need4change

[need4change]

Organic Growth

“C’mon! Just one pic?”

Cameron sighed, obliging for his loving boyfriend once again. He had never been a pushover before, but ever since meeting the cuter-than-a-button micro-influencer, Cameron was practically obeying anything Elliot asked of him. This game had been one such occasion, as Elliot had received a pair of free tickets from the up-and-coming local team. 

“Just make sure I don’t look too ridiculous,” Cameron warned jokingly.

Elliot shrugged, “I don’t remember that being specified in my contract, so no promises.”

The team had invited Elliot in hopes to garner more organic growth. Showcase the field to local celebrities, create content, and hopefully fold in new customers and fans. Elliot’s free tickets had come with the usual agreement: promote the game and facilities. Cameron had been a bit surprised when Elliot had received the invite, as Elliot nor his audience fit the standard sports-attending bill. But he rationed that fame came with many unusual benefits, random free tickets included.

“Thank god the facilities are new,” Cameron joked, peering around the home team’s near-spotless locker room. Cameron was grateful for the VIP pass, yet he was more thankful that the couple were able to preview the space after the team had already left. His build was average, nothing incredibly outstanding. But it was nothing one would see on a minor league roster; he would have felt a little self-conscious around all the jocks. “I bet in a couple of weeks this place will reek.”

Elliot giggled, “Enough stalling, you tease. Get underneath the hat.”

The hat Cameron’s boyfriend was referring to was a giant baseball cap displaying the team’s logo in the front. Cameron assumed it was some kind of prop for the VIP guests; a photo opportunity for social media or a future holiday card. Once again heeding to Elliot, Cameron placed himself underneath the hat, careful not to wrinkle his flannel or shorts. He raised his head into the opening, the soft interior cushions cradling nicely.

“Alright, say cheese!” Elliot quickly took the picture, not noticing the expression of discomfort upon his boyfriend’s face. He then turned away to update his socials.

Still fixed in his spot, Cameron felt his insides alight. Thousands of flurries ignited upon his skin, the tingling sensation rapidly expanding across his frame. Within moments, the sensation encompassed him, but instead of surrendering it proceeded to grow. Cameron’s limbs hastily stretched to keep up, shooting longer and bloating larger. 

“What do you think I should caption this…” Elliot mumbled to himself, unaware of his boyfriend’s enlarging frame. Thicker arms, wider legs, a more forward chest, a further exaggerated seat. Muscles began to define themselves across Cameron’s body, revealing new lines and tightened edges. And all of it became more visible by the second as his attire shifted accordingly. The flannel shrunk into a tight, branded black athletic tee, while the shorts inflated into gear more appropriate to encase Cameron’s thickening manhood. 

His sneakers were the only garments that did not make the cut, as they disappeared to make way for Cameron’s widening feet. And now exposed, they were able to emit their new, tainted funk. The rest of Cameron’s body immediately received the memo, rapidly stinking up the surrounding area.

“What is that smell?” Elliot asked, his nose dragging him away from his phone. He turned around, squealing in surprise at the scene before him. “What the-! Cameron!”

“It’s Caden, bro,” the new jock corrected. Elliot watched as the hair on top of the man’s head pulled back, shortening into a tighter cut meant to fit under a helmet. Elliot could do nothing as the jock’s eyes switched from their warm brown into an icy, hollow blue.

“I…I don’t understand…” Elliot replied, struggling to string words together. Unbothered, the jock rolled his eyes, his scalp still inside the massive hat.

“Look bro, the only people allowed back here besides players are puck bunnies.” Caden’s voice was deep, dull, and to-the-point. “And seeing you ain’t got any rack to speak of, I’mma need you to split.”

Elliot opened his mouth to say something, but after a moment it closed, defeated. Caden’s eyes followed indifferently as the influencer left the room. He then grabbed his phone and texted his hook-up, apologizing for the delay and assuring her he would be at her place soon.

[need4change]

Can u make an story of a 56yo man that makes wishes but everytime these are misinterpreted.

Barry Henson grunted as he bent over to tie his shoe. The sound of his knees cracking echoed through the cramped aisle of Le Grand Antiques & Oddities, a musty old shop wedged between a vape store and a rundown strip club. The place reeked of mold, incense, and something… fishy? Maybe dead fish. Hard to tell.

