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ANNOUNCEMENT: KO-FI
Hey there! I've now opened a Ko-Fi! Head to https://ko-fi.com/masterwolftfs and become a member for as little as £3 a month! As a thanks, you'll get access to exclusive stories and more.
Here's a little preview of the 6 stories already on there!
FOR THE BASIC SUPPORTER TIER: £3 MONTHLY
THE SALTWATER SHIFT (approx. 2k words): Martin is a typical office worker, desperate to cling to his youth. But an encounter with the captain’s robe on a cruise quickly helps him learn just how good it feels to let that DILF out in the open, and to let his age shine…
THE CHAV CONVERSION (approx. 2k words): Oliver is sick of working his boring, spreadsheet ridden office job. Desperate for some fresh air during a particularly bad shift working from home, he heads out for a walk, and finds some chavvy clothing ready to show him how to have some real fun…
THE KING'S CALL (approx. 8k words): Ewan is a rebel against King Theron, desperate to rally a cause against the unjust king’s tyranny. But after being captured by some of his knight’s, he soon finds out just how loyal he can truly be, and uses that newfound loyalty to make some loyal knights of his own…
FOR THE BONUS STORIES TIER: £5 MONTHLY
NORDIC RESURGENCE (approx. 4k words): After David wins a ticket to the “Ultimate Vikings Fan Experience” and gets to hold the famous Sword of Kings belonging to Bjorn Ironside, he finds the sword channelling its energy into him, transforming him into the actor that portrayed that character, Alexander Ludwig.
[ASMR] BIG DUMB BF TUCKS YOU IN & HELPS YOU SLEEP (approx 2k words): Oliver is struggling to sleep, ridden with insomnia. After searching on youtube for something, anything to help him drift off to sleep, he finds a video that leaves him a completely new man, and he’ll never have trouble sleeping again…
GET A KILT ON YE (approx. 2k words): Malcolm is bored and desperate for an escape from his boring work and life. After getting sick of searching for holiday destinations, he opens an old box from his deceased uncle, finding a kilt inside. Putting it on shows him what it means to be a true Scotsman, and gives his uncle a new lease o’ life…
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I'll be releasing stories monthly over on the ko-fi, with the occasional extra being released outside of that! You'll also be able to vote on and suggest stories for the ko-fi too!
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The bass from Club Pandemonium was a thrumming wave of pressure that vibrated the sidewalk under Julian’s expensive loafers. A queue of people snaked around the block, a kaleidoscope of desperate glamour and calculated cool. Julian surveyed it with the detached contempt of a predator scanning a watering hole. At twenty-eight, he was a rising star at his father's corporate company, his custom-made suit a deeper black than the night, his Rolex catching the neon light like a wink. He smelled of perfume, and cold-pressed espresso. Tonight’s path led past the bouncers – necessary obstacles, like toll booths on the highway to pleasure.
The bouncer wasn’t a man; he was a landmark. Six-foot-five of scarred, dense muscle packed into a stretched-black security shirt. His shaved head gleamed under the club’s pulsing lights, a topographical map of old violence etched into the scalp. His flint-grey eyes scanned the crowd with bored lethality. His neck was a tree trunk merging seamlessly with shoulders like battering rams. Hands like smoked hams hung loose at his sides, knuckles a constellation of faded white scars. He smelled… dominant. An aggressive signature cut through the perfume, sweat, and street food fumes: the acrid tang of cheap cigar smoke clinging to his leather gloves, and beneath it all, the deep, sweaty, primal musk of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated testosterone. It was the smell of controlled violence, of barriers enforced, of pure strength.
Julian, three vodka-sodas deep and buzzing with entitled impatience, watched Rex effortlessly deny entry to a group of overly enthusiastic frat boys. A sneer curled Julian’s lip. Dumb muscle. All brawn, no brain. Probably peaked slamming heads together in some backwater high school gym.

"Move it, pal," Rex’s gravelly voice cut through the din as he shifted his bulk, blocking Julian’s attempt to sidestep the queue. The voice was like rocks tumbling in a cement mixer. Julian’s carefully curated cool snapped. He shoved hard against Rex’s immovable chest. It was like pushing a brick wall. "Do you know who funds this dump?" Julian spat, his voice tight with privilege and vodka. "I could buy your pathetic existence ten times over before breakfast. Dumb muscle. Bet you peaked tossing hay bales before you graduated, you walking steroid ad!"
The air crackled. The club’s pulse seemed to skip a beat. Rex didn’t flinch. The bored lethality in his eyes ignited into something colder, sharper. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face, revealing a chipped front tooth. It wasn’t amusement; it was the grin of a shark scenting blood in the water. "Peaked, huh?" Rex rumbled, the sound vibrating deep in his massive chest. "Let's test that theory, suit." Before Julian could react, Rex’s hand, smelling strongly of smoke and sweat, clamped onto the front of his Tom Ford shirt. Fabric ripped like cheap paper. With terrifying ease, Rex lifted Julian clean off his feet and hurled him sideways into the dank, garbage-strewn mouth of the alley beside the club.
Julian slammed into a graffiti-stained brick wall, the breath exploding from his lungs in a pained wheeze. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Before he could slide down, Rex was on him. The bouncer’s massive forearm, corded muscle like braided steel cable beneath sweat-slicked skin, slammed across Julian’s collarbone, pinning him brutally against the cold, rough brick. Rex leaned in, his immense weight crushing, his face inches from Julian’s. The sensory overload hit Julian like a physical blow, a suffocating, intoxicating wave. He could only smell that deep musky scent emanating from Rex, worming its way into his nostrils and taking ahold of his mind.
"Peaked?" Rex growled, his hot, beer-and-tobacco breath washing over Julian’s face. Julian gagged, struggling weakly, his expensive cologne utterly obliterated by the scent. Rex ground his forearm harder, the rough texture of his security shirt scraping Julian’s cheek. "You think this is peaked, pretty boy?" Rex chuckled, a low, dangerous sound. "Let me show you what my peak really feels like. Let’s see how long you last."
Rex pressed his sweat-slicked armpit directly against Julian’s mouth and nose, a brutal, intimate suffocation. Julian’s eyes bulged in terror. He had no choice but to breathe. He inhaled deeply, desperately, sucking in the toxic, hypnotic cocktail of Rex’s essence. The complex equations of hedge funds, the social maneuvering, the carefully curated image - it all dissolved in the face of this brutal, overwhelming sensory reality. A terrifying, paradoxical euphoria began to bloom in Julian’s core, cold and heavy as a lead weight. A low, resonant hum started deep in his chest, syncing with the phantom thump of the club’s bass and Rex’s own powerful heartbeat vibrating through the crushing forearm.
A sickening, wet CRUNCH echoed in the alley as Julian’s spine, perpetually held in a posture of arrogant ease, violently reformed. Vertebrae thickened, fused, snapped ramrod straight, punching his shoulders back with brutal force. Clavicles flared wide, shoulder blades slammed together like armored plates. His rib cage expanded with a series of sharp pops, lungs forcing in deep, ragged breaths that tasted of Rex’s sweat and brick dust. He was pinned, yet he was growing, filling the space Rex crushed him into. The Tom Ford shirt tore further, seams screaming. A guttural groan, more pleasure than pain, escaped Julian’s constricted throat - the sound of structure imposed.
Blinding, blissful heat erupted within Julian. It wasn't fire; it was liquid power, molten iron pouring into his limbs. Across his back, trapezius muscles swelled into dense, mountainous slabs, bunching and knotting under skin rapidly thickening like hide. Deltoids erupted into cannonball curves, stretching the remnants of his shirt into useless ribbons. His biceps inflated, veins rising like blue highways beneath rapidly toughening skin. Forearms thickened into corded pillars of sinew and bone, the delicate tendons of a financier’s hand vanishing under burgeoning power. His pectorals bulged, pressing hard against Rex’s forearm. The sheer mass was incredible - dense, hard, functional power forged for impact, not aesthetics. He strained against Rex’s pin, not to escape, but to feel the incredible strength surging within him. Sweat - his sweat now, hot, salty, potent – burst from his pores, mingling with Rex’s on his skin, creating a new, shared musk.
Prickling heat ignited across Julian’s scalp. His meticulously styled hair darkened, coarsened, then vanished entirely as a brutal, gleaming buzz cut erupted, identical to Rex’s, rasping against the brick. Then the sensation became a wildfire, raging downwards, as thick, dark stubble exploded across his jawline and chin, coarse and untamed, framing a mouth forced into a hard, challenging line. His neck thickened visibly, tendons standing out like steel cables, merging with his broadening shoulders. A faint white line, a perfect match to Rex’s eyebrow scar, burned across his left brow.
