flinchfinch

[flinchfinch]

Unknowingly Converted: Russell

Russell's been trying to think of why he's been so horny lately. He would never guess it was because of the conversion drops his roommate secretly puts in his drinks. Libido increase is the primary effect, and every time Russell cums, he's unknowingly shooting out more and more of his homosexuality. He figures his increasing desire for women and diminishing interest in men is a bizarre phase, but it won't be long till he's just another straight guy.

[flinchfinch]

Quarter back and his friend continued to disrespect the couch and their team. Showing up late to practice and when they did attend they would do their own thing. It got to the point they two young men were cornered by one of their teammates. Turns out their actions led the coach and assistant coach to quit.

"Looks like you two slackers are going to have to fill in the positions now." Their teammate smirked.

Before they could do anything they're both hit with a strange light. Shortly after the two young men undergo a metamorphosis. Both of them aging into their late 30s, hair growing all over them. Their lean muscles thicken, while their minds are wiped of their old selves. Leaving them to be molded into the two new men. In heir daze they're overcome with lust for each other.

The Quarterback, now the coach, grabs his oldmfriend and pulps him into a kiss.

[flinchfinch]

Ah, yeah it was a good idea to take one of Antonio's cigars ... the guy has taste!

So you think you are ready for my cigars, BOY? We will see about that!

No, wait, I am sorry

Let me go! Please

No way, my cigars my rules

Oh no, please, I told you a thousand times I am sorry

Too late, boy!

He stole my cigars, seems, he wants to be like me

Okay, I see, we can do that, sure

No, please, I don´t want a buzzcut

Oh, this is necessary for the next step

Next step??

NOOOO Way!!!

It is necessary, the Don said so!

Oh madre mia ...

Nice and shiny ...

Why would you do that to me??

Stop crying like a little girl! Here, now you look like a guy who could smoke a cigar!

See, THAT is a look!

[flinchfinch]

Mmh, I bet the party tonight will be HOT

Uuuh, cigars, yeah, cool, always wanted to try

"Do you have a lighter, John?"

"Sure, one second!"

"Oh ... aehm ... never mind ..."

"Hey, where are you going, Max? You should definitely try a cigar!"

"Nah, I am good ..."

"Hey, want some beer?"

"Sure, why not ..."

"Woah .... I think ... I don´t want any beer!!"

"Sure?"

"Yeah, absolutely!"

"We'll get him!"

"Oh, darling, we already have ..."

"Cool Party, fancy a fag?"

"Aehm, yeah, maybe ..."

"Aehm, you know what, I think I am fine, thanks ..."

What kind of freak show is this???

WOOOAH!

I think, I have a problem ..

[flinchfinch]

Look at them with their cigars ... I will teach'em a lesson

Ciao, ragazzi!

I will show you something, are you ready?

Yeah, why not ...

A haircut? I am not sure ...

Oh, you will look great

Nice locks!

Aehm, thanks?

This will give you the perfect shine!

WOOAH!

I told you, it will shine!

Ready!

Oh my god ...

No, thanks, I think I will just leave ...

No, my friend, you will stay. You took the cigar, now you will get the look!

NOOOO!!!

YES! That's a look, boy!

Oh, don´t cry, ragazzi, now you look like you are worthy of smoking a cigar!

[flinchfinch]

You little shit! I know it was you!

Oh, calm down!

Calm down???

I will kill you, my friend.

Oh, I am sorry, it was just a prank ...

A prank???? A PRANK?? I will show you what a prank is!

DRINK UP!

But you put too much into the milk, please, I am sorry!!

DRINK IT!

Please, I cannot take anymore ...

Hahaha, see, it is just a prank!

Oh god ...

Now it is your turn!

Please, I am ...

DRINK IT!

Oh no... I look like my grandpa!!!

See you, guys, enjoy your retirement!

[flinchfinch]

And they work?

Yes, they will work. I mean, how long are you in this state? Longer than 48 hours?

No, 12 hours, I think.

Good, they would not work properly after 24 hours and not at all after 48 hours.

Okay, let's see ... Madonna, help me ...

YES! It works! YES!

Oh yes!!!

Make me smooth!

Sure thing!

Oh, Andrea, what a fantastic look!

Yeah, I like it. Happend a week ago. By the way, have you seen Marco and Giorgio lately?

No, why?

Let me show you something ...

Hahahah

[flinchfinch]

hahah, Marco, what happened to your hair? Oh my god, you look so ridiculous!

