kylecrusoe-captions

[kylecrusoe-captions]

Looks like another morning in Dad's body for me. I'm not sure of the details, but apparently Dad pissed off some mystic force or something and got swapped into my body as some sort of karmic consequence. I'm guessing he's got a lesson to learn as me but he is stubborn as hell.

Oh well. It's not that I mind. No, you see I've actually gotten quite comfortable with being my Dad. It's funny, Dad didn't want anyone finding out about the swap so he has insisted on living out each other's lives and playing our body's roles. And I've gotta say I like being the Dad.

I sip my coffee (something I've grown to appreciate in my Dad's body) and set it aside. I run my hands down Dad's hairy torso and flex his muscles. I groan in his sexy deep voice as I twist his nipple. "Fuck, Dad, you're so sensitive," I whisper just to hear his voice.

I feel his cock straining against the tight briefs I had put on and place my other hand over my bulge. "So big," I murmer as I cup my father's hefty cock through the fabric. I grind against my hand for a bit then look to the mirror hanging from Dad's closet. I swing my big, hairy dad legs up and sit in view of the mirror.

"Fuckin handsome bastard," I say and wink at the reflection, my cock twitching as I saw my hot Dad's image in the mirror do as I did. I stood up and did a little strip tease with Dad's briefs before standing fully nude in front of the mirror.

"Daddy's so turned on," I said as I started to jack off my father's cock, his big hands mine to command. My other hand wandered back to Dad’s nipple and I felt the twin pleasure of his cock pair nicely. I felt pleasure building, slower than in my younger body but steady and strong. When I finally couldn't hold it, I released Dad's load all over the mirror. Fuck, Dad's cock cums so much!

I still felt heady in the glow of Dad's orgasm and leaned in and began licking the thick dad spunk off the mirror. I made eye contact with my stolen reflection and felt Dad's cock already hardening at the sight of my father's face greedily licking up his own cum.

Oh yes, I think I'll be just fine being Dad for a while.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

WOW big thanks to @verus-veritas for bringing this story idea to life! Hot situation I'd love to find myself in!

Becoming The Perfect Family

(AI-Generated - Story concept by the incredible @kylecrusoe-captions)

Kyle’s life had always been a gray blur. An only child to parents who barely looked up from their phones, he’d grown up starved for connection, his days bleeding into one another in a haze of neglect. Then the Armstrongs moved in next door, and everything changed. They weren’t any ordinary family—they were a force. Loud, physical, unapologetic, they filled the quiet suburban street with their presence. Kyle couldn’t look away. From his bedroom window, he watched them, his chest tight with longing, his mind spinning fantasies he’d never dare voice. They were untouchable he thought, until he found the tome.

It was a fluke, really. Tucked in the back of the college library, behind a row of moldy textbooks, the ancient book practically pulsed under his fingers. Its leather cover was cracked, its pages yellowed and curling, but the words inside promised power: Shape reality. Claim what’s yours. Kyle didn’t believe it at first, but desperation has a way of eroding skepticism. That night, alone in his room, he lit a candle, traced the runes with trembling fingers, and whispered the spell. He didn’t expect it to work. He fell asleep to the sound of his own heartbeat, disappointed... until he woke up somewhere else.

The bed was too small, the air thick with the musky scent of sweat and testosterone. Kyle blinked, disoriented, and then he felt a warm, heavy leg slung over his own. Clive Armstrong—his new younger brother—lay sprawled beside him, his lean, runner’s body barely contained by a pair of tight briefs. His wavy brown hair was a mess, his thin mustache twitching as he snored softly.

Kyle’s breath caught. He was in the Armstrong house, sharing a queen-sized bed with Clive like it was the most natural thing in the world. The room was cramped, cluttered with gym bags and running shoes, a testament to the family’s athletic obsession—and their lack of funds for separate bedrooms. Clive shifted, his bare chest brushing Kyle’s arm, and Kyle realized he was in his underwear too. No awkwardness, no hesitation—just the casual intimacy of brothers. The spell had worked.

Jared Armstrong: The Stoic Patriarch

The father, Jared Armstrong was a man carved from grit and muscle. At forty-five, he didn’t look a day over forty, his frame lean but powerful, honed from years of coaching college athletes into submission. His dark hair was cropped short, his jaw perpetually shadowed with stubble that gave him a rugged, almost dangerous edge. He was the kind of handsome that hit you like a punch—unpolished, raw, and utterly masculine. As the head coach at the local college, he had a reputation for running brutal gym classes, leaving students hobbling away with sore muscles and whispered curses. Cold and intimidating, he carried himself with a quiet authority that made people shrink in his presence. But with his sons, there was a flicker of something softer—a gruff tenderness he’d never admit to.

Kyle’s first morning as an Armstrong started with Jared. He stood in the kitchen, shirtless in a pair of faded sweatpants, barking orders as he blended a protein shake. His biceps flexed with every move, a sheen of sweat already clinging to his chest from an early workout. “Up and at ‘em, Kyle,” he grunted, barely glancing over. “No slackers in this house.” His voice was a low rumble, but there was no malice—just expectation. Kyle nodded mutely, still dazed, and Jared tossed him a banana with a smirk. “Eat. You’re too damn skinny.” It was the closest thing to affection Kyle had ever gotten from a father, and it lit something warm and dangerous in his chest.

Clive Armstrong: The Wild Spark

Clive was chaos in motion. At nineteen, a college freshman, he was the younger of Jared’s sons, and he wore his rebellion like a badge. Lean and toned, his body was built for speed—powerful legs that carried him through endless runs, a smooth chest that glistened with sweat every summer morning. His wavy brown hair fell into his eyes, and that thin mustache on his upper lip gave him a roguish charm. He was mischievous, quick with a smirk or a jab, but his temper was a live wire—explosive and unpredictable. Rumors swirled about him on campus: a passionate lover who’d leave you breathless, but a selfish one who’d sulk if he didn’t get his way. Kyle had seen it firsthand—Clive jogging shirtless around the neighborhood, ignoring Kyle’s timid waves with an annoyed glare.

Now, as his “little brother,” Kyle got the full Clive experience. That first morning, Clive rolled out of bed with a groan, stretching his jockish frame until his spine popped. “Fuck, I hate mornings,” he muttered, scratching his abs as he stumbled to the bathroom. He didn’t care that Kyle was there, didn’t bother to cover up—just strutted around in his briefs like it was nothing. Later, at breakfast, he shoved Kyle’s shoulder playfully, grinning. “You’re eating like a bird, bro. Gotta bulk up if you’re gonna keep up with me.” His touch lingered, his fingers brushing Kyle’s arm, and Kyle felt a jolt he couldn’t explain. Clive was a tease, a spark—and Kyle wanted to get burned.

Benjamin Armstrong: The Silent Storm

Benjamin, at twenty-one, was the eldest, a college senior with a presence that filled every room. Tall and muscular, he wasn’t bulky like a bodybuilder but lean and defined, his frame a testament to years on the basketball court. His intense eyes—dark and unreadable—could pin you in place, and the slight stubble on his cheeks only sharpened his brooding edge. Ambitious and quiet, he carried himself with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, dismissing anyone he deemed unworthy of his time. But those he cared about? He’d guard them with a ferocity that was almost feral. His athletic fame stretched across state lines—everyone knew Ben Armstrong, the guy who could sink a three-pointer with his eyes closed.

Kyle’s first real encounter with Ben came that afternoon. He was shooting hoops in the driveway, shirtless and focused, his muscles rippling with every move. Kyle hesitated, then stepped outside, and Ben glanced over—those piercing eyes locking onto him. “You just gonna stand there?” he said, voice low and clipped. He tossed Kyle the ball, hard enough to sting. “Shoot.” Kyle fumbled it, and Ben snorted, stepping closer. “Gotta work on that grip, man. You’re an Armstrong—act like it.” There was no warmth, but there was something else—possession. Ben didn’t ignore him anymore. He saw him.

---

For weeks, Kyle soaked it in. The Armstrong house was a whirlwind of testosterone—sweaty gym clothes strewn across the floor, Jared’s gruff lectures about discipline, Clive’s endless energy, Ben’s quiet intensity. Kyle belonged, finally, and it was intoxicating. He’d catch himself staring—Jared curling weights in the garage, his biceps straining; Clive sprinting past the window, abs flexing; Ben toweling off after a shower, water dripping down his chest. They were his family now, but the tome under his mattress whispered a darker desire. He didn’t just want their acceptance. He wanted their love—the kind that crossed every line.

One night, alone in the dim glow of their shared room, Kyle pulled out the tome. Clive was out running, the house quiet. The spell was there, buried in the back: Bind their hearts. Irreversible. The warning loomed large, but Kyle’s hands shook with need. He’d rewritten reality once—what was one more push? He lit the candle, chanted the words, and felt the air hum with power. When he finished, the flame guttered out, and he waited.

The shift was slow, deliciously so. The next morning, Jared’s hand lingered on Kyle’s shoulder as he passed him a plate of eggs. “Looking stronger, kid,” he said, his voice softer, his stubble brushing Kyle’s cheek as he pulled him into a long, sweaty hug. Clive ambushed him later, tackling him onto the couch with a laugh. “Gotcha, bro!” he crowed, pinning Kyle down, his lean body pressing close, his sweaty armpit shoved playfully into Kyle’s face. “Smell that? That’s victory.” His grin was wicked, his touch too firm to be innocent. Ben, meanwhile, waited by the car after class, insisting on driving Kyle home. “Can’t trust you out there alone,” he muttered, his hand grazing Kyle’s thigh as he drove, his eyes flickering with something unspoken.

Day by day, it deepened. Jared took to coaching Kyle in the garage, his hands guiding Kyle’s form, his breath hot against Kyle’s neck. “Good boy,” he’d murmur, and the praise sank into Kyle’s bones. Clive’s roughhousing turned flirty—tickling that lingered on Kyle’s sides, headlocks that pulled their bodies flush. Ben grew obsessive, shadowing Kyle everywhere, hoisting him onto his shoulders after practice with a grip that was too tight, too tender. They were falling for him, their coy glances and casual touches betraying the spell’s work. Kyle had them—father, brothers, all of them—and he wasn’t done yet.