A dense pelt of dark, wiry hair carpeted his swelling chest and exploded across his entire back, thickest between the shoulder blades. His forearms became furred, the hair thickest around wrists and elbows already looking capable of snapping bones. Scars bloomed: A jagged white line seared across his ribs (knife fight, 2015). A cluster of small, circular burns dotted his right forearm (cigarette ends, 2018). The knuckles of his enlarging hands cracked and thickened, old scar tissue forming instantly over the swelling knobs – a perfect match to Rex’s constellation of violence. He scratched his massively hairy chest, the coarse hair rasping gloriously under his thickening fingers. A deep, rumbling growl vibrated in his barrel chest – pure satisfaction. Intelligence felt like a foreign language. Think? Why think? Threat. Contain. Remove. His scent deepened: the potent, hormonal musk of a man radiating physical threat, layered over the primal, aggressive base note of Rex’s legacy. It mingled fiercely, indistinguishable now.
Pressure, relentless and crushing, remolded Julian’s refined features beneath the emerging beard and stubble. His defined cheekbones flattened into broad, weathered slabs. His nose thickened slightly at the bridge, nostrils flaring wide like Rex’s, constantly scenting for challenge. His lips thinned, permanently set in that hard, disdainful line or the challenging smirk Rex wore. Behind the newly scarred brow, Julian’s intelligent, calculating eyes hardened. The color deepened to flint-grey, losing their anxious dart, gaining Rex’s cold, assessing, perpetually bored-yet-dangerous stare. Permanently narrowed. Radiating impatience and latent aggression. He tried to scream, to beg, but his vocal cords thickened, coarsened. What emerged was a guttural grunt, deep and resonant, vibrating in his thickened throat. "Gnnngh!" It felt right. Solid. He forced air through the new pipes. "Off… me…" The words were clumsy, stripped of nuance, mirroring Rex’s gravelly bark. His vocabulary collapsed: Line. ID. Out. Trouble. Move. Complex thoughts dissolved into tactical imperatives. Julian Thorne? Vortex Capital? Portfolio? Meaningless static drowned by the phantom roar of a crowd being controlled.
As the physical transformation locked into place - his frame now identically massive to Rex’s, straining the materializing black security shirt, thick neck identical, scars perfectly mirrored, buzz cut gleaming under the alley’s single bulb – the mental rewrite detonated. Julian Thorne wasn't just forgotten; he was annihilated. Vivid, concrete memories, raw and visceral, flooded the blissful blankness, absolute and unquestionable. They weren't implanted; they were recovered. His memories: The satisfying weight of a gun under his arm - his weapon. Balanced. Familiar. Always. The smell of gun oil a comfort. The feel of his meaty fists gripping a squirming drunk’s collar before tossing him into the alley. The rasp of fabric, the jerk of resistance. The specific, comforting reek of "The Grind" - the pre-shift dive bar: stale beer, fried grease, cigar smoke, liniment, and the potent, mingled musk of the Malone twins and the other door guys. His bar. His crew. The taste of cheap whiskey, neat, burning a familiar path. The scar on his ribs? A flickering memory - the alley behind the bar, 2015. The glint of the shiv, the hot burn as it slid in, his own roar of fury, the satisfying crunch of the fucker’s nose under his elbow. Shoulda broken his neck. The cigarette burns, a haze of smoke, laughter, some idiot rookie thinking he was tough, pressing the lit end to his forearm. The searing pain, the roar, the table flipping, the satisfying thud of the rookie hitting the wall. Lesson learned. His busted knuckles. A bottle swung at his head. A drunk spitting on his boots. Some Wall Street prick shoving him… this prick… The crunch of cartilage, the spray of blood, the heavy weight of a body slumping. Just another night. Rex? Not his tormentor. His twin brother. His partner. His blood. The only person who truly understood the sacred code of the rope. The shared memories of countless battles, shared victories, shared pain. The unshakeable bond forged in spilled beer and spilled blood. The name surfaced: Rex Malone. It vibrated in his chest, solid. Real. His name. The suit? Not him. The enemy. Soft. Weak. Ugly. Intelligence wasn’t lost; it was a useless burden discarded. Dumb was clarity. Dumb was strength. The intricate calculations of Julian were not just gone; they were an alien, pathetic joke. Hedge fund? Hit the fund manager. Harder. Euphoria, pure and primal, surged through him. This wasn’t a change; it was remembering who he always was.
"Rex," he rumbled, the name a perfect fit, his voice now identical to Rex’s gravel. "Yeah. Rex." He grinned, the chipped front tooth a perfect match. It felt right. He was Rex Malone. The Bar’s enforcer. Rex’s twin. Simple. Strong. Unburdened.
Rex felt the change complete. He saw the understanding, the recognition, in the eyes that were now mirrors of his own. He slowly, deliberately, released the crushing forearm and stepped back. His new twin didn’t slump. He rolled his massive shoulders, the seams of his manifested security shirt groaning. He stretched his thick neck, the pop-pop-pop echoing Rex’s habitual crack perfectly. He looked down at his hands – massive, hairy, scarred knuckles mirroring his brother’s. Power hummed in every dense muscle fiber. He flexed, feeling the glorious, unthinking strength.
He looked at Rex, a slow, arrogant smirk spreading across his bearded face. It wasn’t Julian’s sneer; it was Rex's signature expression of contempt for the soft and the weak. His gaze dropped to the pile of shredded Tom Ford silk and the cracked platinum Rolex lying in a puddle of alley filth near his heavy, scuffed combat boots. A perfect match to Rex’s.
"Pathetic suit," he rumbled, his voice Rex’s twin. He nudged the ruined blazer with his boot. "Wanna bounce him, partner?"
Rex’s terrifying smile returned, wider this time, flashing his own chipped tooth. He pulled a cheap cigar from his breast pocket, bit off the end, and spat it onto the Rolex. He lit it with a battered Zippo, the flame reflecting in both pairs of identical flint-grey eyes. The smoke wreathed their matching shaved heads, their mirrored scars, their identical expressions of brutal satisfaction.
"Nah, Bro," Rex exhaled a plume of acrid smoke, clapping a massive hand on his twin brother’s equally massive shoulder. The scent of violence, cigar smoke, liniment, and their combined, aggressive sweat filled the alley – the signature of the Malone twins. "Looks like he already bounced himself. Welcome back, brother."
He grinned, the expression chillingly identical. "Feels good to be home, Rex." He cracked his knuckles, the sound like snapping twigs, perfectly synced with Rex doing the same beside him. They turned as one, two immovable mountains in black, and walked back towards the thrumming chaos of the club’s entrance. The velvet rope parted before them like the Red Sea. The line shrank back, instinctively sensing the doubled, unthinking, musky power radiating from the Twin Titans of the Rope. Julian Thorne was gone, erased by the scent of violence and the sweat of the man he’d mocked. In his place stood Rex Malone, perfect, loyal, blissfully dumb mirror of the original, ready to enforce the code. Together. Forever. The alley held only the fading echo of their synchronized knuckle-cracks and the potent, lingering musk of absolute, cloned authority.
This story was voted for by my discord members! Join below to take part in polls to determine what I write! Like my content? Support me on Ko-Fi! Join my discord! https://discord.gg/Hxsx2skf6b
#male tf#transformation#tf#muscle tf#dumber tf#male transformation#twinning tf#twin tf#clone tf#cloning tf#twin transformation#clone transformation#hypnosis#identity death#identity tf#personality tf#bouncer tf
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THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: THE BEAR PELT
"Old unwanted bear pelt. Good condition. Contact for details." The ad had been sitting on his saved browser tabs for days before @thisdamnedwierdinternet finally caved and sent a message. He’d been planning a Viking cosplay for an upcoming convention—something rugged, primal, powerful - and the idea of draping himself in a real bear pelt instead of some cheap faux fur had his pulse quickening. The response came almost immediately: "Come by tonight and it’s yours." The address led him to a weathered cabin on the outskirts of town, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. An old man with a grizzled beard and knowing eyes handed him the pelt without a word. The moment his fingers brushed the thick, coarse fur, a shiver ran up his spine. It was warm, soft, and the golden-brown hide was heavy in his arms. "Wear it well," the owner had murmured, before shutting the door.