I met Andreas today. He made fun of me. We should teach this prick a lesson.

Oh yes, and I heard about this guy ...

"I knew you love my balding oil."

"Oh, yes, it is fantastic. We want to give it to a dear friend for his birthday!"

"And this really works?"

"Yes, but be cautious, don´t take too much, the effect is really strong."

"Sure!"

Wait, what's that? Hello, is somebody here??

Hurry up!

Is this enough?

I have no idea, just a bit more, I think!

Strange, where did this cigar come from? I think I need to change the locks ...

He sleeps like a baby hahaha

Let's get started ...

Drip, drip, heheheh. You won`t make fun of me ever again, Andreas!

Woah, look at him. Put the cigar in his mouth and let's run.

"What the fuck?????"

Oh my god!!!!

I am bald! And old! What the fuck is going on here? Wait, the cigar ...

Marco, you asshole, I know it was you!!! Where you???

I am growing older!!! I hate you, Marco!!!

Andreas found the pills in his kitchen and the oil in the garbage. He had heard about the new steroids that flooded the market in Naples - and he knew it has been Marco, this little shit. Oh, he would pay for this!!!

[flinchfinch]

Exjock ray 2

Chase here was a 22 college football player with a bright future. He was smart, had good grades and was good looking. He had it all. Until he discovered that his coach wasn’t giving him as much playing time, so he decided to workout more and more to improve his game. Nothing worked. Until one day he discovered a new all natural supplement from his coach that was supposed to give him more strength using testosterone. He was hesitant at first but as his coach was drawing up the starting lineup he took the pills and before the match and his coach started him. He played well and had lots of energy. But then he began to feel strange. His stomach was rumbling so loud he could hear it over the football announcers. His legs trembled as he saw brown hair peeking just above his pants on his naval. His shoes felt tighter, his head was pounding… just then again his stomach lurched. He looked down and he could see it bloating and growing a new pelt of light brown body hair. His arms swelled as did his legs. And the same brown hair multiplied everywhere as the seconds passed. It grew down his shoulders, on his back, spread like wildfire on his chest, it grew down his back to his ass as chase scratched it and then to his toes. At this moment to avoid embarrassment from the team. He sprinted off the field to his truck in the parking lot. His teammates were confused. Although as he was running he felt his new gut and his ass jiggling as he ran. A feeling chase was not used to. Once he got to his truck the changes progressed even more as he grew a beard and his pits exploded with fur. He looked down and felt his dick expand to the thickness of a beer can but did not get any longer, just thicker and his balls grew to the size of chicken eggs. His breathing slowed down as did the changes and he sat there holding his new beer gut in hand and wondered what to do next as his coach walked up to his truck with a smirk on his face holding two beers. One for him and one for his new assistant coach… the 32 year old exjock Chase who used to play for him years ago.

[flinchfinch]

[flinchfinch]

great Tharnis, im nonbinary but i wish i could understand my dad better. hes a career military man with a big beard and hes always talking about girls and sports and beer. i try to interact with him but weve just got nothing in common. i wish you could help

You never really understood your dad, Marcus. The man was all beard and bellow, a hard-lined military type who spent more time talking about football, women, and the perfect beer than about feelings or family. His gruff voice dominated every room, filled with barbs about “softness” and “too much talk.” You have always been somewhere in between, neither fully him nor anywhere close, nonbinary and awkward, with your own way of seeing the world that felt like it clashed with his tough-guy code.

You wanted to get inside his head, even just a little, to understand where he was coming from. Maybe if you could see the world through his eyes, you’d finally connect. So when you stumbled on that strange website late one night—a whisper of a name, Tharnis, promising help—you didn’t hesitate. You messaged: “I want to understand my dad better. Please help me.”

Sleep claimed you soon after. But when you woke, everything was wrong.

Your room wasn’t your room anymore. The soft pastel posters had been replaced by army recruitment flyers, aggressive slogans about discipline and strength. Your laptop was gone, replaced by a battered duffel bag and a half-empty six-pack. The scent in the air was thick with stale sweat and cheap cologne.

Your hands, rough and calloused, gripped a thick can of beer like it was a lifeline. You blinked and caught your reflection in the cracked mirror on the wall—a stranger stared back. Broad-shouldered, thick neck, a wild beard tangled like brambles across a flushed, square jaw. Your hair, once soft and carefully styled, was now cropped close, uneven and coarse. You flexed a fist and felt muscle where there had only been thinness.