The Morning Fire

The tension between Kyle and Clive had been simmering for days, a slow boil of lingering touches and heated glances. It all came to a head one evening when their usual roughhousing took a turn. Clive had Kyle in a headlock, his lean, sweaty body pressed tight against Kyle’s, his armpit shoved into Kyle’s face as he laughed. “Take it, bro!” he’d teased, but Kyle—caught up in the musk and the heat—flicked his tongue against Clive’s skin, tasting salt and desire. Clive froze, his grip tightening for a split second before he let go, his face flushed, his breath uneven. He didn’t say anything, just smirked and walked away, but the air between them crackled.

The next morning, Kyle woke to a sensation that jolted him from sleep—Clive’s hand, warm and insistent, buried deep in Kyle’s underwear. Fingers curled around him, stroking slow and deliberate, coaxing him awake. Kyle’s eyes fluttered open, groggy, and there was Clive—his wavy brown hair tousled, his thin mustache framing lips inches from Kyle’s own. His face was flushed, his hazel eyes burning with intensity as hot breath fanned across Kyle’s skin. “I want you,” Clive rasped, voice thick with need, before closing the gap. His lips crashed into Kyle’s, hungry and unrestrained, a kiss that was all tongue and heat and perverse promise.

They made out like they were starving for it, hands roaming, bodies tangling in the sheets. Clive rolled Kyle onto his side, pressing up behind him, his jock musk filling the air as he positioned himself. “Gonna take care of you, bro,” he murmured against Kyle’s ear, his voice low and filthy. He entered Kyle slowly, inch by inch, his lean frame molding to Kyle’s back, arms wrapping around him in a possessive hug. The rhythm was sensual, deliberate—Clive’s breaths hitching as he thrust, his lips brushing Kyle’s neck, his cock buried deep. When he finished, he came with a shudder, spilling inside Kyle, kissing his spine as he stayed lodged there, unwilling to pull out. Exhausted and sated, they fell asleep again, entwined in the musky haze of their shared bed.

For the next week, it became their ritual. Every morning, Kyle woke to Clive’s hands or mouth on him, followed by slow, passionate fucking—Clive always the big spoon, always finishing inside, always kissing Kyle’s back as they drifted off again. The bedroom reeked of sweat and sex, an erotic sanctuary for their newfound bond.

The Steamy Afternoon

Benjamin noticed the change almost immediately. His younger brothers were different—closer, more tactile, their mornings stretching longer behind that closed bedroom door. He’d hear the muffled laughter, the creak of the bed, and it gnawed at him. Envy twisted in his gut. Kyle was his brother too, and Ben wasn’t about to be left out. He started claiming Kyle’s time during the day, dragging him to the basketball court five times a week. “Gotta toughen you up,” he’d say, his intense eyes raking over Kyle’s exhausted form. Kyle didn’t mind—Ben’s presence, all towering muscle and quiet intensity, was its own kind of drug.

One afternoon, after a grueling session, they stumbled into the house, drenched in sweat. Ben peeled off his shirt, revealing a torso carved from marble, and nodded toward the bathroom. “Shower time. But, uh, heater’s busted—only enough hot water for one.” It was a lie, and they both knew it, but Kyle didn’t argue. “We’ll share,” Ben said, casual as anything. “No big deal, right? We’re brothers.” The bathroom filled with steam, their wet bodies brushing as they stepped under the spray. Ben scrubbed Kyle’s back, his hands lingering, sliding lower than necessary, and Kyle returned the favor, tracing the lines of Ben’s muscled shoulders. The air thickened, their breaths syncing, until they were both hard, cocks straining against the heat.

Ben turned, water dripping from his stubble, his eyes dark with something raw. “I love you, lil bro,” he said, voice barely audible over the spray. Then, softer: “Need a favor.” Kyle didn’t hesitate. He sank to his knees, the tiles biting into his skin, and took Ben’s engorged cock into his mouth—thick, pulsing, tasting of sweat and salt. Ben groaned, hands fisting in Kyle’s hair, guiding him deeper.

They didn’t stop there. The afternoon bled into hours in Ben’s room, locked in a feverish 69—Kyle’s mouth on Ben, Ben’s on Kyle, sucking and licking until they were both spent, throats raw and bodies trembling.

The Ultimate Weekend

It was a lazy Saturday morning when it all collided. Ben slipped into the younger brothers’ room, intent on dragging Kyle out for an early shootaround, only to freeze in the doorway. There they were—Kyle and Clive, naked and tangled, lips locked in a sloppy, passionate kiss. Clive’s hands roamed Kyle’s body, possessive and greedy, and Kyle moaned into it, arching against him. Ben’s jaw tightened, envy flaring into rage. “What the fuck?” he snapped, storming in. Clive pulled back, smirking, but his eyes were defiant. “He’s mine, Ben. Back off.”

“Yours?” Ben scoffed, stepping closer. “I’ve been fucking him too, asshole.” The room erupted—shouting, shoving, a messy tangle of jealousy and testosterone. Kyle, caught between them, tried to mediate, but they weren’t listening. Finally, Clive growled, “Fine. Let’s settle it—whoever makes him cum hardest wins.” Ben nodded, grim and determined, but they couldn’t agree on turns. “Fuck it,” Ben said, stripping down. “We’ll do it together.”

What followed was a blur of heat and flesh. Kyle found himself sandwiched on the bed—Clive behind him, thrusting into his ass with that slow, possessive rhythm, while Ben knelt in front, feeding Kyle his thick cock, hands gripping his head. Kyle gagged and moaned, lost in the dual assault, their sweaty jock bodies pinning him in place. They were relentless, each trying to outdo the other, forcing him toward climax.

Then the door creaked open. Jared stood there, a tray of pancakes and coffee in hand, his plan to surprise Kyle with breakfast in bed crumbling at the sight. Clive and Ben froze, mid-thrust, panic flashing across their faces. “Dad, we can explain—” Clive started, but Jared cut him off, his voice a low growl. 

“You little shits didn’t think to invite me?” He set the tray down, and Kyle noticed the bulge in his pocket—a stack of condom wrappers he’d tried to hide. His intentions had been less innocent than pancakes.

Jared stripped, revealing a body that put every dad in town to shame—hairy, muscular, a coach’s physique built from years of discipline. At school, he was a tyrant, but here, with his sons, he was different—gentle, submissive, eager to please. “I’ve got experience,” he said, voice rough with lust. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

The room descended into chaos—a perverse fuckfest. Clive resumed pounding Kyle’s ass, Ben fucked his throat, and Jared dropped to his knees, devouring Kyle’s cock with a hunger that bordered on worship. His tongue worked expertly, sucking and slurping, while his sons ravaged Kyle from both ends.

Hours passed in a haze of sweat and moans. Kyle came again and again—first from Clive’s relentless thrusts, then Ben’s brutal pace down his throat, and finally Jared’s insatiable mouth, draining him dry. When they finished, well past noon, Kyle collapsed on the musky bed, sore and blissed out. Ben snuggled close, nuzzling his neck, while across the room, Clive bent Jared over the edge of the bed, fucking him with the same passion he’d given Kyle. Jared took it eagerly, groaning his sons’ names.

Kyle lay there, surrounded by their heat, their love, their twisted devotion. Two jock brothers and a coach dad, all his—family and lovers in one. The tome had given him everything, and as he drifted off, drained and overjoyed, he knew he’d found his perfect place in the world.

---

The Final Night

Kyle had everything he’d ever dreamed of—two jock brothers and a coach dad, their bodies and hearts bent to his will by the tome’s magic. But as the days wore on, a gnawing discontent settled in his bones. He’d crafted a perfect family, a perverse paradise of love and lust, but when he caught his reflection in the mirror—scrawny, unremarkable, a shadow next to the Armstrongs’ chiseled glory—it soured everything. He wasn’t one of them, not really. Not in the way he wanted to be. The tome, still hidden under his mattress, hummed with its final offer. Three spells per human, it had warned, before it would vanish forever. He’d used two—reality bending, heart binding. One remained.

Late one night, while Clive slept beside him, Kyle pulled the tome free. Its pages rustled as if alive, guiding him to a spell buried in the back: Soul Possession. The words were stark, immoral, promising to let him claim another’s body, their identity, their life—erasing them to make room for him. His eyes drifted to Clive, sprawled out in the dim moonlight, his toned runner’s body glistening with a sheen of sweat, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Clive’s jock perfection, his promising future as a track star, his effortless charisma—it was everything Kyle craved. Losing Clive as a lover stung, but taking his place? That was worth it.

He lit the candle, traced the runes, and whispered the incantation, his voice trembling with greed. The air grew heavy, but nothing happened. Disappointed, he crawled back into bed, pressing himself against Clive’s warm frame, and drifted off. It wasn’t until the dead of night that the spell ignited.

Kyle woke—or thought he did—to a sensation of weightlessness. His body shimmered, losing form, dissolving into a pulsing cloud of pure energy. He hovered, disembodied, above the bed, staring down at Clive’s sleeping form. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to flow. Tendrils of his essence slithered downward, seeking entry. They slipped into Clive’s mouth, curling around his tongue, tasting the musk of his breath. They poured into his nose, filling his lungs, and wormed into his ears, threading through the delicate canals. Lower, they ventured—sliding under the waistband of Clive’s briefs, seeping into his cock, hardening it as they invaded, and creeping into his asshole, stretching and filling him with a perverse intimacy.

The process was slow, sensual, a violation so deep it bordered on ecstasy. Inside Clive, Kyle’s energy spread, weaving through every blood vessel, every nerve, a warm, electric tide. He pushed deeper, seeking Clive’s core, his soul, his essence, and found it; a bright flickering spark. Kyle enveloped it, forcing himself inside, fusing with it until there was no separation. Clive’s knowledge flooded him—every race he’d run, every lover he’d taken, every rebellious outburst. His dreams, his aspirations, his thoughts. They were Kyle’s now, absorbed and owned.

On the bed, Clive’s body rebelled. His lean frame seized, muscles twitching violently, his head thrashing against the pillow. Sweat poured from him, soaking the sheets, his jock musk thickening the air as his limbs flailed. His cock strained against his briefs, leaking, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Then, with a final shudder the new core snapped into place. Kyle’s essence fully merged and Clive’s body stilled, limp and glistening in the moonlight.

Morning broke, and the new Clive woke. He stretched, relishing the taut power of his legs, the flex of his abs, the weight of his cock in his briefs. He slipped out of bed, leaving the damp sheets behind, and padded to the bathroom. The mirror greeted him with Clive’s face, and he stopped, breath catching. This was his now. Every detail, every curve, and he intended to savor it.