The whole drive home, he couldn't help but keep thinking about the pelt, finding himself so eager to try it on. It only made sense then, that upon getting back home, he immediately ran to his room, spreading the pelt over his bed and running his hands across it. The fur was dense, strands thick and soft yet slightly coarse, and irresistibly touchable. The sensation of the skin on his hands rubbing against it was incredible, and he could already picture and feel it draped on his shoulders, the ultimate finish to his Viking warrior look. As if mad with anticipation to wear it, he stripped down to his boxers, the cool temperature of his room cauisng goosebumps to ripple across his skin, before lifting the pelt and settling it over his shoulders. The weight was perfect, grounding even. It made him feel stronger, like some mantle of primal strength. He shifted, the pelt's warmth seeping into his skin, the sensation causing him to tingle and itch slightly. At first, the feeling was just a faint prickle between his shoulder blades, uncomfortable like static electricity. But it soon slowly spread, a creeping heat sinking into his muscles, an uncomfortable sensation not unlike pins and needles. He instinctively flexed, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably. Had his shoulders... always been this broad? His reflection in the mirror against his wall caught his eye, making him freeze.
His frame was wider, or at least, the top half was. He looked bulky under the pelt, his chest clearly wider than before, looking almost comical compared to his still regularly sized lower half. His pecs were defined, a shelf jutting out above his gut. A gasp escaped him as the tingling wrapped around his sides into his core, causing his gut to solidify into a solid set of abs, defined and rock hard. "The fuck-" His voice was deeper, rougher. As he heard it, his head spun slightly, as if the sound of his own voice was doing something to his brain. Hadn't he always had a voice this deep? No, surely not, he'd remember it... right? But he did remember it, didn't he? His voice being deeper than everyone else's since high school, puberty hitting him early and causing that deep, gruff tone to be his main defining feature throughout his high school and college years. Well, that and his bulk of course.
The pelt almost pulsed against his skin, feeling like an extension of himself. It's furs seemed to wriggle into his pores, forcefully injecting him with testosterone, masculine energy, and... his hair was growing? A golden-brown carpet was spreading across his chest, looking almost seamless with the pelt against his bare flesh. It was thick, coarse, spreading in waves across his body, undulating outwards from where the pelt touched his skin. His arms darkened with the same dense pelt of fur, as they pulsed, and flexed, growing into two cannons of pure muscle. Heh, he thought. That's what you get for working out daily. Working out? He didn't go to the gym? Nah, he didn't. He lifted AXES and SWORDS and ARMOUR, like a REAL WARRIOR. The words echoed in his brain, in that same deep gruff voice he'd always had. Each one sent a shiver through him, the words cementing themself into reality, making sure they made themselves known to be fact.
His waist widened, his pelvis growing with raw power, his cock growing, pulsing, pleasure coursing through his body. It wracked his brain with even more waves of energy, thoughts, sensations, memories. His legs surged with power, becoming tree trunks of pure muscle. Perfect for carrying a true warriors weight, he thought. His feet surged, easily doubling in size to support the new pillars his legs has become. What was happening to him? He couldn't tell anymore. His jaw squared, stubble quickly growing out into an impressive manly beard (only REAL men have beards after all, he thought), and his face sharpening and growing more rugged and weathered. His hair itched, his hair thickening, worthy of a cheiftain like him. A cheiftain, he thought? But the title seemed right, as if his. He scowled, confused as contradicting memories and thoughts battled for control. Ultimately, the warrior would win, it was more worthy after all, especially with the pelt still injecting that addicting power straight into him, supercharging this new identity.
He gasped, his body thrumming with raw, endless power. He flexed, feeling his new strength, his stance instinctively shifting into something more dominant, predatory. His scent filled the air, earthy, musky, intoxicating. It smelt of home, of nights spent drinking horns of mead, hours of sparring with his men on the battlefield, of proving time and time again why he was the one in charge, the chief. His hand instinctively groped his cock, taking little stimulation to coax out a load, his cum splattering the mirror before him. It was a shame to waste his superior Viking seed on mere pleasure, but he deserved it after all, being the Chief was hard work. He flexed again, feeling the new personality completely devour the old, his new identity taking over forevermore. The pelt on his shoulders shifted, puppeting his movements, controlling him. It was him, and he was it. Forever.
#male tf#transformation#tf#muscle tf#dumber tf#male transformation#tf by clothing#bear pelt tf#viking tf#warrior tf#barbarian tf#viking transformation#hypnosis
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COMMISSIONS OPEN!
Heyo! I'm opening commissions! It's currently £2.50 per 500 words. Shoot me a message here or on discord (@masterwolftfs) if interested!
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THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: THE VIDEO CAMERA
The camera was listed as "Professional Vlogging Setup - Free. Barely Used." @bstumbelerr wasn't even looking for one. But when he saw the photo, a sleek black DSLR with a flip-out screen, and a shotgun mic perched on top, something in his brain itched. The description was vague too, "Got it as a gift, never got into filming. Sat in the attic for years, want rid."
It was definitely sketchy, a free professional quality setup easy worth multiple hundreds of dollars? But he figured what the hell, isn't like they can do much other than scam email him after all, so he typed out a message to the owner, and soon arranged a time to go collect it.
The guy lived a few towns over, a place where the streetlights flickered and everything seemed rough and dodgy. His apartment smelled like incense and old electronics. He didn't say much, just handed him the camera, allowing his fingers to brush against his hand for just a second too long. "You'll like it." He said matter-of-factly. Not 'Hope you enjoy it.' Not 'Good luck.'
"You'll like it."
Like he already knew.
He should've asked questions, but the camera felt right in his hands. Heavy, and important. He thanked the old owner and left.
That night, he set it up on his dresser, pointing at his bed. The red recording light glowed like an eye. He hit record, cleared his throat. "Uh... hey. So. Um... I guess I'm trying this whole vlogging thing?" His voice sounded different - deeper, smoother. His reflection in the flip-out screen looked... better. Sharper jaw. Brighter eyes.
He kept talking. About nothing. About his day, and how stupid it felt to film himself. But the more he spoke, the easier it got to keep going. And the weirder it got.
Because every time he glanced at that little red light, steadily staring at him, a rush of warmth spread through his chest. He felt proud, as if the camera was praising him. Like it wanted him to keep going.
He filmed again the next day, and the next. Soon it was just another part of his daily routine. At first, it was just dumb little updates - what he ate, what he watched, how work sucked and he hated his job as an office worker. But the more he recorded, the more he craved it. The thrill of the camera, the call of video. He wanted to do more. Maybe he should get into streaming, he absentmindedly thought. It was like the camera did something to him. When it was on, his alouch disappeared, his voice dropped, his jokes landed smoother. He started dressing better, standing taller. Smirking at his own reflection in the lens like he was some kind of star. And the best part? It felt natural. Like he'd always been this person. Like it was second nature. The camera was just reminding him of that.
Then came the night he forgot to stop recording. He left the camera running as he got ready for bed, stripping off his shirt, his pants, stretching. The camera, of course, dutifully captured every detail. His hairless chest, his weak skinny frame, his weak stature.
When he played it back the next day to review, his breath caught. Because the guy on screen wasn't him. At least, not quite. He moved differently. More fluid, more aware of the lens. And when he turned towards it, giving a cheeky flex and wink to it, his 'on-screen smile' was wider than he remembered. Hungrier. This was a man who knew he was hot, who felt like a god among men. They looked the same, but that confidence made him look so goddamn sexy. He should've been creeped out, but he felt thrilled, excited.
And that was scarier than anything he saw on the screen.
For the first time, he saw what the camera saw. And by god, it was better than the real thing in every way.
The next day, the camera's red light blinked at him like a challenge. "Go live." It seemed to whisper. "Let everyone see you." He swallowed hard, fingers hovering over the keyboard. He'd never streamed before, only even thought about it that one time as a joke. But that undeniable itch under his skin wouldn't go away - the same restless energy that had been endlessly building since he first hit record.
He clicked "Start Streaming".
"Yo! What's up chat?" His voice came out smoother than before, smoother even than on the recordings. It was as if the mic was tuning him to something better. But no-one was watching. YET.
Two hours in, his muscles ached, but not from gaming. It was a good ache, like he'd been working out for hours. His shoulders felt stronger, bulkier, and his grip on the controller was tighter. When he flexed his fingers and biceps between rounds subconsciously, they moved with a new kind of strength and precision.
He caught his reflection in the monitor. His hair was messier, but in that 'just-right' way that streamers always had. His eyes were brighter, green where they were once blue, locked onto the screen with an intensity he didn't recognise. And when he laughed at his own dumb jokes, it didn't feel forced lile usual. It felt... natural? Yeah, natural. Second nature.
Like he was finally becoming who he was always meant to be.
Like he was just reverting to his true form.