Then the voice came. Deep and low, gruff and dumb, echoing inside your skull: “Hell yeah, nothing like a cold one after a good day’s work.” The words weren’t yours—they weren’t even your thoughts—but you heard them, loud and clear, like your brain had been replaced by a crude radio stuck on one channel.

You staggered toward the poster on the wall—a woman in tight camo pants and a tank top, cleavage spilling over the edges. Something inside your chest tightened, a mixture of confusion and raw, unwelcome heat. You could feel a coarse hand gripping your own, rough fingers wrapping possessively, as a crude commentary burbled in your mind: “Damn, she’s a real prize. Bet she knows how to handle a man like me.”

You tried to think, to fight it, but your thoughts twisted. No longer curious or gentle, they were sharp, aggressive, crude. The old you—the quiet, thoughtful Sam—felt buried under this growing brute, your own mind a stranger’s playground.

Your muscles bulged unnaturally under your skin, veins like ropes across your forearms. The beard itched unbearably, and your voice dropped even lower, roughening with every passing moment. You caught a glimpse of your reflection again—there was no softness left, only the angry, hard edge of a man shaped by violence, pride, and ignorance.

“Law and order, kid. That’s what this world needs. None of that woke nonsense. None of that queer crap,” the voice snarled in your mind. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

You looked around, spotting a military cap on the floor and a faded patch that read “Sergeant Dalton—U.S. Army.” Confused, you crouched and picked it up. The name stirred something deep inside—your uncle, Marcus’s younger brother. The man you always thought idolized your dad but was a brutal, dumb as a rock, loud-mouth jock who drank like a fish and chased women without mercy.

The thought hit you like a punch: you weren’t becoming your dad. You were becoming your uncle.

A bitter laugh bubbled from your throat—rough, guttural, unfamiliar.

“Fuck yeah, I’m the real soldier in this family,” the voice inside you growled. “Time to show the world what a man’s made of.”

But you were trapped inside this new form, watching helplessly as the last flickers of your old self faded into a haze of beer breath, testosterone, and blind hatred.

You barely recognize yourself anymore. The mirror shows a thick-necked, barrel-chested brute with a permanent scowl and a beard that looks like it was carved from the woods. Your hands—calloused, scarred—clench into fists like they’re ready to break something, or someone. The air around you reeks of stale beer and sweat, and you don’t care. Hell, you like it.

Inside your skull, the voice rages with relentless pride and fury, blasting down any trace of the old you: “Weakness is for the damn commies and pansies. Real men don’t cry, don’t bend, and sure as hell don’t parade their freak flags around.” You grit your teeth and feel your throat tighten, a low growl bubbling out. “This woke bullshit’s rot. Gotta keep this country clean—law and order, discipline, respect. None of that queers or liberals ruining the place.”

You flex your thick arms and the muscles bulge like steel cables beneath your skin. You’re bigger, stronger, meaner—and proud of every dumb, brutish inch. The TV blares a sports game, and you barely hear the commentator over the roar inside you that wants to throw the damn thing through the wall. Football, beer, women—that’s all that matters.

Speaking of women—your mind snaps to the hunt. “Time to find some real pussy. None of that gay crap. I’m the kind of man who puts women in their place—and loves it.” Your mouth twists into a cocky, snarling grin. You can almost taste the cheap whiskey on your breath as you picture chasing some tight, blonde cheerleader, dragging her to your place, making her scream your name. No hesitation, no remorse—just raw, stupid lust.

Your world shrinks down to the essentials: cold beer, loud music, crushing workouts, and endless talks about keeping “those faggots” out of the country, making sure the flag waves proud and no one questions the “right way.” You grunt as you slam back another drink, thinking about how you’ll “straighten out” anyone who dares get in your way.

The last spark of the old you is smothered under a pile of aggression, ignorance, and toxic masculinity. You’re—you’re Sergeant Dalton Jr., a thick-headed, homophobic, womanizing, beer-guzzling army brat who lives for one thing: dominance.

And damn it feels good.

You and your brother Marcus slump side by side on the battered couch in the living room, each clutching a cold can of beer, the hiss of carbonation barely audible over your loud guffaws. You belch—loud, unapologetic, and proud—and Marcus just smirks, shaking his head like he’s known you forever.

“Jesus, Dalton, you haven’t lost that army appetite,” Marcus chuckles, rubbing his thick beard.