He leaned closer, hands trembling as they rose to his head. His fingers tugged at the wavy brown hair, thick and soft, pulling gently to feel the roots stretch against his scalp. It was wild, untamed, a runner’s mane, and he let it fall back into place, a slow smile spreading. His gaze dropped to the thin mustache framing his upper lip. He caressed it with his thumb, tracing its coarse texture, the bristles prickling his skin. It was Clive’s signature—roguish, bold—and he pressed harder, feeling the shape of his mouth beneath it. His tongue darted out, thicker than he remembered, heavy and warm as he ran it along his lips, tasting the faint salt of sweat. He pushed it further, curling it against the mustache, playing with its heft, a perverse thrill building in his gut.

He raised an arm, flexing the lean muscle, and buried his face in the pit. Clive’s jock musk hit him—sharp, earthy, a heady mix of sweat and testosterone that made his head swim. He inhaled deeply, letting it fill his lungs, his cock twitching in his briefs as the scent consumed him. With Clive’s vocal cords, he spoke, voice thick and resonant, a rumble that vibrated through his chest: “I love myself.” The words hung in the air, a declaration of ownership, and he groaned, the sound raw and primal.

Memories flickered—Ben in the shower, water slicking his chiseled frame, their bodies pressed tight, then locked in a 69 on Ben’s bed, sucking each other dry. Jared bursting in with breakfast, only to strip and beg Clive to fuck him, his hairy ass clenching around every thrust. The reality he’d crafted had followed him, woven into this new life. The sight of Clive’s face staring back, the musk, the voice, the memories—it was too much. His hand brushed his briefs, and he came hard, a hot, shuddering release that soaked the fabric, his knees buckling as he gripped the sink. He panted, watching the flush spread across Clive’s cheeks in the mirror. But it wasn’t enough. He needed to know more, to feel more.

He stood there, panting, and let Clive’s memories unspool in his mind, a torrent of sensation and sin. Clive jerking off in the shower for the first time, marveling at the power of his own body, the water slicking his lean frame as he came against the tiles. A summer night, lying shirtless on the roof with a boy from track, his hands on Clive’s abs, his mustache brushing the boy’s neck as he whispered filthy promises he’d never keep. And the dreams—Clive’s aspirations to go pro, to feel the wind on his face as he broke records, to fuck his way through every city he’d race in, leaving a trail of spent lovers behind. Every memory was vivid, visceral, a tapestry of sweat, sex, and defiance, and Kyle drank it all in, his cock throbbing anew as he claimed it as his own.

Clive—once Kyle, stepped out of the bathroom, his briefs still damp from his spontaneous release. The mirror had been a revelation, a slow dance of self-discovery that left him trembling with power and lust, but it wasn’t enough. His new flesh hummed with potential, every nerve alight with Clive’s vitality, and he craved more. He padded back to the bedroom, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex that clung to the sheets from nights of passion with his former self. The tome was gone, its third spell spent, but its legacy pulsed in his veins. This was his now—every inch, every scent, every shudder—and he intended to claim it fully.

The bed loomed before him, a tangled mess of stained fabric and jock stench, a testament to Clive’s athletic life and their shared mornings of perverse love. He crawled onto it, knees sinking into the mattress, and pressed his face into the pillow where Clive’s head had rested hours before. The smell hit him—sharp, tangy, a heady mix of sweat and testosterone that made his cock twitch anew. He groaned, low and guttural, and dragged his tongue across the fabric, tasting the salt of Clive’s essence, now his own. His hands roamed his new body, tracing the lean muscles of his chest, the taut ridges of his abs, and he marveled at the power beneath his skin—runner’s legs, a sprinter’s core, all his to command.

He flipped onto his back, briefs straining as his arousal grew, and raised an arm high. Burying his nose in his pit, he took a long, drawn-out whiff, savoring the jock musk that rolled off him in waves—raw, earthy, intoxicating. It was Clive’s scent, distilled and potent, and he inhaled again, deeper, letting it flood his lungs until his head spun. “Fuck, I love this body,” he rasped, Clive’s thick voice rumbling through his chest, a sound that vibrated with ownership. His hips bucked involuntarily, grinding against the bed, the friction sending sparks up his spine. He needed more—needed to feel this body break under his will.

He rolled onto his stomach, straddling the mattress, and began to hump it slow and deliberate. The sheets rubbed against his cock through the briefs, rough and teasing, as he thrust his hips, imagining every race Clive had run, every lover he’d fucked, every moment of this body’s life now his to relive. His breaths came in pants, hot and heavy, as he picked up the pace, grinding harder, the bed creaking beneath him. He lifted his ass high, thrusting into the air, muscles flexing—calves tight, thighs quivering, abs clenching—as he chased the edge. One hand gripped his hair, tugging at the wavy strands, while the other slid to his mustache, caressing it, feeling its bristles against his fingertips. His tongue lolled out, thicker and wet, licking at the air as if he could taste his own musk.

The pressure built, a molten coil in his gut, and he raised his arm again, shoving his face into his pit for one last, obscene sniff. The musk overwhelmed him, a primal trigger, and he lost it. With a guttural shout—“Fuck, yes! I’m Clive!”—he came, an explosive climax that tore through him. Jock semen erupted from his cock, thick ropes shooting out, splattering across his chest, the sheets, and—impossibly—arcing high enough to hit the ceiling in wet, dripping streaks. His body convulsed, hips jerking, as he rode the waves, smearing the mess across his abs with every shudder. The room reeked of cum and sweat, a shrine to his new identity, and he collapsed, panting, a grin splitting his face.

The door creaked open. His brother Ben and father Jared stood there, framed in the entrance, their faces frozen in shock and streaked with splatters of Clive’s cum. A dollop clung to Ben’s stubble, another dripped from Jared’s eyebrow. For a moment, silence hung heavy, then Ben swiped a finger through the mess on his cheek, bringing it to his lips. He licked it clean, slow and deliberate, a wicked smile curling his mouth. Jared followed, wiping the cum from his face and sucking it off his thumb, his eyes darkening with hunger. “Fuck, Clive,” Ben growled, voice thick with lust. “You’re a goddamn mess.”

They barged in, shedding clothes as they went—Ben’s basketball shorts hitting the floor, Jared’s sweatpants pooling at his ankles—revealing their muscular, sweat-slicked bodies. Clive, still sprawled on the bed, cock half-hard and glistening, didn’t resist. Ben dove first, pinning Clive’s wrists above his head, his tongue lapping at the cum on Clive’s chest, while Jared knelt between his legs, hairy coach frame looming as he took Clive’s cock into his mouth, sucking with a submissive fervor that belied his brash exterior. “My favorite son,” Jared mumbled around him, voice muffled, and Ben chuckled, nipping at Clive’s neck. “Favorite brother, too.”

Clive groaned, head tipping back, as they ravaged him—Ben’s hands roaming his pits, inhaling deeply, Jared’s throat working him with expert care. Round two stretched into a blur of flesh and moans, their twisted love consuming the room. Clive didn’t mind—couldn’t mind. This was the final ending he’d hoped for all along: The tome was gone, but Clive Armstrong was his, body and soul, and his family’s insatiable devotion sealed the deal. The bed creaked, the air stank of jock musk and cum, and as he came again, spilling into Jared’s eager mouth, he knew he’d never want for anything else.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

TALES FROM THE LEAKY COCK #3

Strength Exists to be Taken

Tobin the halfling hunched over his ale at the Leaky Cock, the tankard dwarfing his small hands. At three feet tall, he was a speck among the raucous crowd—humans, elves, and more, all towering over him like trees over a shrub. His clever fingers, nimble enough to pick any lock, felt useless against the weight of his own inadequacy. Sick of it—sick of the pats on the head, the laughs, the dismissive glances—he nursed his drink and dreamed of being more. The inn’s clamor grated on him tonight, every shout a reminder of his size.

A shadow fell across his table, deliberately blocking the light. Tobin glanced up, squinting at a cloaked figure—thin, angular, with hands clutching a parchment roll. The mage’s voice spoke, low and edged with secrecy. “You hate it, don’t you? Being small. This’ll fix that.” He slid the scroll across the table, its edges curling like burnt leaves. “One-time magic. Possession. Pick a body, step inside. No going back.” Tobin’s pulse quickened, but before he could ask a price, the mage melted into the crowd, leaving only a faint whiff of ozone behind.

He unfurled the scroll, its runes pulsing faintly—arcane, alive. A single use, with no return. His mind raced. Who? An elf, lithe and graceful? An orc, brutal and commanding? He clutched the parchment, possibilities sparking like flint on steel, until the inn’s door slammed open. A draconian strode in, ducking under the lintel, his presence silencing half the room. Seven feet of muscle and scale, crimson-hued, with eyes like molten gold. His leather vest strained against a chest of massive muscles carved from battle, and below, two bulges pressed against his trousers—dual cocks, a draconian’s pride. Tobin’s breath hitched. Him.

The warrior, named Varkis by the barmaid’s shout, claimed a stool that groaned under his bulk. Tobin watched, heart pounding, as Varkis downed a flagon in one gulp, scales glinting in the firelight. The halfling’s decision crystallized. Smallness had caged him too long—this was freedom, power, raw and undeniable. Who cared what happened to this Varkis, Tobin DESERVED that body. He slipped behind a pillar, whispered the scroll’s incantation, and felt the world lurch.

A rush of heat, a snap like breaking bone, and Tobin’s soul tore free. He glimpsed his own body slump—pale, tiny, a discarded shell—before slamming into Varkis. The draconian stiffened, a growl dying in his throat, and then Tobin was him. The inn spun, vast and small all at once, as he flexed hands larger than his own former head, scales rasping against each other. His heartbeat thundered, twin pulses surging below his waist. He stood, the stool toppling, and marveled at the weight of his new form—solid, unyielding, a fortress of flesh.

“Oi, Varkis, you good?” a human mercenary called, eyeing him warily. Tobin grinned, teeth sharp against his lips, and rumbled, “Never better.” His voice boomed, a bass that vibrated his chest, and he savored it. But the real thrill came lower. He shifted, feeling the heft of two cocks stirring, thick and eager, pressed tight against the leather. A jolt of lust coursed through him—his, not Varkis’s, though the warrior’s body answered as if he'd owned it all along.