Around half-an-hour later, a new username popped up in chat.
xXGameMasterXx: yo u funny kek
His chest swelled. "Thanks, dude!" He grinned, leaning closer to the camera. "Stick around, I'm just gettin' started." The words spilled out without any thought. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Because the camera liked when he talked.
And so did he.
The next night, he streamed again. And again the next, every day for a week straight. Each stream, new followers, each day, new confidence. The more he did it, the better he felt. The more right he felt. He found himself responding faster to the games he played, his reflexes improving, becoming more honed. His aim imprived, headshits got easier to hit, his thumbs moving faster than he could think on the joysticks and buttons. Hus voice slowly over the days dropped into an even smoother, buttery, playful rhythm, like he'd been doing this for years.
Had he?
He finished up the stream for the day, smiling proudly at his 30 follower count, and shuffled to the living room of his apartment. His roomate frowned at him. "Are you... working out?" He smirked around a mouth of food, "Nah. Just good genes I guess." The lie came easy. He supposed, it wasn't really a lie. He was changing, just not in the way hus roomate thought. His body was indeed bulkier, his arms filled out and toned from hours of animated gesturing. His posture was improved by his newly formed back muscles, supporting him comfortably even when slouched in a gaming chair all day. Even his face looked better, sexier, more rugged. The camera was sculpting him into something more watchable, more entertaining, or maybe he was, he didn't know. But he still loved it.
By the end of the next week, he had finally hit a milestone. 102 followers. The screen proudly displayed, as if praising him. They laughed at his jokes, cheered when he pulled off stupid plays. Validated him, encouraged him. Loved him. And the more they watched, the better he got. His reactions became louder, even more exaggerated. His gaming skills sharpened to near-pro level, and soon he was switching from boring games to something more fun and challenging, competitive queues and high elos that only a gamer of his mastery could achieve. His face in the preview looked like a real streamer's - confident, cocky, alive. He started thinking about clips, and about content, near constantly.
"This'll make a good moment. Better ask chat to clip it."
"Chat's gonna fucking love this."
"I should say that again, but funnier."
The camera's red watchful gaze pulsed approvingly.
Then, mid-way through a 36-hour subathon stream, it happened. He leaned back in his chair, stretching, and his shirt rode up - just enough to reveal a sliver of his stomach. Chat. Exploded.
xXGameMasterXx: DAMN bro u been liftin?
LunaLuvr99: wait fuk ur jacked lol
ValoXander: DADDY SORRY DADDY SORRY DADDY
He blinked at the comments, then down at himself. His abs weren't ripped by any means, but they were there - defined in a way that only someone who hits the gym regularly and knows what they're doing can achieve. He curiously lifted his shirt more, revealing them, and flexed an arm experimentally, and chat lost their minds.
The camera's light seemed to burn brighter.
And for the first time, he understood.
This wasn't just confidence.
This wasn't just skill.
This was something else.
And it was only just beginning.
Mere seconds after the subathon stream finally ended (it ended up running for nearly 70 hours after that flexing incident, way over the expected 36 hour runtime he'd planned for) the email hit his inbox like a lightning bolt.
"Hey Kyle! Love your content! Wanna collab?"
He stared at the name on the email, not one he recognised. Kyle? But his fingers typed back instantly "Hell yeah dude! DM me the deets." It felt right. Like he'd always been Kyle. Right? It was almost like the quiet, awkward office worker who bought the camera weeks ago never existed. Almost, but not quite.
He woke the next morning after having a weird dream. It was a dream of his past, his childhood, but not the one he lived. A better one. In the dream, he'd grown up with a controller in his hands, remembered his first viral clip at sixteen. Remembered the years of grinding, building an audience, trying slowly but surely and succeeding at becoming someone. He remembered his name, the one his mother had given him, and his username that he'd given himself to make it online, the one chat screamed in joy and aodration.
Kyle.
TheJocKyGamer.
And when he looked in the mirror that's who looked back. Rugged jaw, bright eyes, sexy shit-eating grin that cane far too easy. The body of a man who'd spent years performing, posing, knowing exactly how good he looked on camera.
Because he had.
He always had.
As always was the case by now, he went live like it was second nature. "Yo chat! Guess who's back?" He leaned into the camera, winking, rolling his shoulders. His tank top clung to his chest, tight - far too tight - but he loved it that way. Chat loved it that way. The comments flooded in.
xXGameMasterXx: Yo my bro! Sup?
LunaLuvr99: Unfair how hot u r kek
He laughed, flexing just so he could watch them lose it. "What can I say, Gaming while lookin this good is a full body workout." He chuckled dumbly, the words slipping out with ease. He sounded good, deeper, smoother. Dumber.
He winked at the camera after a particularly good round of Valorant, where he'd aced with insane skill. "Bet you'd all love for me carry ya in ranked, huh chat?" The heart emojis poured in, the cries and chants of "POGGERS", "NICE ACE", "DADDY" all poured in. He ate it up, because this was him.
The real him.
The only him.
New follower! His stream alerts popped up.
AnnonymousUser332: I see that camera did some good eh?
Kyle was confused. "Yeah bro! Course it does, it captures my perfect bod! Bet you'd love to take it's place seein this every day!" He flexed, ripping off his shirt, causing chat to erupt into absolute fucking chaos.
But for a second, he remembered. His old self, the ad, the camera changing him.
The red light pulsed.
The thought pulsed with it.
The red light flickered.
The thought dissipated.
"Well chat, you want more of this? More shirtless streams of me, your god? Better make sure to smash that follow and subscribe button, and send me some donations while you're at it. God knows this body deserves that cash!" He laughed, loudly and dumbly, watching as instantly he got 40 new subs, and countless emails of his paypal filling up with donations from stream.
The camera's light flickered one last time, causing Kyle to moan in pleasure slightly, before settling down, no longer watching. But Kyle wasn't worried. He didn't need it anymore. He didn't need the light.
Because he was the god of his stream, and his show would never end.
#male tf#transformation#tf#muscle tf#dumber tf#male transformation#streamer tf#tf by object#himbo tf#gamer tf#himbofication#jock tf
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THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: THE SUPERHERO SUIT
It had started with a craigslist ad. Nothing too weird, but still slightly suspicious. "Vintage Spider-Man costume, screen accurate. Never worn, free to a good home." with an attached photo of a sleek, red and blue suit folded neatly into a box. @nowhereactually wasn't even a fan of Spider-Man, but something about the suit called to him, and hey, worst case he could just sell it for a profit right? He messaged the seller, asking if it was still available, and instantly got a reply. "Yes. Come get it."
A few hours later, home with the suit, he pulled it out of the box to inspect it closer. It was heavier than he expected, and was thick, almost alive in his hands. The fabric clung to his fingers like it didn't want to let go. A small voice spoke in his head. "Wouldn't it be nice to just try it on, couldn't hurt after all…" and so he did. He locked his bedroom door and stripped down to his boxers. Stepping into the legs, the moment he touched the suits insides, a shiver ran down his spine. It was cold at first, but then quickly became warm and pleasant, as if reacting or adjusting to his body heat. He pulled the suit up over his thighs, feeling it hug his figure perfectly, molding to his form like a second skin. It was tight, yes, but no restrictive. If anything, he thought it felt nice, good even. Right.
He lifted the suit higher, sliding his arms into the sleeves, and as soon as the suit settled over his shoulder, he shivered and gasped. It was like being dipped into liquid confidence. He felt hot, powerful, cocky. His posture straightened, his chest puffed out, his fingers flexed. For the first time, he felt perfect, he felt like a god among men. He felt unstoppable. He rushed to the mirror, turning and admiring himself. The suit fit like it was made for him. The reds vibrant and inviting to look at, the blues deep and rich. The spider emblem on his chest seemed to pulse slightly, as if breathing, gently pulsating and drawing him in. He flexed again, watching the fabric stretch over his biceps. "Holy shit." he moaned, then he laughed. Because suddenly, the idea of taking it off seemed ridiculously funny to him.
He didn't take off the suit that night. He slept in it. And when he woke up, something was different. His body felt… better. His arm were firmer, his stomach tighter. He stretched, and his muscles moved with a newfound strength and grace. He looked in the mirror, and if the suit clung to him yesterday, it was his skin today. It was so tight against his skin, feeling like just a part of him, his real flesh. His face was sharper, his jawline more defined, his eyes brighter, more alert. He was unmistakebly the same, but better, so so much better. As for the suit? What suit? It was a part of him now, he wasn't wearing a suit. That was just his skin, he was a hero after all. Spider. Man. He moaned.
He wore the suit under his clothes that day, and his coworkers noticed something was off. Every time he moved, he was reminded of how powerful he felt, his confidence was overflowing, practically drenching him. "You okay? You seem… different?" one of them said. He smirked, flexed, and winked. "Do I?" And he knew he did.