You grin, flashing your crooked, beer-stained teeth. “Hell yeah. Gotta keep the gut fed when you’re bustin’ your ass in the gym and on patrol. Ain’t no place for soft pansies in this world.” You take another long swig and smack your lips. “You see that blonde waitress last night? Tight as hell. Could bench-press her and then some.”

Marcus snorts, shaking his head. “Man, you and your bimbos. But yeah, she’s a looker. Not like all this woke crap running around nowadays, messing up good, clean fun.”

You nod, eyes gleaming with shared contempt. “Exactly. This woke bullshit is destroying discipline. Can’t even say ‘merry Christmas’ without some SJW flipping out. In the army, we don’t have time for that crap. You either follow orders, or you get left behind.”

Marcus slaps you on the back, almost knocking the beer from your hand. “Couldn’t have said it better. You’re doing your old man proud, little brother.”

You laugh, feeling the pride swell in your chest beneath the thick muscles. “Damn right I am. And next time we hit the bar, I’m gonna bring home a real lady. None of those freaks.”

The two of you settle back into the couch, burping loudly again in perfect unison, the roar of the TV and the scent of stale beer and sweat filling the room like a badge of honor.

[flinchfinch]

Once upon a time he was just a skinny nerd with aspirations of becoming an award winning biologist be finding the cure for some rare disease or even cancer. But I stopped those dreams in his tracks when we became dormmates freshman year. I started recommending self help study tapes laced with my signature dumb jock subliminal programming. Now it's senior year and he's since swapped majors to kinesthesiology, hits the gym 6 days a week, and dreams of being on the cover of men's health magazine. Another potential competitor taken down!

[flinchfinch]

Love your stuff man! How about our Friendly Neighborhood Spidey gets dumbed down into a college stoner?

Spider-Man -> Stoner

The strains these days. Once stronger, longer lasting and more potent than the last.

No one knows where the latest came from, however, people all across Queens were dumbing down, blowing up and getting high. Just a bit of the smoke inside you and you're high as a kite and put plenty of bodybuilders to shame.

[flinchfinch]

Even though it’s pride month I haven’t been feeling very proud, I’ve just been working and all my friends are pissed that I’ve missed every pride even so far, I wish we didn’t care so much about pride

“You don’t hate Pride,” you keep telling yourself, glancing at your unopened email invite for the downtown parade this weekend.

You’re 24, clean-cut, sharp-minded, meticulous about your skincare, with a gentle flair to your gestures and a confident stride in your Docs. You’re one of those gay guys people always call “cute” — you know, the kind who makes the straight girls squeal and the older gays nod approvingly. You’ve always had Pride on your bucket list. But somehow… you never go. Always an excuse. Too much work. Too many people. Too loud. And now, your latest rationalization: “There are more important things than glitter and rainbows.”

You whisper that phrase aloud, almost bitterly, as you pass by a flyer for this year’s Pride festival. That’s when the name echoes in your head like a warning chime. Tharnis Grimboron.

You’d said it casually — in jest, really — while scrolling through a cursed Reddit thread. “If some dark gay spirit wants to just fix this for me, that’d be great,” you muttered, half-laughing. “I don’t want to keep caring about this shit. Just make me not care. Make me normal. Whatever.”

But now, you feel heat. It creeps up the back of your neck, blooming down your spine. You blink, stumble, and grab the edge of your desk.

It’s subtle at first — the warm rush of confusion. Your carefully curated desktop background (a tasteful Pride-themed art print) is gone, replaced by… a Microsoft Word document titled “Sunday School Curriculum Draft - Notes.”

Wait. You don’t write that. Do you?

You frown. Your apartment feels different. Sterile. Beige walls. A simple wooden cross hung just above a framed wedding photo. A woman — blonde, modest, wearing a cardigan, resting her head on your chest. You don’t know her name, but somehow your brain supplies it: Madison. Your wife.

You try to stand, but your knees creak a little. You’re sitting in a straight-backed chair in pressed khakis, your shirt tucked tightly into a cheap belt. The fabric itches. Your hands — they look bigger, rougher. A gold band glints on your ring finger.

You go to speak, to say something, anything, but all that slips out is a flat, Midwestern mutter:

“Better get started before Maddy finds me sittin’ on my ass again.”

You freeze. What? You slap a hand to your mouth. But the voice was yours. Duller. Deeper. Faintly nasal. You stagger to the mirror above the sink, gripping the ceramic edge for dear life.