He lumbered upstairs, steps shaking the boards, and locked himself in the warrior's room. Alone, he stripped the vest away, scales gleaming like embers, and ran clawed hands over his torso. Each touch sang��rough, electric, the texture of his own hide a revelation. Muscles bunched under his grip, power coiled in every fiber, and he laughed, a sound that rattled the walls. Then he unlaced the trousers, freeing his dual lengths. They sprang up, heavy and ridged, one atop the other, pulsing with need. His massive balls hung low, swollen and taut, a furnace of draconic heat.

Tobin wrapped a hand around the upper shaft, gasping at the size—his old fingers couldn’t have spanned it. He stroked, slow at first, marveling at the girth, the way it throbbed against his palm. The lower cock twitched in sympathy, brushing his thigh, and he seized it too, fingers grazing sensitive flesh. Pleasure crashed through him, sharp and wild, doubling with each movement. His tail lashed, cracking against the bedframe, as he worked himself faster, slick with sweat.

The sensation built, a storm in his core. He imagined the Leaky Cock’s patrons below—men who’d ignored him, now dwarfed by his shadow—and the thought fueled him. His upper cock wept fluid, thick and warm, dripping onto the lower, and he smeared it as his lube, groaning as the strokes intensified. The room smelled of musk and iron, his new scent, and he reveled in it. Release hit like a warhammer—both shafts erupting, ropes of seed painting his chest, his thighs, the floor. He roared, a draconian bellow, and slumped back, trembling with aftershocks.

Panting, Tobin, no, Varkis now, traced a finger along his taut muscled abdomen, still hard, still hungry. This body was his now—no more hiding, no more smallness. Downstairs, the inn’s noise swelled again, oblivious to the shift. He’d return, strut among them, let them feel his presence. But for now, he lingered, exploring every inch of this stolen form, knowing the mage’s gift had forged him anew—and wondering, faintly, what strings might still dangle from that shadowed hand.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

TALES FROM THE LEAKY COCK #2

"Possessed by Lust"

The Leaky Cock thrummed with life—tankards banging, voices slurring, and the occasional groan slipping from darkened corners. Kaelric, a cleric of the Lords of Light, entered with purpose, his white robes a stark contrast to the inn’s grit. His blue eyes narrowed, hunting the source of whispered tales: a void-touched orc, a lustful blight haunting the crossroads. A shiver ran through him—not entirely holy—as he adjusted the silver sigil of the Lord of Purity at his throat. Something in the air felt wrong, like a thread of rot beneath the ale and sweat.

A halfling at the bar, bleary-eyed, jabbed a thumb toward the road. “Aye, you must seek Gorzod. Orc’s holed up in that old homestead, mile out. Stinks like a beast and drags men off like a siren. Watch yourself—feels like death’s been sniffing ‘round there too.” Kaelric’s jaw tightened. Death? The word lingered as he stepped into the night, the homestead’s jagged outline rising against the moonlit sky. A faint hum prickled his senses, a whisper of magic not quite orcish, not quite natural.

Gorzod stood in the yard, a mountain of green muscle, shirtless and glistening. His scent hit Kaelric like a fist—raw, unwashed, a week’s worth of musky sweat amplifying his pheromones into a weapon. The cleric’s knees weakened, his cock stirring beneath his robes despite his prayers. Gorzod’s grin bared tusks, but his eyes glinted with a human cunning, a spark too dark for an orc of honor. “Here to save me, light-bringer? Or to taste me?” His voice carried a dual tone—Gorzod’s growl, undercut by a man’s smug drawl.

Kaelric raised a hand, golden light flaring. “I sense you, spirit. Release this orc, or I’ll cast you out.” His words rang firm, but his pulse hammered. The air thickened, and a shadow flickered at the yard’s edge—gone when he blinked. Gorzod laughed, a sound too polished, too gleeful. “Cast me out? You're welcome to pray, you’ll be on your knees anyway.” He stepped closer, and the pheromones drowned Kaelric’s senses, a tide of musk pulling at his will.

He chanted a theurgic ward, gold shimmering around him, but Gorzod lunged, seizing his wrist. A cold jolt surged through the touch—void magic, sharp and deliberate, like a puppeteer’s string. Kaelric’s ward shattered, and a mind-control spell sank into him, slick and invasive. His robes fell away, his lean body bared, and he dropped to his knees before Gorzod’s hulking frame. The orc’s loincloth hit the dirt, revealing a cock thick and dripping, a beastly thing Kaelric couldn’t look away from. The scent made his mouth water, his resistance crumbling.

“You’re mine, holy boy,” Gorzod rumbled, but the human lilt purred beneath it—a ghost, a man who’d craved flesh in life and found perfection in Gorzod’s form. This spirit had chosen the orc for his rugged jaw, his slabs of muscle, his pheromones that bent men like reeds. Kaelric’s hands moved, unbidden, caressing Gorzod’s thighs, tracing scars. His lips parted for the massive member, and the orc thrust deeply, filling his throat with heat and salty sweet precum. He gagged, then groaned, the spell twisting disgust into need.

The ghost drove Gorzod harder, hips pistoning, reveling in the cleric’s submission. Kaelric clawed the earth as the orc hoisted him, bending him over an old fence. The pheromones drowned him, and when Gorzod’s cock pressed inside, he didn’t fight—couldn’t, and wasn't sure he wanted to. The first thrust ripped a cry from his lips, pain melding with pleasure as the orc pounded him, relentless. “Scream for me,” Gorzod snarled, but the ghost whispered, “Scream for us.” Kaelric obeyed, voice cracking as Gorzod’s grip bruised his hips. A faint chill brushed his neck mid-thrust—not the wind, but something watching.

Time blurred—sweat, musk, the wet slap of flesh. Kaelric’s theurgy sputtered, golden flickers scorching the grass, but the void spell's grip tightened. Gorzod pinned him to the ground, rutting with abandon, until a shuddering release coated Kaelric’s hole in thick orcish cum. The orc slumped, panting, and for a heartbeat, his eyes cleared—Gorzod’s own soul pleading, “Help… me.” Then the human gleam returned, laughing low.

Kaelric staggered up, cum slick on his thighs, and summoned his strength. A radiant burst erupted from his hands, slamming into Gorzod. The orc roared, clutching his skull, and a shadow tore free—a human shape, leering, its edges fraying like smoke. It didn’t dissolve; it slithered, darting into the darkness with a hiss of amusement. Kaelric’s gut twisted—it wasn’t gone, only displaced, waiting. Gorzod collapsed, freed but dazed. Kaelric dressed, trembling, a dark stain blooming in his soul—lustful echoes he couldn’t silence.

Kaelric’s breath still came in ragged gasps as he adjusted his robes, the fabric sticking to his sweat-slick skin. The homestead yard lay quiet now, save for the rustle of wind through the overgrown weeds and that faint, persistent hum tickling the edge of his senses—something watching, waiting. Gorzod stirred on the ground, groaning as he pushed himself to his knees. The orc’s massive frame glistened under the moonlight, his green skin streaked with dirt and exertion. His eyes, clear of the ghost’s gleam, met Kaelric’s with a raw, unguarded intensity.

“You… freed me,” Gorzod rumbled, his voice thick but steady, carrying the weight of an orcish awe. He hauled himself to his feet, towering over the cleric, and took a step closer. The air shifted, heavy with that familiar musk—not as overpowering as before, but enough to make Kaelric’s pulse quicken and his cock twitch traitorously beneath his robes. Gorzod’s nostrils flared, catching the cleric’s scent, and a knowing smirk tugged at his tusked mouth. “Still feel me, don’t you, light-bringer?”

Kaelric’s cheeks burned, shame warring with the heat pooling in his gut. He opened his mouth to deny it, to cling to his vows, but the words caught as Gorzod’s pheromones coiled around him—subtle now, a tease rather than a command. The orc’s gaze dropped, lingering on the bulge straining Kaelric’s robes, and his smirk widened. “I owe you, cleric. Honor demands it. You’ve had me rough. Now take me as you please. Till you’re sated.”

The offer hung between them, raw and bold. Kaelric’s mind reeled—duty screamed retreat, but his body ached, still thrumming from the ghost’s violation and the orc’s relentless rutting. Gorzod stood there, unashamed, his thick cock half-hard again, glistening with the aftermath. The cleric swallowed, his theurgic sigil cold against his chest, a silent rebuke he ignored. “I shouldn’t,” he muttered, but his feet didn’t move.

Gorzod chuckled, low and rough, stepping closer until the heat of his body pressed against Kaelric’s. “Shouldn’t’s got no place here. Want me or not, human?” His hand grazed Kaelric’s arm, calloused fingers sparking a jolt through the cleric’s nerves. The pheromones thickened, a warm invitation, and Kaelric’s resolve snapped like dry twigs. He grabbed Gorzod’s wrist, pulling him toward the homestead’s sagging porch. “Inside,” he rasped. “Now.”

The orc followed, his bulk filling the doorway as they stumbled into the shadowed ruin. Dust motes danced in the faint moonlight spilling through cracked boards, and Kaelric shoved Gorzod against a wall, the wood creaking under the orc’s weight. His hands roamed, greedy, tracing the hard planes of Gorzod’s chest, the ridges of scars, the coarse hair trailing down his abdomen. Gorzod grunted, letting the cleric take the lead, his own hands resting lightly on Kaelric’s hips—a warrior yielding, for once.

Kaelric sank to his knees, driven by a hunger he couldn’t name. He gripped Gorzod’s thighs, thick as tree trunks, and took the orc’s cock into his mouth, tasting salt and musk. Gorzod groaned, head tipping back, his fingers threading into Kaelric’s hair but not forcing—just guiding. The cleric worked him with a fervor, lips stretching, tongue swirling, until Gorzod’s hips bucked and a low growl rumbled from his chest. “Fuck, human—eager now, aren’t you?”

He wasn’t sated—not yet. Kaelric rose, shedding his robes fully this time, and pushed Gorzod onto a rickety table that groaned under the orc’s mass. The cleric climbed atop him, straddling his hips, and guided Gorzod’s cock to his entrance. The stretch burned, deliciously so, and he sank down with a moan, taking the orc inch by inch. Gorzod’s hands clamped onto his waist, steadying him, and their eyes locked—gratitude, lust, and something unspoken passing between them.

Kaelric rode him hard, chasing release, the table rocking beneath them. Gorzod thrust up to meet him, each movement a jolt of pleasure that drowned out the whispers of guilt. The orc’s pheromones wrapped them both, amplifying every touch, every gasp. Gorzod snarled, his own climax building. “Give it to me, cleric,” he growled, and Kaelric did—shuddering as he spilled across Gorzod’s chest, the orc following with a roar, filling him with heat.