He wasn't the same guy anymore.
He was better.
Stronger.
Faster.
More confident.
A HERO.
He caught girls looking at him. Guys, too, of course. And he LOVED it.
The next day, the changes were undeniable. He was leaner, more athletic again. His shoulders broader, his waist narrower. His reflexes were sharper - at breakfast, he caught a falling coffee mug without even thinking, not even spilling a drop. As for the suit? It was changing too. It clung tighter, moved with him as if alive, truly a second skin after all. He didn't even notice he was wearing it anymore, but when admiring himself in the mirror, he was blankly staring at the spider symbol, pulsing, a heartbeat. Dragging him under, controlling him. Using him like the puppet he was very very quickly becoming.
That night, he heard it for the first time. A whisper in his ear, a caress on his crotch. "You're perfect." No-one was there. "You were made for this." He should've been scared, but he wasn't. "Made for me" Because it was right.
The next day, as he swung open the door to embrace the day, cocky as always, he was greeted by a man. If he was able to think properly, he'd have recognised me, the one who gave him the suit. But the suit wasn't letting him think anymore. He couldn't feel anything without me letting him. "Kneel." I commanded. And he did. The suit wouldn't let him disobey, after all. He wasn't himself anymore. He was Spider-Man, and he was MINE. I placed a hand on his head, letting his old self fully fade as my touch forced him to finally orgasm, something the suit hadn't let him do since he put it on, having edged him into obedience the whole time. He came, and with it, he was replaced with something better. Something obedient. Something… perfect.
A reminder that you can interact with me in my discord server and there's exclusive captions and stories posted there too! https://discord.gg/Hxsx2skf6b
#male tf#transformation#tf#muscle tf#tf by clothing#gay tf#submissive tf#superhero tf#spiderman tf#costume tf#cosplay tf#hypnosis tf#identity death#hypnosis
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EXCLUSIVE TF CAPTIONS: DISCORD
Heyo! I've started writing shorter tf captions between stories to fill the gaps between posts, these will be being posted in my discord! Go join, there's one already up.
And just to tease, I'll attach the guy getting tfed to this, as well as the link ;)
https://discord.gg/Hxsx2skf6b
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THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: HAIR GROWTH CREAM
It started with a late-night scroll through one of those local free stuff sites where people get rid of old VHS tapes, mismatched dinnerware, and “vintage” electronics that were probably just stolen, broken, or both. But as @stay-at-homedadblunders browses, one post caught his eye:
“Clearing out my attic, free stuff, come take it!”
The attached photo showed a dusty cardboard box filled with mostly junk, things like mason jars, old books, a... a small, unlabeled tube. The description was vague, but something about that tube made his fingers hover over the keyboard. Maybe it was the way it gleamed under the dim attic lighting in the photo, or the fact that the guy hadn’t even bothered to mention it. It was basically haphazardly chucked in with the rest, carelessly strewn atop some articles of clothing, as if chucked on last minute.
Probably just some expired ointment, he thought. But he messaged anyway.
The tube was smaller than it looked in the photo - about the size of a travel toothpaste, with a plain white label that had long since faded. The cream inside was thick, off-white, and smelled of cedar and something muskier, like aged leather. It honestly made him feel a little off smelling it, almost a bit high off the fumes. The thought it could be some kind of popper briefly popped in his mind, but he'd never heard of cream poppers before.
“Hair growth formula,” the guy had said with a shrug. “Never bothered to getting round to try it honestly, and eh, look at me now! Don't really need it” he chuckled.
He wasn’t exactly balding, but his hair had been thinning a little at the temples, and his "beard" (if you could even call it that) was patchy at best. So that night, after a shower, he rubbed a dab into my scalp and along his jawline, again feeling a little high at the strong overbearing scent.
The cream was oddly warm - almost alive - and it soaked into his skin with a tingling sensation that wasn’t quite unpleasant. Just... weird. Like his hair follicles were waking up after a long sleep, and writhing in a weird type of dance. He fell asleep without thinking much of it.
He woke up itchy, not just a little tingle but a deep, crawling itch across his scalp and face. He scratched at my jaw and felt stubble. Thicker than usual. Coarser. He stumbled into the bathroom and froze. His reflection stared back at me, but different. His hair, normally fine and straight, was darker and had a slight wave to it. And as for his beard, well, he ran a hand over his chin. What had the previous night been patchy scruff, was no a dense shadow of hair. And not just on his jaw, but crawling up his cheeks, thickening down his neck, and connecting roughly to his sideburns and hair in an almost mane of hair.
“Holy shit,” He muttered.
He ran a hand through his scalp, feeling the now much fuller hair, smooth and luscious like he'd just stepped out a salon. And as he flexed his arms absentmindedly, he didn't notice that it was all that little bit firmer, more defined. He told himself it was just the morning light, that he was hallucinating from the slightly high, addicting feeling the cream had given him when he used it. But that night, he applied it again, so excited and hooked on the feeling that it might be real, and craving that high it gave him, that he didn't even bother cleaning off the big blob he dropped on his chest as he did, instead just rubbing it into his skin till it soaked in like the rest.
The next day, the changes were impossible to ignore. His beard had filled in completely, now a thick dark carpet over his jaw, with a beautiful moustache crowning it. His chest, the previous day smooth, was now dotted with coarse curls. And his arms? Ohhh, his arms. He flexed in the mirror, watching the muscles shift under a new layer of hair. His forearms were covered - a dense pelt of dark fur thickening as it got closer to his wrists. His shoulders were broader, his chest stronger.
He caught a whiff of himself - musky, earthy, an intoxicating scent not unlike the cream, making his head spin again. He liked it, no. He loved it.
In a mad daze, he started applying the cream everywhere. His chest. His arms. His stomach. Back. Armpits. Legs. Crotch. Heck, even his feet weren't spared. With each application, each rub, the tingling spread deeper and deeper, rewriting him from the inside out, forcing out more and more hair, more and more beast, more and more MAN.
By the end of the week, he was a completely different man, unrecognisable. His beard an untamed mane, his chest a wall of fur, thick enough to bury his fingers in. His muscles were huge, especially his arms and legs, not just hairy, but practically furry, biceps almost as large as his head. He spent the fourth day simply rubbing himself, moaning and losing himself in the pleasure of feeling his hands run through that hair, the feeling of hard firm skin on hard coarse hair, letting himself swim in the high of his own scent, and that of the cream. When he wasn't doing that, he was eating, wolfing down everything, meat, eggs, whole blocks of cheese. By day five, the fridge was empty, everything in consumed by him. And when he wasn't eating, he was sleeping, his snoring rumbling and shaking the house.
He stopped questioning the cream, stopped wondering if this was all normal and if he was sane. By day six, he stopped thinking alltogether about anything from before the cream.
Why would he? It had always been this way, hadn't it? He'd never been different, he'd always been this beautiful, hairy bear of a man. The tube ran out by day seven, not that it mattered.
He stood in front of the mirror, running thick fingers through the dense fur covering his chest. His beard was a wild thing now, merging seamlessly with the pelt covering his shoulders, his pecs, his gut. His arms were tree trunks, every inch of them coated in hair. He smelled like a feral beast - sweat, musk, raw masculinity. And he fucking loved it. He flexed, watching the muscles ripple under the fur. "This is me." He growled, "Really me." The man in the mirror grinned, teeth sharp, eyes dark with satisfaction.
And for the first time in his life, he felt complete.
#male tf#transformation#tf#muscle tf#dumber tf#male transformation#hairy tf#hair growth#hair growth tf#bear tf#muscle bear tf
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"Why are lyrics so fucking hard to write!" Jack angrily said to himself. He'd been stuck on the same line in this song for weeks now, desperately trying to get past it, constantly writing a lyric, scribbling it out because it sounded bad, writing another lyric, scribbling that one out too in frustration. Heck, even the music itself sounded bad to him now, he'd heard the same bar of notes too much to like it anymore.
For anyone else, it'd make sense to just pack it in and start fresh. But Jack was nothing if not a stubborn man, and he'd already shown the client he was writing this for the first draft and they loved it, so he couldn't turn back now. He'd rather die than admit defeat, especially to one pathetic line of one pathetic song.
His friends had been suggesting for days now that he just take a break, and as much as he didn't want to, and definitely didn't want to prove them right, he had to agree that a break would probably help his head start working again. So when his friends, Alex and Jonah, invited him out for drinks one night, while he still refused, he did take a break as suggested. Intentionally making sure to walk away from the city centre, knowing there'd be a higher chance of encountering them there, he set out for a late night walk and some fresh air.
