And the first rule of becoming a stereotype?

You don’t get to choose the role.

When Lars opened his eyes, everything felt... tighter. The seat beneath him. The fabric on his chest. The haircut. The posture.

He blinked at his reflection and nearly leapt out of the chair.

Gone was the Polo-shirted rebellion. Gone was the slouch, the smug frown, the careless air of bourgeois defiance.

In its place stood a man of discipline and decorum—hair razor-sharp, buttons polished, mustache waxed to perfection. A Prussian caricature brought to life.

“Name?” the barber asked, already knowing.

Lars opened his mouth.

What came out was not Lars.

“Heinrich.”

He gasped.

But it was too late. The third stereotype had been born. And somewhere, Uncle Wilhelm lit a cigar.

Tom had always scoffed at tradition. Especially Cologne tradition. Especially that kind: parades, costumes, folk songs, drunk uncles in felt hats. And don’t even get him started on Karneval.

So when his old school friend from Nippes invited him to “just chill” at his cousin’s barbershop, Tom rolled his eyes—but went anyway. For the irony.

The shop smelled of cologne, cigarettes, and clippers. Old photographs lined the walls. Trumpets and drums blared faintly from a nearby radio. And Tom laughed.

"God, how kitsch," he muttered, slipping into the chair. “I’ll just get a trim. Not too—”

But his friend only smiled. And Tom's world began to blur.

His chest tightened. The beat of the march grew louder. His spine straightened.

Somewhere between shampoo and scissors, the past caught up with him. Old Cologne woke in him. Not the Cologne of ironic detachment— But the Cologne of uniforms, brass bands, feathers, velvet capes, and deadly seriousness about Zoch kütt.

And when he opened his eyes again…

He wasn’t laughing.

He'd mocked tradition.

Now he was it.

The mirror didn't lie: Checked shirt. Lederhosen. Kneesocks. Bavarian buzzcut. A moustache worthy of a brewery calendar.

And worst of all? He felt something stir. Something... proud?

Inside, the voice of Tom still screamed. But it was muffled now, fading beneath a rising chorus: oompah, polka, pride.

Tom blinked. Tobias nodded.

Somewhere, a cuckoo clock struck noon.

He used to quote Kant.

Now he flips Bratwurst.

Gone are the days of tort law seminars and mock trials. Now it’s just tongs, mustard, and the sizzle of sausage in front of the Kölner Dom.

He doesn’t remember how it happened. A joke. A dare. A friend saying, „You’d look great in Lederhosen.“ And now—he just does.

No more casebooks. No more Latin maxims. Just:

„Mit oder ohne Senf?“

And strangely… he’s never felt more grounded.

Marcus always ridiculed Hendrik, his down-to-earth classmate, for spending weekends at camping sites and owning a thermos. “You and your pathetic little tent,” he once scoffed across the seminar table, flicking his designer pen in disdain.

But today, Marcus found himself in a barbershop that didn't even have an espresso machine. Hendrik had lured him there under the pretext of a “networking appointment.”

He didn’t yet know what awaited him. But one thing was certain:

Nature was about to take its revenge.

He used to laugh at the very idea of public campgrounds. Called them mud pits for losers with folding chairs. Mocked Hendrik’s hiking boots, scoffed at polyester, and wouldn’t drink beer that cost less than €6 a bottle.

Now?

Now he sat in a €12 barbershop, in a Hawaiian two-piece from a discount rack, belly out, socks tucked into plastic sandals. His reflection stared back in horror.

Gone was Marcus. Before him stood: Camping-Matze.

He didn’t know how it happened. Only that somewhere between a sip of lukewarm Dosenbier and a bratwurst on a paper plate… he had become the very thing he swore he’d never be.

And Hendrik? He was probably already pitching the second tent.

Marcus was gone. In his place sat Matze — king of Lot 7B, guardian of the fold-out table, ruler of the Ravioli realm.

He wore Adiletten with pride. Socks up to mid-calf. Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to the belly. The smell of lighter gas and canned meat clung to the air like honor.

They used to call him "Marcus von Marienburg." Now he answered only to Matze. And if someone dared park too close to Schnecke, his beloved caravan?

He’d puff up, raise his bratwurst fork and growl: “This is my turf, Digga.”

And deep inside? Not a trace of shame. Just a faint memory of bottled water that cost more than a six-pack of beer.

[curious32s]

It started with a dumb wish. Not even a real wish — more like an irritated thought muttered into a cup of late-night ramen while I stood barefoot in the kitchen, trying to ignore my roommate’s latest rant about being single.

Kyle had been in a mood all week. Something about all his friends being coupled up, his Grindr dates flaking, and how “love just isn’t built for guys like me.” And I, being the caring, patient friend that I am, had finally snapped with, “God, I hope you find someone already. Maybe then you’ll shut up for five minutes.”

Yeah. That’s what I said. And I meant it with all the sincerity of someone yelling at a toaster.

Apparently, that was enough.

I woke up the next morning to the sound of a deep laugh in the kitchen. Not Kyle’s — Jonah’s. My brother. My straight brother. Or so I thought.