They collapsed together, panting, the table miraculously intact. Gorzod’s hand rested on Kaelric’s back, a rough comfort, as the cleric’s heartbeat slowed. “Sated?” the orc asked, voice gruff but warm. Kaelric nodded, breathless, but the air still hummed faintly—not just lust, but that same cold thread from before. He glanced toward the broken window, half-expecting a shadow to move, but saw nothing. The ghost was out there, unbound, and something—someone—still pulled its strings.

As Kaelric dressed, Gorzod watched, his pheromones a lingering tease. “You’re welcome in my bed any time, light-bringer. Debt’s paid, but I wouldn’t mind settling it again.” Kaelric managed a shaky smile with a blush, stepping into the night as Gorzod followed. The road to the Leaky Cock stretched ahead, but the darkness felt alive, whispering promises—or threats. Whatever had loosed the ghost wasn’t finished, and neither, he feared, was he.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

I've got a request- I want to have big and beefy muscles, big enough to start my own fitness influencer career! Getting to be big sweaty and musky would be a plus. Think you can help me out?

Big and beefy? You've come to the right place!

If you want to end up as a fitness influencer though we need a solid, lifelong foundation in fitness to set you up properly though. Right back to when you were a teenager probably, just to make sure you're really set up for your new life.

Something like this to really give you that jock foundation you know? And don't worry about the darker skin, it's just a side effect! Just see it as a way to give you some more character to stand out amongst the sea of white jocks.

Let's give you a good name too whilst we're here in your past too, one you'll be able to spin into a good, recognisable username for all your socials! How does Jayden King sound to you? Good?

If we're set there, why don't we let your life run its course and see how you end up shall we?

Instead of what life you've lived so far you probably dropped out of school and started working at the local gym. Maybe someone noticed you and suggested the influencer career or maybe you just did it yourself, but either way you ended up down that path. Showing off your body and your growth, offering advice and training for some people, maybe even taking part in bodybuilding competitions too.

Who knows, over the years maybe you quietly dropped an onlyfans too just for some extra cash? Honestly who can blame you! With how well you've developed over the years since we changed your past it'd be a crime not to show it off.

And so what if you forget to shower occasionally? You can only keep so many thoughts in that gorgeous jock head of yours after all, and building your body and your brand are obviously more important! Plus, the guys you hook up with from the gym clearly like it, so who's complaining?

Enjoy your new life!

[kylecrusoe-captions]

TALES FROM THE LEAKY COCK INN #1

The human Mage seduces the Orc Paladin.

(This one's a bit different than my usual stuff, hope you all like it! Inspired by a story I read on GSS but couldn't find again)

The Leaky Cock Inn was a riot of noise and bodies that night, its warped timbers groaning under the strain of a packed house. Tankards slammed together, voices overlapped in a drunken din, and the air hung thick with the stench of ale and travelers packed tight. Torin, a young human mage with a tousled mane of chestnut curls and a wiry frame built for spellbooks rather than swords, shouldered his way to the bar. His robes bore scorch marks from a botched fireball earlier, and fatigue dragged at his limbs. He tossed a scant handful of coppers onto the counter, meeting the innkeeper’s stare. “A room. Whatever’s left.”

The innkeeper, a barrel-chested man with a nose like a squashed root, grunted and fished out a key. “Last spot’s the only one open, boy. You’re bunking with an orc—big holy type from the looks of him. No whining about it.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial rasp. “Watch yourself, though. Orcs what ain’t washed in a while? They’ve got a musk—pheromones, they say. Hits humans hard. Turns proud lads into drooling fools, begging for a taste. You sure you can handle that?”

Torin’s mouth quirked into a sly grin. He’d spotted the orc when he entered, the paladin heading upstairs—massive, green-skinned, radiating a mix of piety and raw power—and felt a tug of attraction even then. “I’ve sniffed worse than an orc in my time,” he said, voice light despite the quickening of his pulse. “I’ll risk it.” The innkeeper shrugged, sliding the key across. “Suit yourself, mage. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Up the creaking stairs, Torin pushed into a cramped room, barely wide enough for its straw mattress and splintered table. Sir Vrothgar, an orc paladin, knelt in the corner, his deep voice rolling through a prayer like thunder over plains. His armor, etched with sacred runes, glinted faintly, and his forest-green skin shimmered with sweat. Standing nearly seven feet, he loomed over Torin, his black mane tied back, tusks catching the flicker of the room's lone lantern. He rose as the mage entered, offering a polite nod.

“Greetings, human mage,” Vrothgar said, his tone warm but edged with formality. He scratched at his neck, where sweat had soaked his undershirt’s collar. “I am Sir Vrothgar. The inn’s packed, so we’re stuck together. A warning, though—I’ve been on the march for weeks. No bath. My kind… we’ve got a scent. Potent stuff. Might trouble you. I’ll try to keep clear.” His yellow eyes darted aside, a rare unease softening his stern features.

Torin dropped his satchel, his gaze lingering on Vrothgar’s broad frame—the way his armor clung to muscle, the quiet strength in his stance. He’d felt a spark downstairs, and the warning only stoked it. “I'm Torin. Not too concerned,” he said, leaning against the table with feigned nonchalance. “I’m a mage—I’ve smelled fouler than any sweat in an alchemy lab. I’ll manage.” He flashed a teasing smile, though his heart thudded at the possibilities.

Night draped the inn, the clamor below dulling to a low buzz. Vrothgar began shedding his armor, his movements slow and deliberate, a ritual. The pauldrons were gently placed on the floor, then the breastplate, and lastly the under layer, revealing a chest thick with dark hair and corded muscle. He stretched, rolling his shoulders, and the air thickened—a raw, earthy musk unfurled, unfiltered from his exposed and hairy armpits. As he peeled off his greaves, the full brunt of his pheromones struck: a heady wave from his damp, matted armpits and a deeper, richer scent seeping from his groin, still encased in tight breeches. Torin’s breath snagged, his knees trembling as the aroma sank into him, primal and intoxicating.

His mind swam, desire flaring like a wildfire. He’d found Vrothgar striking before, but now his lust was urgent—his skin prickled, his fingers twitched, and a heat surged through him. “Gods below,” he muttered, stepping closer, robes swishing. “That’s… quite a presence.” His voice dipped, playful but laced with hunger. He edged nearer, testing the waters. “You’re a walking spellbook, Sir Vrothgar.”

The orc stiffened, gauntlets clutched in his hands, his brow creasing. “I warned you,” he said, guilt roughening his tone. “It’s not fair, my pheromones clouding you like this. My order demands control, demands I not take advantage. I shouldn’t let this happen.” He stepped back, pressing himself against the wall, as if distance could shield them both.

Torin wasn’t deterred. He sidled closer, his slim frame dwarfed by Vrothgar’s bulk, and let his voice drop to a coaxing murmur. "Control’s dull,” he said, brushing a finger along the orc’s arm, stopping just shy of that musky pit. “As a mage I've studied compulsion—I’d know if this was all you. It’s just… an invitation.” He tilted his head, locks falling into his eyes, and gave a sly wink. “I was eyeing you downstairs anyway.”

Vrothgar’s jaw tightened, his honor a fortress under siege. “You don’t understand,” he rumbled. “My vows—I swore to my god. This… this is a test I can’t fail.” His fists clenched, but his eyes betrayed him, flickering over Torin’s form.

The mage pressed his advantage, stepping so close his chest grazed Vrothgar’s thigh. “A test?” he purred, voice honeyed. “Then let me be the examiner.” He reached up, bold now, and traced the edge of Vrothgar’s breeches, tugging it slightly to expose more of that sweat-slick skin. “You’re not forcing me. I’m choosing this.” He leaned in, nose brushing the orc’s armpit, and inhaled deeply, shuddering as the pheromones hit harder. “Let me choose you.”

Vrothgar groaned, a low, tortured sound, his resolve cracking. “You’re mad, little mage,” he said, but he didn’t pull away. Torin seized the moment, slipping his hands over the orc’s torso, fingers dancing over hard muscle. “Mad’s my specialty,” he teased. The scent was potent this close to the orc's groin, and Torin’s knees nearly buckled, but he pushed forward, pressing his lips to the orc’s chest, tasting salt and musk.

“Please,” Torin whispered, voice raw now, shedding his robe to stand bare, his pale skin aglow in the lantern’s flicker. His arousal was plain, his body trembling with want. “Take me. Your god won’t mind a willing offering.” He sank to his knees, hands sliding up Vrothgar’s thighs, tugging at the breeche's laces.

That broke the dam. Vrothgar’s growl was feral, his honor drowned by need. He hauled Torin up—one massive hand under the mage’s tight ass, the other gripping his waist—and slammed him against the wall. Torin gasped, legs wrapping around Vrothgar’s hips, as the orc’s trousers fell. The full force of his groin’s musk crashed over them, and Torin’s hands clawed at green shoulders, pulling him in. Their mouths collided, fierce and sloppy, Vrothgar’s tusks scraping Torin’s face as his tongue claimed him. Torin moaned, grinding against him, the pheromones turning every touch molten.

The bed creaked as Vrothgar hurled Torin onto it, the mage sprawling eagerly. The orc loomed, stripping bare—his thick, veined length jutting free, dripping with sweat and heady scent. Torin reached for it, stroking, tasting, then dragged Vrothgar down with desperate pleas and a whispered incantation of a modified Grease spell to lubricate himself. The paladin sank onto him, slow at first, clinging to some shred of restraint, but Torin’s writhing—his slim body arching, his cries sharp—shattered it. Vrothgar thrust hard, the room shaking, Torin’s nails raking green flesh as pheromones consumed them.

Sweat and gasps filled the air. Vrothgar pinned Torin, taking him again, then flipped him to let the mage ride, hands gripping pale thighs. Torin bucked, orgasming without touching his rock hard cock. Vrothgar roared and released his potent seed into the human mage, its volume overflowing from Torin's ass. They collapsed, breathless and entwined. Dawn bled through the shutters, gilding their tangled forms. Torin traced lazy lines on Vrothgar’s chest, still buzzing from the scent. “You know, I'm looking to join a party,” he murmured, eyeing the massive orc hopefully. Vrothgar rumbled a laugh. “Aye, mage. But you’re bathing me first.” Torin grinned, plotting his escape from that task already.