Itd been about 30 minutes of walking when he heard it. A faint strumming of a guitar, playing the exact notes of the song he had written. For a minute, Jack just stopped, baffled and convinced he was going mad. Only the client had heard if so far, and even then theyd only heard an early version, but this was almost exactly how the guitar sounded in his song now. He pinched himself, and could still hear it. He covered his ears, it went silent. But again, as soon as he removed his hands from over his ears, he could hear it again. Baffled and honestly a little scared, he started inching towadds the direction he believed the sound was coming from.
He walked for about 30 more minutes, convinced he was going mad because it seemed no matter which direction he went, the sound never got any louder or quieter. He must be going insane, he thought, and the realisation broke him for a second. Weeks of hard work, weeks of being stuck and wanting to scream and punch his computer and destroy everything in his house over this one line and then the ONE time he goes for a break, its still there, taunting him, hurting him. Maybe he just wasn't cuf out for all this. Maybe-
A sudden cold sharp feeling. He curled into it in pain, his chest feeling like it had just been stabbed by an icicle. He gasped in shock and pain. Everything felt wrong. His chest was fine, nothing visibly wrong, maybe he was having some sort of chest issue?-
There it was again, in his arms this time. A yelp escaped his throat as he felt it in his legs this time too, collapsing to the ground. Then, as sudden as the pain started, it stopped. Jack sat there in silence for a few minutes, breathing heavily, before he realised.
The song had stopped.
Maybe he really was going insane, or maybe it was something else, but for some unknown reason the lack of that song terrified him. Like a primal, instinctual fear, goosebumps all over his body as he started to breathe even heavier panicking as-
"It's okay, lad"
He looked around quickly, trying to figure out who spoke. "Who's there? Don't come near me, I'm armed!" He shouted, voice trembling.
"Shhhhh, lad. Calm. You're safe with me, fam."
"I'm warning you, I'll-"
"What, gasp me to death? You won't do anything mate, now calm the fuck DOWN." The last word reverberated through him, and Jack obeyed. Without even trying, he was suddenly calm again. The voice didn't give him chance to speak before talking again.
"You need help, lad. I can tell. You need a lad like me to show you how to LIVE, ey? Well, I can help with that."
Jack nodded, accepting the voice's words. He hadn't noticed it yet, but his arms were moving on their own. He was too enraptured by the voice to know what was happening outside his own head.
"That's a good lad, look at those arms. Definitely good, but could use some work, ey? GROW 'em for me lad."
His arms obeyed, somehow growing and pulsating larger, the muscles more and more defined by the second. His arms were groping his chest, and legs, rubbing all over his body and he shuddered uncontrollably.
"Now then, let's put a SMILE on that face, ey?" Jack grinned in response, "Muchhh better lad. Though ya could do with a beard eh? Make ya manlier, BETTA." His beard immediately grew in, framing his jaw perfectly.
"Good.... goooodd. Lookin better already. Now, go get that guitar will ya lad. Can't play a masterpiece without ya instrument after all." Almost like a zombie, Jack stood, moving on autopilot to the window of the guitar shop across the road. Without even hesitating, he slammed his fist through the window, the alarm not bothering him at all, as he grasped the guitar firmly and confidently, slinging it into position and starting to mess with the strings, tuning it. As he did, he heard the voice start moaning and laughing in ecstasy as he played, his body pulsing, growing, changing. His legs became two solid blocks of steel, powerful and standing strong, as his ass became firmer and rounder, befitting of a sex god like him. His chest expanded, lungs growing stronger, letting him belt out songs easily, as his voice deepened, changing to be sexier, sultrier, cockier. Abs growing in, shoulders broadening, neck thickening. "Fuckkkkk..." he moaned as his adam's apple grew larger, his voice sounding incredible. The moaning voice merged with his own, both echoing inside his head, until they were one, and the same. Hearing the sirens of police cars wailing in the distance, no doubt headed to stop his theft of the guitar, he sprung into a run, sprinting faster than ever before away, into the night. Jack the burned out songwriter was gone, and now, Jack the rockstar was gonna take his place on the stage, in the limelight, fucking and rocking his way to superstardom. His phone buzzed as he ran, a text from Jonah. "Hope you're doing well man, sorry you couldn't make it." Jack smirked to himself. He could do with a bandmate or two, and now he knew just the targets...

One thats been on the list for a while to come out, and potentially the start of a new series! The attic clear out stories are still on their way, just taking a break from them to write some personal stuff.
#male tf#transformation#tf#male transformation#muscle tf#dumber tf#possession#possession tf#tf by ghost#ghost tf#tf by guitar#rockstar tf#rock tf#musician tf
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THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: CAMO JACKET
@buck-whitman was bored. He'd been doing the same job for years now, and had next to no time or energy to start any new hobbies. His coworkers would regularky invite him for drinks, but he was always too tired and burned out after work to go. His old college friend Hunter would invite him hunting.(and while the pun was not lost on Buck, it was lost on Hunter a lot), and again, even though he wanted to, who had the time? If he was honest, he was scared of trying the new hobby anyway. What if he was bad at it? Right now, he was in a position where he was comfortable, and good at what he did. So what if he was a little bored? Isn't everyone his age?
He'd not taken a holiday day off all year though, and it was reaching the cutoff point to use it, so with his friend's consistent nagging combined with his works HR department forcing him to use it, he had no choice but to finally bite the bullet and give it a go. Looking online for hunting gear, he came across my post. A camo jacket, perfect for wearing when hunting, for free? There had to be some catch, surely. But as he scoured the listing for any fine print or clue that would expose his info getting stolen, or it being a scam, he couldn't find anything evidencing that worry. He'd been worried for too long, he decided. Maybe this time, he'd just finally do something new. He messaged, and within an hour confirmed delivery. That was it, he thought. I did it.
A few days later, the jacket arrived, and he hastily shoved it in his backpack and rushed out the door with all the equipment he'd ordered for the trip. Hunter was waiting in the drivers seat of his car, tapping his hand on the dash impatiently.
"You ain't going dressed like that, are ya?" His friend asked, the southern drawl slipping out. "It's gonna be fucking freezin campin out, ya not gotta jacket or coat or sumthin?"
"Yeah, theres a jacket in my bag. I'll put it on." He replied, grabbing the jacket out his bag and slipping it on. He felt a shock on the back of his neck as he did, but he chalked it down to static after checking the spot with his hand and feeling nothing, not noticing the callouses forming on his hand as he did.
They drove, catching up about each other's lives as they did. Hunter was living in West Virginia now, running his own small farm and living off the land. He'd come out as gay a few years back, and his family had disowned him, so now it was just him, the fields and his farm. As Hunter spoke, Buck's posture was shifting, his bones elongating and muscles growing, causing him to shift and manspread a little in the car. His arms were expanding slowly filling out the jacket nicely.
"Ya been working out, man? Those arms are darn impressive if I say so maself." Hunter said, smirking and admiring Buck's arms.
"Um... no, I guess I've just put on weight somehow recently and not noticed? Haha..."
"Nonsense, but if ya don't wanna tell me ya secret, I won't push." Hunter laughed.
They continued on, Buck's arms slowly growing all the way, and when they inevitably reached the site they'd be camping, and set up their tents (one each, Buck didn't want to share with someone else, despite Hunter being fine with it), they settled in for the night. Buck headed into his tent to rest, while Hunter sat by the campfire, humming to himself and looking at the stars. Normally, the humming, paired with the faint rustling of tree leaves would've driven Buck insane. But tonight, it helped him slowly drift to sleep.
In his dream, he was running. The forest stretched out endlessly, and he ran, desperately chasing something. With each step, his legs felt stronger, wider, more muscular, and he got faster. But not fast enough to catch up to whatever it was he was chasing. Buck didn't know what it was either, he only know he needed to reach it, more than he needed anything else. More than he needed to breathe.
As he ran, he heaved and breathed, struggling at first to keep up breathing with his speed. Each breath empowered him though, strengthening his lungs, forcing them to grow stronger, better. His breaths getting more deep, and powerful, and heavy, helping him more and more.
Still not fast enough, he thought.
He hit a rock and tripped, eating the dirt. He shouted, bellowing in rage, stood back up, and ran again. His voice was deeper, manlier, huskier. And he had a slight southern twang.
He poured everything he could into running, desperate to catch the thing. His body strengthened in reply to his desires, doing everything it could to assist his pursuit, and after what felt like an age, he caught up. He pounced, grabbing the thing with his now massive arms and-
It was Hunter.