He straightened up with a wince, adjusting the collar of his ridiculous faux-leather jacket. At 56, he wasn’t exactly aging like fine wine — more like cheap milk. His gray hair was thinning, clinging to his scalp in greasy patches he tried to mask with gel and hats. His once-smooth skin sagged at the jaw, and despite his best efforts at “youthful” fashion, he looked more like a divorced youth pastor trying to get back on the scene.

But none of that mattered — not today.

Today, he was going to change it all.

Barry had seen an ad posted in an online gay forum, tucked between spam links and conspiracy rants: “FIVE WISHES. NO REFUNDS. INQUIRE WITHIN. Change your life… or someone else’s.”

Most people would have scrolled past. Barry didn’t.

The back of the store was cluttered with junk—ancient TVs, cracked mirrors, and heaps of porcelain dolls with dead eyes. He almost turned back when he saw the lamp—a grotesque, chunky brass thing shaped like a fat man with a pig snout. It sat on a pedestal under a flickering light bulb.

Curious, Barry picked it up—and immediately coughed as a cloud of foul-smelling smoke shot out. It smelled like feet. Sweaty, rotten feet.

“Ugh, Jesus—” he gagged, stumbling back.

The smoke coalesced into a tall, leathery figure with a disturbingly wide grin. Dressed in a glittering vest and pants that looked like they hadn’t been washed since the Ottoman Empire, the man bowed with theatrical flair.

“I am Jzarl,” the creature said, his voice oily and smug. “You woke me from my 500-year nap. Rude. But I’ll allow it. Five wishes for you, mortal.”

Barry blinked. “Five?”

Jzarl rolled his eyes. “Yes, FIVE. Don’t ask why. Let’s cut to the chase, old man. You want to be young, hot, famous. The whole thirsty influencer package, right?”

Barry flushed. “Well… yeah. I want to be sexy, young again. Funny, smart, charming — the guy everyone follows. Gets laid, gets noticed. You know. An instagay.”

Jzarl’s grin widened. “First wish, then?”

Barry nodded. “I wish I had the perfect influencer body. You know… hot, lean, toned. Like a young model, not… this.”

Jzarl cracked his knuckles and snapped.

The room spun.

Barry gasped as his body pulsed with heat — not pain exactly, but a hot, itchy sensation that made his skin crawl. He staggered back, grabbing a nearby table for balance. His stomach cramped, then tightened, pulling inward like a corset was squeezing him.

He looked down. His belly was shrinking, smoothing out. He laughed in relief.

“Holy shit… it’s working!”

But then things kept going.

His chest bubbled outward awkwardly, not into firm pecs but… puffy mounds. His nipples darkened and swelled, poking through his tight shirt like erasers. His arms thinned strangely — not toned, but gangly, with wiry forearms and elbows that stuck out.

“Uh… hey…” Barry looked up nervously. His voice cracked, higher than usual. “Why do I feel… skinny?”

Jzarl floated nearby, examining his nails. “You said ‘perfect influencer body,’ Barry. Ever seen the new wave? Geek chic. Awkward is in. Lanky, youthful, real. You’re nailing it.”

Barry blinked. “Wait, what?”

His shirt practically hung off his shoulders now, except for where his chest puffed out in those weird soft pecs. His arms looked long — too long — and his hands… they were bony. His fingers twitched, and his knuckles cracked loudly as he flexed.

Then came the glasses.

He yelped as metal frames sprouted from his face, wrapping around his ears. Thick, square lenses with an obnoxious blue tint.

“What the fuck—” he tried to pull them off, but they clung to his temples like they’d grown there.

“Oh, and every influencer’s gotta protect their eyes from blue light,” Jzarl cooed. “Essential.”

Barry staggered to the cracked mirror nearby and recoiled. His face was smoother — definitely younger — but off. His nose had thinned, nostrils slightly flared in a nerdy way, and his ears stuck out a bit too much. His jaw was narrow, almost pointy, and a scruffy, patchy mustache had grown in, like a teenager trying to be cool.

His eyes, behind the thick glasses, looked big. Goofy.

He looked like a Zoomer tech bro who hadn’t discovered deodorant yet.

“This isn’t… sexy!” Barry barked. “I look like a—”

“Influencer,” Jzarl interrupted smoothly. “Oh, you’ll get so many followers. Tech reviews, movie rants, daily vlogs. Maybe even a podcast called ‘Barry’s Brain Blast.’ People will love you.”

Barry stammered. “But I wanted to be hot. Like… shirtless hot!”