The reflection that meets you isn’t exactly monstrous — that would almost be easier to reject. Instead, it’s just… boring. You’ve become one of those utterly average, blank men you used to laugh at on dating apps. Short, sensible haircut. No product. No edge. No clue. A faded “Blessed Dad” coffee mug sits beside your Bible, and your monogrammed “Joshua & Madison” tote bag leans against the door.

The phone buzzes.

“Babe, remember we’re hosting small group tonight!” Madison’s text chirps.

You instinctively begin typing a response:

“No worries babe!! Got it covered 😘”

You hesitate. But it doesn’t feel wrong. Somehow, your fingers are used to this.

That’s when you catch the tab open in your browser: “Do Drag Queens Belong in Church?” And your cursor’s placed halfway through a half-written opinion column titled: “Why Pride Isn’t Family Friendly.”

You break into a cold sweat.

“I mean, it’s not like I hate gays,” your voice mutters aloud, though you didn’t mean to speak. “I just think they should keep that stuff outta schools. I mean, come on, rainbow dildos at a kid’s parade? That ain’t right.”

You clutch your temples, trying to conjure a memory of your old self. You remember how you used to flirt with the barista at the queer café, how you obsessed over body oil for pool parties, how you cried watching Paris Is Burning. But those memories feel smudged now, like a dream you can’t quite grasp.

You open your phone. Your old playlists are gone. No Troye Sivan. No Rina. Just podcasts — “The Biblical Father,” “Tradwives Today,” and a queued-up Jordan Peterson clip titled “Masculinity in Crisis.”

You look down at yourself. Polo tucked neatly into khakis. Brown belt. A smartwatch tracking your steps and Bible reading. You look like someone who would say, “Just don’t shove it in my face.”

“Guess we’ll raise the kids without all that alphabet soup craziness,” you hear yourself saying — to no one. “Don’t need a bunch of crossdressers waving sex flags at ‘em.”

You want to scream.

Instead, your eyes glaze over as a new thought enters your head, and this one — this one feels like it’s yours, even if it horrifies the last echo of who you were:

“Man, I miss college. Bros, beers, and no one bitchin’ about pronouns. Just real life, real dudes, real women. Things weren’t so complicated back then.”

And in that moment, it all settles.

You no longer feel heat. No panic. Just the dull, vaguely smug satisfaction of a man who thinks he’s finally got life figured out.

You sigh.

“Better get that grill cleaned up before the guys come over.”

You still used to be Jonah. But now you’re Josh — 29, average, straight, married, boring, borderline homophobic, and completely unbothered by it.

You never went to Pride. Now, you make sure no one in your neighborhood ever does.

[flinchfinch]

Hi! I have to tell you right away: I am a huge fan of yours. Every time I see one of your stories, I feel like I am there, in the middle of the scene, overwhelmed by the transformations.You have a rare gift: you manage to make every muscle fiber, every tuft of hair that pops out, something alive and vibrant. I wanted to compliment you.

Aw thanks man! I’m so glad that you like my stories. Here’s a little something to say thank you. I have this potion that will make you whoever you want to be. Oh wow you’re drinking it dumb already! Ok let’s go then! It does take time so you’ll probably notice the changes over the next few days.

Next morning: Yup looks like it’s warming fur you my dude. You grew up over night and your muscles thickened a bit. Definitely looking fitter and don’t worry this is just the beginning. Feel that itch? That’s your body hair starting to grow.

Days pass: Hey dude! I see that the potion is really helping you out! You look like you’re getting very big and muscular and your skin is getting much darker than used to be. Hehe yeah your voice is getting deeper now and you look older. Like mid 40s at least. Ooh did you feel that bro? You’re just just started falling out! Yeah you’re on a ton of roids so that’s to be expected. But don’t worry, I got you a new job as a trainer in a nice gym so you’ll be with other guys like you.

Next morning: wow bro! I love how much the potion helped you. Yeah I know it’s harder to think now and you speak fluent Arabic but c’mon it’s totally worth it right? Now you’re a huge Arab muscle daddy like you always wanted to be. I hope you enjoy your new life bro. Can’t wait to see you flexing on stage with the big boys.

(This was my first time doing a progression timeline so I hope it turned out ok. 😅)

[flinchfinch]

IncoHEARent

After spending the weekend over at his girlfriend’s place, Charlie returned home to his personal hell - the college dorms. He pushed open the door to his room, and immediately, a wave of stale, gym-scented air hit him. A telltale sign: Jackson was home.