He paused, confused at why he felt such a need, and attraction to Hunter. Why did he want them so much. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Hunter kissed him. Tongue flitting into his mouth, and he immediately gave in, kissing Hunter back, moaning in pleasure and enjoying the moment. His face shifted as they kissed, a moustache growing in and tickling them both, his face getting more square, hair shortening, making him manlier.
"I love you, Buck." Hunter gasped between kisses.
Buck woke suddenly, the cold night air pinching his skin. He could hear Hunter humming outside, the tune matching the song they danced to at their wedding, and old country tune. He'd been married to Hunter for 3 years, the day of their engagement being the same day both their families denounced them for being gay. But he was so happy with him, life was so much better with him than it was before, so he didn't care.
He clumsily stood and moved out of the tent, his new body causing him to adopt a wider stance, making him walk with a swagger, and he snuck up behind Hunter, being sure to not make a sound.
"Boo." He whispered, grabbing Hunter from behind in a warm loving embrace, causing Hunter to jump.
"Ya scared me! What'd you do that for-" Buck leaned in and kissed Hunter. "Ohhh..." Hunter melted into Buck's arms, savouring the kiss. It was just them, now. Hunter, Buck, and their farm. And they were gonna hunt and fuck for this week, then go back to the farm life they'd known and loved for years.
"I love you too, Hunter."

#male tf#transformation#muscle tf#tf#tf by clothing#male transformation#southern tf#redneck tf#camo tf#straight to gay#gay tf#redneck transformation#gay transformation
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Discord Server
I've made a discord server! It has an archive of my posts, and will be used should tumblr at any point nuke this account. Also, image sharing channels and such to chat in! https://discord.gg/Hxsx2skf6b
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THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: TRACKIE PANTS
@frenchscallylover saw the post on Facebook a few weeks ago, an attic clear out, various interesting items going for free. Normally, that kind of thing wouldn't interest him hugely, but he had noticed the pristine pair of trackies and something in his mind clicked, compelling him to message asking for them. The exchange with the owner was brief, and a little odd, but they had come to an agreement on posting them nontheless, and here he was, 2 weeks later, a package at his door containing the alluring trackies.
Eagerly slipping them on, he rushed to his bathroom mirror to see how they looked. Damn, he thought. These frame my ass perfectly. And he wasn't wrong. The pants fit tightly, showing off his leg muscles, ass, and waist nicely. Liking how they were, he didn't bother to wash them, instead just heading out for a walk with them still on. He had been to eager to wear them that he hadn't noticed the slight cum stained crotch, nor the musky scent, and it was unlikely he would at all with how distracted he was by the idea of wearing them in public.
Walking around, he found his mind drifting. His brain was working overtime, flitting rapidly from one topic of thought to the next. Thoughts of how to deal with a troublesome client he had been having at work, what he should have for tea tonight, how nice the trackies felt, how much he needed a smoke, excitement about a game he had forgotten was releasing next week, and- wait a second. A smoke? He didn't smoke, why did he think that? A faint haze clouded his judgement, and while he couldn't remember ever having smoked, he figured he clearly needs one and must have of hes thinking about it. He could practically taste the cig on his tongue, craving the taste, the scent. Instinctively reaching into his trackie pockets, he pulled out a pack and a lighter, reflexively lighting the cig and slipping it into his mouth, taking a drag as if he'd done it thousands of times before.
His body clearly wasn't used to it though, as he immediately felt the niccy rush causing him to feel dizzy and nice. It felt weird, but right. It pulsed in his head, making him feel hazy, light, and suggestible.
Each pulse carried with it a wave of memories, of him being a proper lad, a chav from a young age. He remembered being in high school, causing issues for everyone and being generally disruptive, to dropping out of college because he found it too boring. Memories of playing footie in the fields, smoking cigs he'd nicked from the local corner shop, hanging out at his mates and rolling up a spliff.
Memories of a new name. Danny.
He was too caught up in these memories pulsing through his mind to realise he had shrunk slightly, now standing at 5 foot 6 inches, his muscles firming up a bit, giving him faint abs and a short, stocky build. His hair stylin' itself up, the sides and back shortening to a fade, the top curling slightly. Light, messy stubble growing in and all his hair changing to a brown colour, and his skin turning paler. The smoke from his cig was clinging to his clothes, making sure they'd smell of it to remind everyone he walked past what a sexy chav smoker he was, but also shifting them, his shirt turning into a white hoodie with no shirt underneath, a black jacket forming over the top. His shoes turning into a pair of trainers, fit for a lad like him. And his underwear vanishing, leaving him commando in the trackies, letting the feel of them against his dick drive him wild.
More memories pulsed in, of his mates, his parents, his house. Danny. His job, his aspiration to be a footie player one day, his kinks. DANNY. His identity, his life. His name.
This was Danny. And he always had been.

#male tf#transformation#tf#dumber tf#tf by clothing#male transformation#chav tf#scally tf#lad tf#scally lad tf#chav lad tf#chav transformation
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THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: MOTORCYCLE LEATHERS
@recentrift couldn't help but leap at the opportunity to grab the old motorcycle leathers, it wasn't often you'd find such a treat for free after all. But these leathers, like many of the objects stored in my attic, were no ordinary pair, and he needed to change if he was going to be able to use them well.
Eager to try them out, he began to slip them over his legs, failing to notice them tightening with new muscle, ckearly well trained after many an hour in the gym, and on his bike. The leather now fitting tightly, as he continued to slide into the leathers. He still failed to notice the changes as the arms, and then whole chest, became enveloped in the leather. But once he was fully sealed into the suit, and it knew it had him in its grasp, that was it.
A sudden squeeze, the suit compressing around his entire muscular body, almost pulsing with strength, tightening and loosening repeatedly, pushing its power into his body. He could feel it, overtaking him, forcing its way inside. He was no longer the same mine. He was a biker now, the best biker, a mere puppet to the leathers. Throbbing on his cock, forcing him to moan in pleasure, forcing him to obey the leather. He no longer had any need for thoughts, his mind an empty shell. Leather was all he could think of now.
Reaching down into the box the leathers came inm geabbing a baseball cap to slide onto his head, giving his crotch a tight squeeze, grinning cockily as the suit commanded. This was a man of true power, THIS was a man worthy of the title of biker.

My attic contains many mysterious items, cursed and magical, that I need to be rid of. Perhaps you can find what you need here.
#male tf#transformation#tf#male transformation#muscle tf#dumber tf#tf by clothing#biker tf#leather tf#motorbiker tf#mind control#tfmc
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The Attic Clear Out (Series)
All the items are now taken!
Hey all! I'm clearing out my attic, gots lots of different items to give away that I don't want anymore, and of course no guarantee that they aren't cursed or transformative ;)
Send me an ask to claim any of them!
• Bear Pelt
• Kettlebells
• Pup Mask
• Superhero Costume
• Box of Old Magazines
• Video Camera
• Ornate Mirror
• Old Karaoke Machine
• Cosplay Sword
• Trackie Pants
• Leather Pants
• Camo Jacket
• Motorcycle Leathers
• Hair Growth Cream
• Empty Photobook
• Bag of Runestones
• Wrestling Belt
• Ancient Spellbook
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TF Trade with @axeeglitter
Josh was tired. He'd been on the set for hours, trying the same scene again and again, unable to get the role he was trying to convey just right. The director had lost his shit by this point, and had made Josh go outside for a breather and to collect his thoughts, because no matter what he tried, he just couldn't do it right. Josh, sick of being verbally assaulted by his director, had left in a rage and now sat in his dressing room, stressed and upset. After taking a few moments to himself, he started trying to calm down. Focusing on the items around him, he used the techniques his therapist had taught him to help ground his thoughts.
"Focus on 5 things you can see, Josh." He muttered to himself. One - The poster of the film he was acting the lead role in. Two - The LED bulbs adorning the mirror opposite where he sat. Three - the mirror, with his dashing reflection looking back at him, gorgeous event through the visible stress. Four - A small cactus, on his dressing table desk, his favourite plant, though it could use a little watering, that was for sure. And five - a small, golden lamp, pristine and very out of place, laid carelessly on his couch, as if thrown there in a rush. Josh didn't remember seeing that lamp before, it kind of looked like the stereotypical genie's lamp, maybe taken from the prop cupboard? But there wasn't a genie in this film… Bewildered, Josh headed over to the lamp and picked it up. Chuckling slightly to himself, he rubbed it, not really expecting any response, but figuring it funny to mess around with it nontheless. As expected nothing happened. He sighed. Despite knowing it wasn't real, magic wasn't real, he had been at least half hoping the lamp would respond to his touch. Throwing it back down, he muttered, "I just wish it was simpler" he sighed. "Easier. This is getting too fucking hard for me." As he uttered the words, it responded. The lamp glowed, softly, barely perceptible in the already warm lighting of the dressing room, but Josh could feel a pull towards it, and he went to pick it up. As soon as he touched it, his vision went. Terrified at his sudden blindness, he realised he couldn't smell, or hear either. His senses had been ripped from him, as if he never had them. Everything just stopped.