Jzarl floated backward. “Relax. It’s just wish one, Barry. Four more to go. Plenty of time to refine your look.”

Barry stared at himself, heart racing. He felt younger, sure — but the wiry frame, the awkward posture, the dumb glasses… this wasn’t what he meant. And why did his teeth suddenly feel… big?

But he bit his tongue. He could fix this. He had four more wishes.

This was just the start.

Right?

Barry Henson woke up sore.

Not the “worked-out-too-hard” sore, but a weird tingly sore, like his body had been plugged into a power strip all night. He groaned, kicking off a crumpled blanket and rolling off his futon — futon? He blinked. What happened to his king-sized mattress? His fancy linen sheets?

His bare feet landed in a pile of mismatched socks and half-eaten protein bar wrappers. The floor was sticky. His whole room reeked of sweaty laundry and monster energy drink.

“Wha… the hell?” Barry croaked, stumbling upright.

His reflection stared back from the dusty wall mirror — and it made his stomach drop. That face again. The glasses, the dumb patchy mustache, the puffy pecs and lanky arms. Still skinny as hell, but twitchy, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair had turned a weird dyed blue, with uneven patches like he’d done it in a gas station bathroom.

He grabbed his head. “No no no… This is all wrong…”

His fingers were long, too long, his nails chewed to hell, and he had a weird gamer wrist brace on one hand. He didn’t even remember putting that on.

He marched to the lamp still sitting on his cluttered desk and slammed it. “JZARL! FIX THIS!”

A belch of sulfur and sweat puffed out, and there he was — that damn genie, lounging on Barry’s office chair with a smug grin.

“You rang?”

Barry jabbed a finger at his reflection. “I look like some… horny Twitch streamer who lives on Hot Pockets and jerks off to anime!”

Jzarl grinned. “Compliment accepted.”

Barry seethed. “Wish number two. I want to be funny. Smart. Witty. You know, charm people. Get tons of followers, likes, all that shit.”

Jzarl yawned. “Got it. You want to be the funniest guy online, huh? Say less.” He snapped his fingers.

Barry’s brain itched.

A jolt shot through his skull, and suddenly his jaw dropped open. His tongue lolled out involuntarily for a second, drool sliding down his chin.

“Duhh—fuck!” he gasped, wiping his mouth. “The hell was that?”

His head felt lighter, empty almost. Like someone had scraped out all the complicated bits and left behind… static. His thoughts began to wander, bouncing around like a screen saver.

He stumbled back to his desk. His PC monitor flickered to life on its own, a cheap ring light glowing above it. His webcam turned on with a click, and suddenly he was staring at himself — greasy, bug-eyed, wearing a tight anime t-shirt that read “MILF Hunter 3D.”

Barry barely noticed.

His fingers moved on their own, tapping keys, opening tabs. Before he knew it, he was live-streaming.

“Yo, what’s up my dudes?” he mumbled into the mic, voice cracking slightly. “Barry’s Brain Blast goin’ live, y’know what I’m sayin’? Haha, suhhh.”

He laughed at himself. It came out as a snort.

“Uh, y-yo, wait, no — I mean, we, uh, got sum new reviews today, bruh. Check this — fart button!”

He slammed a key and a loud fart noise blasted through his speakers.

Barry cackled.

Tears welled in his eyes. “F-fuck bro that’s, like, HILARIOUS! Farts always win, lmao.”

His chat exploded.

[RaptorBro92]: Yo this dude’s cracked lmfao [SIMP_King]: bro the fart key again!!! [BoobaLord]: homie needs to shower wtf

Barry just grinned wide, mouth slightly open, breath fogging his webcam. His tongue lolled again. His shirt rode up, revealing a pale, hairy belly and cheap boxers with cartoon characters on them.

Somewhere deep inside, he knew this wasn’t right. But the laughter — the chat loving him — it felt good.

So good.

“Wish three!” he shouted mid-stream, spittle hitting the mic. “I wanna be popular as fuck, like viral! EVERYONE should know me, bruh! Like, famous n’ shit!”

Jzarl appeared inside the monitor now, grinning like a demon virus. “As you wish, Barry-boy.”

SNAP.

Barry froze, eyes wide.

Suddenly his phone pinged. Then again. And again. Hundreds of notifications poured in.

His social media blew up. His dumbass stream clips were going viral — but not in the way he imagined. Screenshots of his dumb grins, his sweaty armpits, and his fart noises were all over TikTok and Twitter.