-------------

Hey all! Hope this was enjoyable. It was definitely a really self indulgent project. I know I usually focus on TF stuff but I hope the pheromones were close enough to mind control to still fit my niche. I hope to do more fantasy themed stories with this Tales from the Leaky Cock series, and with abundant magic in this generic-dnd-but-erotic fantasy setting there's sure to be some good transformations in the future. (Also, if anyone wants to write their own Tale from the Leaky Cock, I'd love that!)

[kylecrusoe-captions]

Hey man, if you're still doing some requests can you make a story of a dying father swapped with his jock son to continue their family legacy? thanks!

The hospital room reeked of bleach and despair. Victor Grayson, 58 and crumbling under cancer’s weight, stared at his trembling hands—once strong enough to forge a multimillion-dollar empire, now brittle as twigs. Tubes tethered him to machines, their beeps a countdown to oblivion. Across the room, his son Vincent slouched, 21 and built like a goddamn linebacker—six-foot-two, shoulders wide as a barn door, thighs thick from years of squats. He scrolled his phone, oblivious, his tousled hair catching the light. Victor seethed. That body—his blood—wasted on a ungrateful punk.

Vincent had always been a letdown. Victor had clawed his way up from nothing, pouring every dime into private schools, trainers, opportunities—all for a son who’d rather chug beer with frat boys and crash Victor’s gifted Mustang than carry the Grayson name forward. “You’re a disappointment,” Victor had spat during their last fight. Vincent just smirked—“Whatever, old man”—and stormed off to another party.

Now, Victor rasped, “I’m not done.” His voice rattled like loose bolts.

Vincent glanced up, mid-text. “Chill, Dad. Docs say—”

“Shut it.” Victor’s skeletal finger hit a concealed trigger on the bedframe. A hum vibrated the room, air snapping with static. Vincent clutched his chest—“What the hell?”—and then it was over. The xAI prototype, a black-market neural swap rig Victor had bankrolled, did its job. Victor blinked, and suddenly he was staring at his own dying husk from Vincent’s towering frame.

He flexed his son’s thick fingers, marveling at the power. Vincent, trapped in the frail shell, croaked, “Dad, no—give it back!” His voice was a ghost’s whisper.

Victor-in-Vincent stood, rolling his new neck. “You never deserved this body,” he growled, voice now a rich baritone. “I’ll make it worth something.” He left Vincent gasping on the bed and walked out, the hospital fading behind him.

At home, Victor locked himself in Vincent’s room. The full-length mirror beckoned. He stripped off the sweaty tee and gym shorts, letting them hit the floor. There he stood—his son’s body, now his. Broad pecs flexed under smooth skin, biceps bulged with every twitch, and a trail of dark hair led down from his navel to a cock that hung heavy, thicker than he’d ever been in his prime. He grinned, running a hand over the ridges of his abs, feeling the taut muscle jump. “Fuck, this is mine now.”

His pulse quickened as he gripped himself, tentative at first, then bolder. The sensation was electric���decades of atrophy erased, replaced by raw, youthful heat. He watched in the mirror, mesmerized by the sight: Vincent’s chiseled face staring back, lips parted, eyes dark with lust—but it was Victor’s mind driving it. His hand moved faster, rough and deliberate, the strength in his grip a revelation. Every stroke sent a jolt through him, thighs tensing, breath hitching. He braced a hand against the glass, smearing it, as his new body responded with a vigor he’d forgotten existed. When he came, it was a roar—a primal, shuddering release that splattered the mirror and left him panting, grinning like a conqueror.

Vincent’s death in the hospital went unnoticed by Victor. The flatline sounded hours later, a footnote. Victor didn’t care. He had a legacy to live—one he’d carve out in this stolen flesh, starting with every pleasure it could give him.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

Can you write a story about a geeky guy who wishes to be strong and handsome (the opposite of what he really is) he becomes that but no one sees the new him and it doesn't show in the mirror. Maybe the wish is corrected or maybe he is stuck like that.

Elliot was the epitome of geek—19, scrawny, with greasy black hair and thick glasses that never stayed put. He spent his college days holed up in his dorm, coding or flipping through comics, a ghost to the jocks and cool kids who ruled campus. He despised his reflection—pale skin, bony frame, a face dotted with acne. One sleepless night, procrastinating on a CS project, he stumbled down an internet rabbit hole, landing on a crusty ‘90s webpage. Neon green text blinked against a black background: “WISHMASTER 3000 – ONE WISH, NO LIMITS.” A pixelated hourglass spun next to a text box. Elliot snorted—probably a scam—but typed anyway: “I wish I was strong and handsome, the opposite of what I am.”

He hit enter, and the page froze, that damn hourglass spinning endlessly. “Connecting…” flashed, then the screen flickered, modem screeching as the dorm’s shitty Wi-Fi dropped. A jolt zapped through him, like he’d touched a live wire, and his vision blurred. When it cleared, he felt… heavy. His shirt tore at the seams, chest swelling, arms thickening with muscle. He ripped it off, gaping at a body straight out of a fitness ad—broad shoulders, carved abs, biceps like steel cables. His hands traced his face: smooth skin, sharp jaw, full lips. He was gorgeous, a total stud. “No fucking way,” he laughed, voice low and rich. This was everything he’d wanted.

Then he glanced at the mirror. His old self glared back—skinny, pimply, pathetic. He flexed, feeling the power ripple, but the reflection showed a twiggy arm flailing. “What the hell?” He waved, and the mirror mimicked, but it was still that Elliot, not this new god. Panic clawed at him. He yanked on a hoodie and bolted to the hall, flagging down his roommate, Nate. “Dude, do you see this?” He gestured at his bulk, chest straining the fabric. Nate squinted. ��See what? You’re still a beanpole, man. You okay?” Elliot’s stomach dropped. The glitchy webpage had fucked him—made him strong and handsome, but invisible to everyone, even the mirror.

Back in his room, he stripped, desperate to understand. He felt it all—hard pecs, a thick cock swinging heavy in his boxers—but the reflection stayed frail. Anger mixed with a weird thrill, and he gripped himself, stroking fast. The sensation was unreal—big hands, bigger dick, pleasure crashing through a body only he knew. “Fuck this,” he growled, cumming hard, splattering abs he couldn’t see. It was hot, but infuriating.

Days became a mindfuck. He’d walk campus, feeling like a king—muscles flexing under baggy clothes, cock thick against his thigh—but no one noticed. He’d hit the gym, benching double his old max, while the mirror showed a weakling straining. One night, alone, he gave in—jerked off again, moaning as he flexed biceps only he felt, loving the secret power. He tried reloading the webpage, but it was gone—404 error, connection lost. The wish was stuck, half-granted, glitched forever.

Weeks in, Elliot leaned into it. Mirrors be damned—he’d grope his unseen abs, fuck his hand nightly, whispering, “I’m a goddamn stud,” as he came. No one saw the new him, but he felt it, trapped in his private glory, a ghost of strength and beauty with no way out.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

A college nerd finds some body swap pods in the dusty storage basement of the science building. He tries to lure hot athletes or frat bros down there... but does he know how they work?

(Big old body swap pods are my OG fave, thank you so much for this prompt, anon)

Henry was a college nerd through and through—21, lanky, with wireframe glasses and a mess of brown hair he never bothered to comb. He spent his nights in the science building, tinkering alone while the campus jocks and frat bros lived their golden lives. One evening, rummaging through the basement storage, he hit gold: two sleek pods, faintly humming, labeled “Neural Sync Prototype.” A worn manual claimed they could “exchange consciousness,” and Henry’s mind raced. He could slip into a hot guy’s body, live the dream for a night. After days puzzling over the tech, he was convinced it’d work: step in, sync, swap. Now he needed a guinea pig.

Todd fit the bill—22, a lacrosse god with short sandy blond hair, a sharp jaw, and a physique that screamed power. He was all frat-bro energy, the kind of guy who’d flex just because he could. Henry caught him after practice, pitching nervously: “Quick experiment for extra credit, beer’s on me after.” Todd, sweaty and bored, shrugged. “Yeah, whatever, nerd.” They trekked to the basement, the pods glowing softly as Henry mumbled about “brain scans,” dodging details. Todd peeled off his tank top, exposing a chiseled chest Henry couldn’t ignore, and climbed in. “Let’s get this over with,” he grunted. Henry took the other pod, hit start, and everything went dark.

Henry jolted awake, hands flexing—bigger, calloused. He looked down: Todd’s body, tan and stacked, lacrosse shorts snug around thick thighs. He laughed, Todd’s deep voice rumbling out. “Holy shit, it worked!” He ran a hand over his new abs, cock twitching at the thrill. Then the second pod hissed open, and Henry’s old body stepped out—scrawny, glasses crooked, exactly as he’d left it. But the eyes locked on him, wide with shock. “Wait—what the fuck?” came his own voice, high and shaky.

Henry-in-Todd froze. “You’re… me?” Henry-in-Henry stumbled forward, staring at his hands, then at Todd’s body. “I thought we’d swap! You’re in Todd—how am I still here?” They both gaped, scrambling for the manual, flipping pages in a frenzy. The truth hit like a brick: “Neural sync complete—consciousness duplicated, original preserved.” The pods hadn’t swapped them—they’d copied Henry’s mind into Todd’s body, overwriting Todd entirely, leaving two Henrys standing there, stunned.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Henry-in-Todd muttered, flexing Todd’s arms, still reeling. Henry-in-Henry adjusted his glasses, voice trembling. “We’re both me. Todd’s just… gone.” They stood in silence, the hum of the pods mocking them. Then Henry-in-Todd caught his reflection—Todd’s perfect face, smirking back—and a spark flickered. “Well… we’ve got this body now,” he said, voice low. Henry-in-Henry glanced over, eyes tracing Todd’s abs, and nodded slowly. “Yeah. Might as well see what it’s like.”

They didn’t overthink it. Henry-in-Todd tugged down the lacrosse shorts, Todd’s thick cock springing free, already stirring. Henry-in-Henry stepped closer, nerdy hands hesitant but curious, wrapping around it. “Fuck, it’s unreal,” he whispered, stroking slow. Henry-in-Todd groaned, the dual sensation hitting hard—his mind feeling it from both sides. “Keep going,” he rasped, guiding his old body’s head down. Henry-in-Henry sank to his knees, lips parting, taking Todd’s cock in with awkward eagerness.