"Mr Hutcherson? Are you okay in there? It's been over an hour since you came back here… you're needed on set!" The extra, Carl, had been forced to come and get Josh on the director's behalf. Knocking for the fifth time without reply, he opened the door, to see the room empty, everything pristine bar a lamp laid sideways on the floor. "Must've been brought here by mistake" Carl laughed, and called out for Josh again. "Mr Hutcherson?" He must not be here, he thought. Picking up the lamp, suddenly it responded to his touch, a cloud of smoke enveloping Carl, and suddenly, Josh was in front of him. Golden bracelets adorned his wrists, and a gold collar was wrapped around his neck. Josh's eyes glowed gold and he boomed "Master… how may I serve you?" "Mr Hutcherson? Is that… you?" "If that is what you wish to call me, then yes." Josh's mind was screaming inside the genie's body, unable to convey his real emotions or thoughts. It was as if he was trapped inside this form, unable to be freed. "Tell me, what do you wish?" "I guess… I wish for a drink, this prank is insane, lets celebrate it with one haha" Carl chuckled. Suddenly, a drink was in his hand, seemingly materialised there out of nothing. "Woah…." Carl got a sudden idea. Josh had always been an infuriating coworker… so… maybe he should pay… "I wish to be Josh Hutcherson." Carl said, dead serious. Instantly, his body started shifting, muscles toning, height shrinking, hair changing, his entire body warping to match his twisted desire. Inside the genie, Josh could only scream, desperate to stop this. As Carl changed, the genie also changed, adopting his previous form, looking more like Carl. His mind started shifting, and the internal voice started quieting down. He was being erased, wiped, and Carl was setting in. Josh could remember who he was, but he was programmed to act exactly like Carl, which, it seemed, included being gay. He couldn't bring himself to think sexually about women anymore, only men, and the new Josh in front of him was beautiful. He instinctively groped his dick, smirking at the new Hutcherson in front of him. Carl, now Josh, noticed. "I wish for you to love me" He said, without any hesitation. Within a week, the world knew Josh Hutcherson was gay, and he had married Carl, his beloved husband. Years of love and beautiful happiness passed by, with Josh's work going wonderfully, winning hundreds of awards, becoming rich and hollywood's #1 actor, famous and beloved by all. The world bowed to brilliant actor Josh Hutcherson, including his all powerful servant, the Genie Carl.
#male tf#tf#celeb tf#celebrity tf#transformation#celeb transformation#tf by genie#genie#genie tf#genie transformation#straight to gay
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It was another one of those days. Rain crashing down, everyone looking pissed or gloomy, and you felt like absolute shit, aimlessly wandering about the town square, nothing to do, nowhere to go. You'd found yourself going in and out of various stores, seeing if you could perhaps buy anything to cheer you up, but nothing had worked so far. So here you were, £50 poorer with nothing to show for it other than a few bits and bobs that you couldnt remember buying.
Your phone buzzed, so you checked it. Another overdue bill notification, you sighed. Was that the fifth now? You'd lost count. Overwhelmed, you ducked into an alley, resisting the urge to breakdown and cry, and sunk to the ground, face in your hands, trying desperately not to break.
Things seemed hopeless, and they had for a while.
The rain kept pouring down, chilling you to the bone, and that snapped you out of it. You looked around for an overhang to sit under, some shelter, and saw it. A leather jacket, just abandoned by a trash can. You'd already sank low enough, you figured, so why not put it on for some warmth? You stumbled over to it and wrapped it around your cold frame. Underneath it was a beer bottle, completely sealed. What the hell, you thought, and picked it up. Hesitant to drink it, you didnt open it yet.
The jacket did smell a bit, you had to admit. A combination of wet leather, smell from being in proximity with the trash, and was that weed? But it was warmer with it on, and even if it didnt protect from the rain, it was better with it than without.
Absentmindedly, you found yourself walking back around the streets, heading back on the route youd initially come, then taking a few turns til you were in a place you didnt recognise. Everythings fine, you thought, and didnt worry. You found yourself knocking on someones door, and waiting. Why did you knock here? You thought, but you couodnt figure it out. After a long wait, the door opened to a man who shouldve looked terrifying to you, but you werent scared at all. He was short, and lean, but he was covered in piercings and tatts, his hair styled up into a bright blue and green mohawk. Not the kind of man youd want or expect to meet, but your body seemed to instinctively go in for the hug, and his stern face seemed to smile at you warmly. He kissed you, and it felt like you were short circuiting, your brain forgetting how to function, how to think, and for a second, you felt nothing but lust for this man in front of you. He stopped the kiss, and you returned to your normal self. Dazed, you followed him inside the house.

The house wasn't exactly clean, and a strong scent filled the air, that of cum, piss, cheap deoderant, musk and weed. It mingled in your brain, short circuiting it again and overwriting it.
"Yo Connah!" Said the punk, chucking a pair of clearly used, reeking combat boots at you. "Give em a sniff my man"
And you did. In bliss, shoving it to your nose, almost as if this man's words forced you too. Your body ached as you lost yourself in the smell, muscles growing, getting you taller by the second.
"Connah?" You thought. That didnt seem right. Was that your name? Of course it was, your boyfriend wouldnt lie to you. Wait. Boyfriend? What were you think-
Your thought process was interrupted by a hand on your cock, springing it to life, the punk looking directly at you while slowly but surely teasing your cock, working the foreskin back and letting his hands touch your glans, causing ripples of sensitivity and pleasurable pain to course through you. With each pulse, yiu lost yourself more and more. A cocky, dominant personality overwriting you. "Put em on me, bitch." You sneered, causing the punk to gulp and take the boots, sliding them onto your feet. Instinctively, you stood on him, pushing his face under your massive foot. He moaned, and you laughed. "Thats right bitch. You're mine now." You, no, Connah sneered. You were Connah now, you akways had been. Alpha, leader, cocky punk. You didnt remember the punk's name, but who cared? He was nothing more than your bitch anyway, and he wouldn't be the last. Connah was back bitches, and he was gonna make the entire town his gang.

#male tf#muscle tf#transformation#dumber tf#punk tf#tf#tf by clothing#musk tf#tf by boots#alpha tf#dom tf
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You'd found the tracksuit while looking on Vinted for new clothes, and had to have them. They were cheap too, so it just made sense to you to buy them, and the horny feeling you got just looking at the picture of them was enough to convince you.
A few days later and they arrived, and you were more than eager to try them on. As you slipped them on, you could feel your cock hardening, stiffening in the trackie pants that youd decided to go commando in. You gave your cock a quick tug, then slipped the hoodie on, caving into the urge to wear it without a shirt. The clothes smelled of sweat and cheap lynx deoderant, which youd noticed when opening them, but the scent was stronger now you wore them, invading your nostrils and overpowering all other smells in your room.
It was driving you insane, making your brain fog and lose focus, you smelled like a lad, a chav, and it was great. What you didn't realise, lost in pleasure, eyes closed and hands feeling up your body, was that you were growing. Your muscles becoming more lean, your height increases to a solid 6 feet, and a beard growing in on your face. Your bones were becoming more angular, cutting a hard jawline, and making you have a more tough, chavvy look. A tattoo was forming on the back of your right hand, and your hair was shortening into a cut more befitting of you new form. As you fondled your cock it grew, resting at a solid 7 inches with the foreskin back, uncut. Your balls felt full and heavy, and you could smell the combination of the musk, deoderant, and smell of smoke that now came from your body as well as the clothes. It was overwhelming you, making you blank and docile as it reworked your mind. New thoughts were seeping in, dumber, hornier thoughts, of how hot you were and how much you needed a cig.
Memories were seeping in too, of playing footie with your mates, or running an only fans, findomming pathetic subs and working out every so often to stay in shape. You were jerking off, waves of pleasure coursing through your being, and those waves carried new language, vocabulary, and a new name. Aaron. That's right, you were Aaron. A propa lad through and through.
Aaron came, soaking his, no your, trackies, and headed out to play footie with your mates, and get some booze on the way, probably nicking the beer like the badass you were.
#male tf#chav tf#scally tf#lad tf#scally lad tf#chav#scally#muscle tf#tf by clothing#transformation#chav transformation
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