I walked out, groggy, rubbing my eyes, and there they were. Kyle and Jonah. Shirtless. Cooking breakfast together. Jonah standing behind him, arms wrapped around Kyle’s thick middle, whispering something that made Kyle blush, and for some reason they were both barefoot and there were two coffee mugs with little cartoon bears on them on the counter.

I think I just blinked and walked back to my room.

Took me two whole weeks to realize this wasn’t a fling. They weren’t new. They’d been together for years. Years. I didn’t figure that out because anyone told me — oh no. It was little things. Their shared Spotify playlists labeled “Our Hikes <3.” The matching bear paw tattoos I spotted when they were horsing around in the living room. The blanket with their faces photoshopped onto two grinning cartoon lumberjacks that I found in the dryer.

The kicker? A Facebook post from four years ago that read: “Happy 1-year anniversary to the best damn man I’ve ever met. Here’s to many more, cub.” From Kyle. To Jonah. Liked by 176 people. Commented on by my mom with a heart emoji.

That was the moment I realized I was well and truly in a different reality.

And they are so in love. Loudly, shamelessly, constantly in love. It’s like living in a Hallmark movie directed by a bear bar owner. I’m not even sure they realize I’m in the room half the time. Or maybe they just don’t care.

I mean, look at them right now — no, really, look at them. They’re sprawled across our couch in the den, deep into one of their marathon make-out sessions. Kyle’s got his hand halfway under Jonah’s gut, and Jonah’s purring like some kind of fuzzy furnace. The TV’s on, but neither of them’s watching it. I am, though. Or trying to. Can’t exactly focus on Planet Earth with the grizzly bears mating next to me.

That’s my brother. That’s my roommate. I’m just the guy trapped between their chests, metaphorically speaking, screaming into a throw pillow.

They don’t just stop at cuddling on the couch, either. Oh no. They’re domestically obscene. I’ve walked in on bubble baths, shirtless apron cooking, a full-on bear massage chain on the back porch, and one time — one time — I came home to find them napping belly-to-belly on the living room rug with “Whale Sounds for Deep Lovers” playing on loop. There was incense. There were candles.

Every time I so much as sigh in their direction, they glance over like I’m the one being weird. Sorry, am I interrupting the pre-hibernation cuddle ritual? Should I come back in spring?

But here's the messed-up part: I can’t even leave. The rent’s too good. The house is big — three bedrooms, a finished basement, fenced yard, walking distance to everything. We split the bills three ways. Kyle and I had a great deal before the universe decided to rearrange my personal life like a Sims cheat code, and Jonah moved in after “their anniversary trip to Portland” (ugh), and now it’s just… this.

Also, he’s my brother. Jonah may be a hairy, handsy, loud-as-hell bear of a boyfriend now, but he’s still family. He still makes killer chili. Still beats me at Mario Kart and talks me down when I spiral. We’ve been through a lot. I can’t just walk away from that. Even if he now insists on calling Kyle “Cubby” in the mornings and I have to hear that term of endearment while brushing my teeth.

So I sit. I stew. I eat my microwaved mac and cheese while my brother and his boyfriend — my former roommate — turn the living room into a PG-13 nature documentary. I go to bed with headphones on. I’ve stopped using the shared laundry machine during the weekends because I kept pulling out towels that smelled like sandalwood and testosterone.

Sometimes I catch myself wishing it could go back to the way it was. Simple. Predictable. Quiet.

But then I look over and see them sharing a blanket, giggling over some dumb in-joke, Kyle planting a kiss on Jonah’s cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I see the way Jonah glows when Kyle pulls him in for a hug. The way Kyle watches Jonah like he hung the stars.

They’re loud. They’re weird. They’re half-naked 80% of the time. But… they’re happy.

At least they’re happy.

[curious32s]

That is sooo refreshing! Funny I never heard about that lake before. This big guy in the bar was so sweet telling me about it

Love it, look how clean the water is. I just hope there are no actual bears here, haha

Aehm ... wow?

What in Winnie the Poos name is going on here?

Guess there ARE bears here NOW

Come on! Go in, the water is so cool!

Let me go!!

I hate you! I am coming out NOW!

Oh shit ...

is this a BELLY?! I am TWINK

Help? Or ... not? Feels ... funny ...

Mmh, grrr? Heheeh

Come in, Fred! It is lovely!

Leave me alone, Freak!

If I turn into a bear, I swear, I wil ... wait, is that chest hair??

I will kill you, I swear!!!

Come to Papa-Bear!

[curious32s]

Let's see, what this Mall has to offer ...

Here, take a pen!

Thanks ...

Yeah, sure, as if ...

Mmh, could buy the new game ...

What the ...

Something is very wrong here ...

Sir, yes, sir!

Do you want a frisbee?

Sure, why not ...

Sure, I join the Army because of a free frisbee, idiot!

I need new eyeliner for the big party ...

FUUUUCK!

woah, what is happening?

Sir? What are my duties today, Sir?

[curious32s]

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.

[curious32s]

Shoe on the other foot

I use to pick on nerds and give them atomic wedgies. Now I’m best friends with them and can’t stop snorting and wheezing. Did someone curse me or something?