They moved together, two Henrys lost in the shared rush—one reveling in Todd’s power, the other tasting it. Henry-in-Henry sucked harder, glasses fogging, while Henry-in-Todd thrust shallow, hands gripping his own hair. It built fast—Henry-in-Todd came with a growl, spilling into his old mouth, and Henry-in-Henry swallowed, flushed and dazed. They collapsed, Todd’s body slick with sweat, Henry’s old frame panting beside it.

"Not what I planned, but fuck me I'm not disappointed," said Henry-in-Henry, clinging to Todd's stolen body.

Henry-in-Todd held him close, enjoying the strength he had. "Can't wait to see what else we can get up to with these pods," he chuckled with a menacing grin.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

How about a story where someone finds a genie and wishes to be closeand personnal to his celebrity crush only to be trapped as the celebrity penis, or armpits, or pubes, withotu the star knowing at all. And the fan is still sentient and begs fro this to stop because this wasn't what he asked for at all. Bonus points if it's Charlie Puth or Gavin leatherwood :D

Evan was obsessed with Gavin Leatherwood—those dark curls, that brooding stare, the way his voice purred in every interview. At 25, Evan had spent years fantasizing, his apartment plastered with posters, his phone loaded with fan edits. So when he stumbled across a dusty brass lamp at a flea market, its vendor whispering it held a genie, Evan didn’t hesitate. He bought it for ten bucks, raced home, and rubbed it hard, half-expecting nothing.

Smoke billowed, and a genie emerged—tall, shimmering, with a smirk that promised trouble. “One wish,” it said, voice like silk. Evan’s heart raced. “I want to be close and personal with Gavin Leatherwood,” he blurted, imagining late-night talks, brushing shoulders, maybe more. The genie’s eyes glinted. “Granted.” A snap of its fingers, and Evan’s world dissolved.

He came to in darkness, warm and confined, a strange weight pressing around him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see—only feel. Panic surged as he realized he wasn’t with Gavin—he was something else. Flesh pulsed around him, alive, and a faint heartbeat thrummed nearby. Then it hit: he was Gavin’s cock, nestled snug in tight briefs, sentient and trapped. “No—no, this isn’t what I meant!” Evan screamed, but his voice was silent, a desperate echo in his own mind. He could feel everything—the fabric hugging him, the heat of Gavin’s body—but he had no control, no way out.

Across the country, Gavin woke up in his LA apartment, oblivious. Sunlight streamed through the blinds as he stretched, groaning softly. Evan felt it—the shift of muscle, the flex of thighs—as Gavin rolled out of bed, scratching his chest. Then Gavin’s hand dipped lower, brushing over his briefs, and Evan jolted, a rush of sensation flooding him. “Fuck, stop—please!” Evan begged, unheard, as Gavin yawned and shuffled to the bathroom, morning wood stirring.

Gavin peeled off his briefs, and Evan got his first “view”—or rather, felt the cool air hit as he dangled free, thick and heavy between Gavin’s legs. The mirror reflected Gavin’s sleepy smirk, but Evan was stuck staring up from below, a helpless extension of the man he’d idolized. Then Gavin’s hand wrapped around him, casual and firm, and Evan’s pleas turned to static. “Not this—genie, undo it!” he wailed, but the genie was long gone, wish fulfilled in its twisted way.

Gavin leaned against the sink, eyes half-closed, and started stroking. Slow at first, a lazy rhythm—his grip tightened, thumb swiping over the tip, and Evan felt every nerve ignite, pleasure crashing through him against his will. “No, no, I don’t want this!” he screamed, but his protests drowned in the heat building inside. Gavin’s breath hitched, pace quickening, and Evan couldn’t escape the flood—every tug, every pulse, forcing him deeper into the role. Gavin groaned, low and rough, as he came, spurts landing in the sink, and Evan shattered with it, a forced orgasm ripping through his trapped consciousness.

Gavin cleaned up, oblivious, tucking Evan back into fresh boxers like nothing happened. “Genie, you bastard—fix this!” Evan raged, but silence answered. He was stuck, sentient and suffering, feeling every shift as Gavin went about his day—walking, sitting, the occasional adjustment driving Evan mad. The genie had abandoned him, wish warped beyond repair, leaving him as Gavin’s cock with no hope of escape.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

So happy to see you are taking commissions!! Just read your gif trap story and it's probably one of the hottest things Ive read in a long time. Can you do a part 2 where he stills try to fight but end up in a new gif loop even more degrading which further his mind assimilation even further?

Jack thought he’d endured the worst in Prison Break: Ultimate Challenge—his first level as a twunk in that green wrestling singlet, forced to flaunt his body until his mind frayed. He’d barely scraped by, hoping for release, but as he slumped in the virtual haze, the headset’s digitized voice cut through: “Challenge failed. You have lost your first life. Proceeding to Level Two.”

The world lurched, and Jack landed on a cold, tiled floor in a steamy household bathroom. A wide mirror stretched before him, reflecting a nightmare: he was tinier now, a fragile twink barely five-foot-six, his once-jockish bulk erased. His new body was smooth and slight, wrapped in tight gray sweatpants that clung to his hips, outlining a bulge that felt humiliatingly exposed. His reflection stared back—big eyes, pouty lips, a stranger he hated.

Two jocks materialized, silent and towering. The dark-haired one on his left wore black sweatpants, his thick frame rippling with muscle. The blond on his right, buzzcut sharp, filled out navy sweatpants, his quads massive. Their eyes pinned Jack in the mirror, and the voice droned: “Adapt or repeat. Survive the loop to advance.”

Jack’s body betrayed him instantly. His hips swayed, hands sliding down his sides to frame his bulge as he bent forward. The dark-haired jock’s hand clamped onto his ass, kneading it through the sweatpants, while the blond’s fingers grazed his cock, stroking slow and firm. “No—fuck this, stop!” Jack yelled, voice shrill, but his body arched into their grip, ass pushing back, hips rolling like he wanted more.

The loop locked in. The jocks’ hands roamed—silent, unyielding—one squeezing his ass until the fabric stretched thin, the other rubbing his bulge, a damp patch spreading. “I’m not this—get off!” Jack shouted, thrashing inside his head, but his reflection smirked, hands tracing the blond’s chest, feeling the heat through his sweatpants. His protests echoed uselessly as the rhythm took over—ass groped, cock teased, body swaying in sync with their touch.

The mirror captured every degradation: Jack’s tiny frame dwarfed between them, the jocks’ hands claiming him, sweatpants tenting as they pressed closer. He fought, screaming No! internally, but his mouth stayed slack, breath hitching as his cock pulsed, leaking more. The dark-haired jock yanked Jack’s waistband down just enough to expose his ass, palming the bare skin, while the blond ground against him, friction searing through the fabric. Jack’s mind rebelled—he’d been a straight jock, not this—but his body shivered, drowning in the forced heat.

Loops stacked—ten, twenty, a hundred. “Adapt or repeat,” the voice intoned. Jack couldn’t, wouldn’t, but his resistance splintered. His hips moved with their hands, a moan slipping out, raw and real. The jocks stayed mute, their touch relentless, and Jack’s fight faded, his reflection a slutty shell he couldn’t break.

“Level Two failed,” the voice announced. “Proceeding to Level Three.” The bathroom flickered, tiles melting into darkness, but the loop didn’t stop. The jocks’ hands tightened—one pinching his ass, the other stroking faster—and Jack’s voice cracked, “No, wait—!” as the world shifted, leaving him trapped, still swaying, still lost, with no end in sight.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

How about two brother’s who swap ages, but the new younger brother starts to forget he was the older brother.

Tyler and Gabe were brothers, four years apart and stuck in the usual sibling rut. Tyler, 28, was the older one—rugged, broad-chested, with a scruffy beard and a loud, take-charge attitude that Gabe had always envied. Gabe, 24, was wiry, smooth-faced, and perpetually in Tyler’s shadow, his dark hair a mess and his energy quieter but restless. They’d drifted apart over the years, but one night, digging through their late grandpa’s attic for kicks, they found something that changed everything: a tarnished medallion, glinting under the flicker of a bare bulb.

Tyler, three whiskeys deep, tossed it to Gabe with a grin. “Make a wish, loser.” Gabe caught it, smirking through his own buzz. “Fine. I wish I was the older one for once.” The medallion flared, a jolt of heat spiking through them both. The room spun, and when it settled, they weren’t the same.

Tyler staggered up, feeling off—lighter, weaker. His hands were smoother, no scars from years of roughhousing. His jawline softened in the cracked attic mirror, beard gone, face boyish and familiar: he looked 24 now, like a rewind of his own past, all lean muscle and youthful glow. Gabe, meanwhile, groaned as he stood, taller than before. His frame had thickened—shoulders wider, chest fuller, a faint stubble dusting his once-smooth face. He looked 28, a preview of his future self, rugged and solid like Tyler used to be. The medallion had regressed Tyler and aged Gabe, leaving them staring at each other in shock.

“The fuck?!” Tyler’s voice cracked, higher than he liked. Gabe flexed his new bulk, smirking. “Guess I’m the big brother now.” The medallion lay dead on the floor—no reversing it. But the shift went deeper than they expected.

Tyler’s mind started slipping fast. Memories of being 28—of lording over Gabe, of his old swagger—faded like a dream he couldn’t hold onto. He caught himself acting younger, craving dumb shit like sour candy instead of beer, his thoughts buzzing with a horny, reckless edge he hadn’t felt since his early twenties. Gabe noticed it too, his new 28-year-old presence growing cockier, more dominant, as Tyler regressed into a version of himself that didn’t remember being the older one.

It simmered for days. Tyler, now 24 in body and mind, kept stealing glances at Gabe—his brother’s new stubble, the way his shirt strained over broader shoulders. Gabe caught him one morning, shirtless in the kitchen, and leaned in close. “What’s with you, kid?” Tyler’s cheeks burned, his regressed libido kicking into overdrive. “Nothin’,” he muttered, but his gym shorts betrayed him, tightening as he shifted. Gabe’s grin turned wicked. “You’re a horny little shit now, aren’t you?”

The tension broke one night. They were roughhousing over the last slice of pizza, Gabe’s new strength pinning Tyler to the couch. Tyler wriggled, ass brushing Gabe’s hips, and the air went thick. Gabe’s grip hardened, voice dropping. “You want something, don’t you?” Tyler, mind blank of his old authority, nodded, breathless. Gabe flipped him, yanking down Tyler’s shorts. That 24-year-old ass—tight, smooth, and eager—jutted out, and Gabe didn’t hesitate. He spat on his fingers, worked Tyler open, and slid in, his 28-year-old cock thick and relentless.