Sure enough, Jackson’s muscled frame was sprawled across Charlie’s chair, his big, bare feet propped up on Charlie’s desk, surrounded by an abandoned chocolate protein bar, an unopened assignment envelope, and a small box for what looked like a card game.

“Yo,” Jackson greeted lazily, not even looking up. A slow grin spread across his face as he held up a card, reading it as though it were written in an alien dialect.

“Jar Lee Wheel… Oh Bay Knee?” he muttered, dragging out the syllables. “Ohhh. I think I got it.”

FLASH

He flipped the card over, read the back, and smirked to himself. “Did you hear that Charlie?”

Charlie sighed, struggling to lock the door behind him. “What?”

Jackson grabbed another card and held it out. “Come over here and try this one. Sound it out.”

Charlie barely spared it a glance before dropping his backpack onto his bed. The text on the card was a mess of nonsense: "Yule Are Soup Ear Yore Two Knee."

He muttered it under his breath, frowning. “Yule Are Soup Ear Yore Two Knee…” His gaze drifted to the pile of cards now scattered all over the floor around his desk, and his fingers twitched with the urge to clean. “What is this? Some kind of—oh. It’s that stupid game you were talking about.”

“IncoHEARent, my dude,” Jackson corrected, flashing the box at him. “You read the gibberish out loud, and eventually, it sounds like a real phrase.”

Charlie glanced back at the card in Jackson’s meaty grip, his brain clicking through the syllables. Yule Are Soup Ear Yore Two Knee…

Suddenly, his eyes widened. “Oh. I think I know it.”

“The answer is…” Charlie puffed his chest out proudly, outsmarting his jock roommate once again.

“You are superior to me!”

FLASH

“Good job, bro.” Jackson laughed, flicking the card onto the floor below him. “Isn’t that fun?”

“Um….” Charlie blushed, his proudness deflating. Instead a wave of admiration for Jackson replacing it. “Y-yeah. I guess it was Jackson. Thank you for letting me play.”

“We’re not done yet, Charlie boy.” Jackson holds up a new card “Eye Yam Pa The Tick.”

Charlie struggled to comprehend the bizarre phrase, before he hears it loud and clear in his head.

“I am pathetic?”

FLASH

“You’re getting good, Charlie.” Jackson smirks as he sifts through the cards. Just hearing Jackson’s affirmation lights Charlie’s brain up light up like a Christmas tree. Charlie wonders what he can do to make Jackson say those words again. Charlie’s body absentmindedly slips from his bed to the floor as he rests on his knees. It feels more fitting to be looking up at Jackson rather than on equal level.

“Oh, this is a hard one.” Jackson holds up another card in his thick hand. “Eye Yam Anne M Tea Head Ed Cawk Suck Her”

Charlie’s eager brain clicks immediately.

“I am an empty headed cock sucker!”

FLASH

Charlie’s mouth started to salivate as his throat began to feel empty. All thoughts about his girlfriend, women, boobs fading away as a yearning for a big thick juicy cock to be shoved down his greedy cocksucker throat appears. God, it made him feel like such a pathetic loser. But he couldn’t deny the truth.

Suddenly, his girlfriend flashed in his mind. What will she think? The old Charlie began to put up resistance. But suddenly all thoughts are brought to a standstill as he remembers one thing…

Cock.

Jackson glances at Charlie on the floor - the poor boy on his knees, tongue drooling and eyes spaced out as images of cocks invaded his brain.

“How about we do these last two cards and then we’ll call it a day, okay cocksucker?” He flicked one up in Charlie’s pleasure filled face. “Stray It Men R Soup Ear Yore Zo Eye War Ship Stray It Fete.”

Charlie’s eyes zone back in as the answer slips out of his cocksucking lips.

“Straight men are superior! So I worship straight feet!”

FLASH

Before his mind catches up with his body, Jackson’s smelly straight toes are in his mouth. He sucks and licks their stench. The stench he used to resent so much, now becoming his reason to live. Jackson was superior. Jackson deserved this. He deserved everything.

“Once last card, cocksucker.” Jackson lets out an accomplished smirk. “Eye Yam Stuck Lick This Fur Ever.”

The empty headed Charlie struggled for a bit before it clicked. The old part of himself tried to stop him, but before he knew it, Charlie plopped Jackson’s toe right out of his mouth and said:


“I am stuck like this FOREVER!”

FLASH

[flinchfinch]