Tyler moaned, loud and shameless, legs trembling as Gabe fucked him deep. “Big bro—fuck, yes!” he gasped, hands scrabbling at the cushions. He didn’t remember being older, didn’t know he’d ever been anything but this needy, younger version of himself. Gabe pounded harder, loving the flip—Tyler wasn’t the boss anymore, just a slutty little brother taking it. Tyler came first, splattering the couch, and Gabe finished inside him, growling as he claimed the new dynamic.

After that, it was set. Tyler forgot he’d ever been 28, his regressed self fully settled—eager, submissive, always ready for Gabe’s next move. Gabe didn’t correct him. Why would he? He liked being the older one, the one in charge, with a horny little bro who’d never know the truth.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

Would love to see a story where someone forces hypnosis on someone and then put triggers in him without the dude knowing. Then when he takes his hand for exemple, the dude starts to cum without knowing why, or when he scratch his nose, he feels like he is getting fucked and loves it, even though he's never been fucked before.

Ethan was a no-nonsense guy—27, built like a gym rat, and perpetually skeptical of anything he couldn’t punch or lift. So when his coworker, Miles, a wiry little geek with a creepy grin, invited him to “test some cutting-edge relaxation tech” after hours, Ethan rolled his eyes but agreed. Free beer was promised, and he wasn’t one to turn down a buzz. They met in Miles’ cluttered basement office, a mess of wires and screens. Miles handed him a headset, muttering something about “alpha wave syncing.” Ethan shrugged, downed a swig of IPA, and strapped it on.

“Ready?” Miles asked, fingers dancing over a keyboard. Ethan grunted a yes, and the world went black. A low hum filled his ears, then a voice—smooth, insistent, burrowing into his skull. “Relax. Let go. Open.” Ethan tried to scoff, but his body sank into the chair, heavy and limp. He didn’t notice Miles’ grin widen as the real program kicked in.

Hours later, Ethan woke up, headset off, beer still in hand. “That it?” he mumbled, feeling oddly refreshed. Miles nodded, all innocence. “Just a trial run. Tell me if you feel anything weird.” Ethan flipped him off and left, oblivious to the seeds planted deep in his mind.

The next day started normal. Ethan hit the gym, showered, and grabbed coffee with his buddy Nick. They were mid-conversation when Nick reached across the table, casually taking Ethan’s hand to check the time on his watch. The second their skin touched, Ethan’s world exploded. A hot, shuddering wave ripped through him, cock twitching hard in his jeans. He gasped, doubling over as cum soaked his boxers, unstoppable and sudden. Nick blinked. “Dude, you okay?” Ethan’s face burned, stammering, “Uh—spilled my coffee. Be right back.” He bolted to the bathroom, legs shaky, mind reeling. What the fuck just happened?

He cleaned up, chalking it up to some freak accident. But later, at work, it got weirder. Sitting at his desk, Ethan scratched his nose absentmindedly. Instantly, his body lit up—ass clenching like something thick and relentless was pounding into him. Pleasure spiked, raw and deep, flooding his senses. He bit his lip, stifling a moan, hips rocking involuntarily against his chair. He’d never been fucked, never even thought about it, but holy shit, he loved it. His cock throbbed, leaking through his slacks, and he gripped the desk, dazed and panting. A coworker glanced over. “You good, man?” Ethan nodded, voice tight. “Just—stomach thing.”

The triggers kept hitting. At the gym, a bro clapped his hand in a handshake—boom, Ethan came hard, nearly dropping a dumbbell. Brushing his nose during a meeting, he zoned out, ass tingling with phantom thrusts, barely hiding his grin. He didn’t know why, didn’t connect it to Miles, but each time felt better, hotter, like his body was rewriting its own rules.

Miles watched from afar, smirking. He’d coded the triggers perfectly: hand contact for instant orgasm, nose scratch for that sweet, fucked-out bliss. Ethan was clueless, a straight stud unraveling into a secret slut and Miles was the one pulling the puppet strings. He grinned thinking of phase two...

[kylecrusoe-captions]

Love your stories!! Do you think you oculd do a story where a guy is trapped by accident in a vitual prison in a gif and forced to do the same action in loop while he hates it? Like a straight guy forced to be fucked in loop in a twinky body by a muscular dude like his old self.

Jack was the epitome of a college jock—six-foot-two, muscled like a linebacker, and straight as they come. After a grueling football practice, he decided to blow off steam with a VR game his teammate had raved about. “Prison Break: Ultimate Challenge,” the label read. Sounded like a gritty escape sim—perfect. He plugged in, slapped on the headset, and hit start without a second thought.

The world shimmered, and Jack found himself in a dank, concrete cell. He flexed his hands, ready to smash his way out, but something was off. His arms were slimmer, his fingers delicate. He looked down and nearly choked. His bulky frame was gone, replaced by a lean, blonde twunk’s body—smooth, tanned, and undeniably pretty. Worse, he was stuffed into a tight green wrestling singlet that hugged every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination. His reflection in a grimy mirror smirked back: pouty lips, bright blue eyes, and a vibe that screamed very gay.

“What the hell is this?!” he barked, but his voice came out high and flirty. Before he could freak out further, a cold, digitized voice cut through: “Welcome to your loop. Complete the sequence to escape.”

Sequence? He didn’t have time to question it—his body took over. His legs kicked up, bending impossibly until his feet framed his head, the singlet stretching taut across his ass. He couldn’t stop it; his hands gripped his ankles, thrusting his hips forward to show off the plump, rounded cheeks outlined in green. Heat flooded his face as he caught his reflection—slutty, shameless, and way too into it. Then his body shifted, folding forward, sliding across the floor on his knees. The singlet pulled tighter, his prominent bulge pushing against the fabric, impossible to ignore. He froze there, posed like some pornographic gymnast, ass up, package out, trapped in the display.

“Stop—fuck, stop!” he yelled, but the loop reset. Legs up, ass out, slide forward, bulge front and center. Over and over. The prison pulsed with a low, thrumming beat, syncing with his forced rhythm. His straight jock brain recoiled—he’d never even glanced at a dude, let alone flaunted himself like this—but his body didn’t care. The singlet rubbed against him with every move, the friction sparking sensations he couldn’t shake. His ass felt exposed, his bulge throbbed under the spotlight of his own shame, and each cycle chipped away at his resistance.

The voice returned: “Adapt or repeat.” Adapt? To this? He fought harder, but the loop was relentless. Legs up—his flexibility mocked him. Slide forward—the bulge strained, hot and heavy. By the dozenth cycle, his protests dulled. The rhythm sank in, and his hips started rolling with it, not against it. His hands lingered on his thighs, tracing the singlet’s edges. The twunk’s body wasn’t just a prison—it was a tease, and Jack was losing the battle.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

Feeling creative, inbox is open for story/caption requests! I'll be honest, if you've got a unique idea or unique characters I'm gonna be more likely to pick it up. But any idea is welcome.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

I love your posts dude! Do you think that you could swap me, a small 30 ish gay guy, with a big horny muscular and hairy daddy?

The air feels dense when you wake, warm and close, pressing against your skin in a way that’s new. Your head buzzes briefly, a faint disorientation swirling behind your eyes, but it fades fast. This isn’t your bed—the sheets are rougher, bunched around limbs that don’t belong to you. You shift, and the weight of your body hits you like a punch. It’s not your slim, light frame anymore. This is something solid, heavy, radiating a strength that hums in your bones.

You sit up, the bed groaning under you, and look down. Your chest is wide, carved with muscle, covered in a generous spread of dark hair—not overwhelming, but enough to mark it, curling across your pecs and trailing down to a stomach that’s firm, etched with power. A masculine, musky scent rises off you, earthy and raw, filling your lungs as you breathe. You flex your hands, and they’re big, rugged, with a dusting of hair over the knuckles, fingers strong enough to grip hard and hold tight.

Your legs slide off the bed, thick and sturdy—thighs packed with muscle, calves hard and defined, hair running down them in a steady, masculine sweep. Standing shifts everything; you’re taller now, the floor distant, your balance rocked by this new bulk. Every move carries weight, a force you’re not used to wielding.

A heat surges through you, deep and primal, igniting in your core and pulsing outward. It’s more than size—it’s a restless, living energy, your skin alive with it. You lurch toward a mirror across the room, footsteps heavy, and when you see yourself, your breath snags.

The man staring back is a tower of muscle—six-foot-three, shoulders broad enough to dominate a room, jaw sharp and shadowed with rough stubble. Your eyes burn with a dark, hungry edge. That musky smell clings to you, sharper now, a potent mix of sweat and man that makes your head swim. You run a hand over your face, feeling the scratch of short hairs, then down your chest, fingers catching in the coarse strands. They’re spread evenly, a rugged layer that screams masculinity, warm under your touch, sending a spark straight through you.

Your gaze drops, and the briefs you’re wearing—tight, foreign—barely contain the bulge beneath. It’s heavy, thick, pressing against the fabric with a weight that demands notice. You shift your hips, feeling it roll with you, and the ache that flares is fierce, a raw need that tightens your gut. This body doesn’t just stir—it roars, every sensation dialed up, every nerve primed.

You flex your arms, biceps swelling, veins threading under the skin. The strength is there, steady and sure, a quiet power that feels unbreakable. Your hands roam, tracing the hair that runs from your chest to your navel, dipping lower. You brush it, and the jolt is instant, your cock jerking with a hunger that’s almost too much. This body’s alive, responsive, every touch a match to dry wood.

You turn, and as you remove the underwear you're eyeing the profile—the thick neck, the solid chest, the ass that’s tight and strong, faintly haired. You clench it, muscle flexing, and a low growl rumbles out, deep and resonant, shaking your frame. It’s not your voice—it’s his, this big, horny daddy you’ve become.

Then it hits you. Last night, scrolling that male transformation blog on Tumblr, you’d tossed out a comment—half a dare, half a plea—asking for a swap, something big, hairy, dripping with masculinity. You’d always devoured the posts, the fantasies, never imagining the guy running it could weave real magic. But here you are, steeped in that musky scent, wrapped in this body you’d only dreamed of.

Your lips twist into a grin, rough and eager. You don’t know how long this lasts, or what’s happening in your old skin. Right now, it doesn’t matter. You flex again, soaking in the heat, the hair, the sheer power. This is yours, and you’re diving in headfirst.

[kylecrusoe-captions]

Unraveling the complex process involved in writing erotic stories (Anomanly Archives, 2023)