#BarryTheBrainfart was trending.

He was famous, alright — as the poster boy for horny, awkward nerds who overshare online. People memed his face, made remixes of his voice saying “suhhh fart bruh,” and speculated about his porn history.

His eyes went glassy.

“D-dude… I’m, like… winning.”

Barry didn’t notice he was scratching his balls under the desk.

Didn’t notice his posture curling inward, his back hunching, his legs sprawled wide in that terminally online incel squat.

Didn’t notice he’d drooled on his anime mousepad.

All he could see were the likes, the follower count, and his huge, dumb grin reflected in the screen.

Three wishes down.

Two to go.

And Barry was so close to finally becoming someone no one wanted to be.

Barry was so famous now.

Or at least that’s what he told himself between burps and fart sounds on his stream. His tiny room stank of BO, Cheetos, and feet. Piles of crumpled tissues and empty soda cans covered every surface. He hadn’t done laundry in days. His shirt — the same sweaty “MILF Hunter 3D” tee — clung to his lanky, oily frame.

He scratched his hairy belly under the webcam. “Yo what up, chat? Barry’s Brain Blast is BACK, bros.”

A snort-laugh burst out of him, followed by a wet, echoing fart from his gaming chair.

The chat exploded.

[FartWizard69]: bruh that chair got PTSD [NO_GIRLS_ALLOWED]: king shit, bro [TiddyTax]: bet he’s never touched a boob lmao

Barry grinned, his thick glasses slipping down his sweaty nose. His eyes darted across the screen, fingers twitching. He’d gotten even weirder looking — lankier, bonier, more hunched. His dyed hair had faded unevenly, and patchy stubble covered his neck and jaw. His skin was pale, greasy, and dotted with pimples around his mouth.

He didn’t care.

His brain barely worked now — thoughts drifted like fog, and his vocabulary had shrunk to slang, farts, and horny nonsense.

But something inside still wanted more. More attention. More power. More clout.

He jabbed at the lamp. “Jzarl, bruh, get your genie ass in here.”

The genie emerged, stretching like a cat, wrinkling his nose at the smell.

“Smells like gamer taint,” Jzarl muttered. “What now, Barry?”

Barry’s eyes twitched. “Wish number four, bruh. I wanna be, like, the king of opinions. Y’know, like, everyone listens to me. I spit TRUTH. Red pill shit, bro.”

Jzarl grinned. “Oooooh. You want to be an alpha, huh?”

Barry snorted. “Yeah, dude. Girls should wanna f-fuck me, but like, they suck too. Dumb bitches. But I want ‘em, y’know?”

SNAP.

Barry’s head jerked. His face went slack for a second, then contorted in rage.

“What the HELL?” he barked into his mic. “Why ain’t girls like, DM’ing me constantly? Bro I’m a f-fucking catch!”

His voice was louder, nasal, and whiny — with a midwestern incel twang. His accent had changed. His lips curled with frustration, and he pounded his keyboard, knocking over his anime figures.

“I’m high value, bruh! Fuckin’ women don’t respect real men!”

His chat loved it.

[COOM4LIFE]: Preach king! [SheepleSlayer]: Bro spitting FACTS rn [BongFartz]: Beta bitches can’t handle alpha truth!

Barry was horny, but not in a healthy way. His boner strained his filthy boxers, stained with sweat, but instead of fantasizing about love or passion, his mind raced with hate-fueled lust.

“Bro I just wanna get f-fucking dommed, but like, I won’t simp. No simpin’. Bitches should suck ME.”

He drooled, furiously humping the air, panting. His brain was rotting — now just a swirl of porn, rage, and conspiracy theories. His bookshelf was now stacked with titles like: “GIRLS ARE THE ENEMY,” “REAL MEN RANT ONLINE,” and “COOM CONTROL 101.”

He had no clue.

“Alright, final wish, bro…” he gasped, sweat dripping from his greasy chin.

Jzarl raised a brow. “You sure? You like who you are?”

Barry rubbed his crotch absentmindedly. “Fuckin’ yeah. Just… lock it in, bruh. Make it permanent. No goin’ back. This is the real me now. Alpha Barry.”

Jzarl smirked. “Final wish: granted.”

SNAP.

Barry’s body convulsed, eyes rolling back. His brain froze, then rebooted… worse.

Memories of being Barry Henson, 56, gay, lonely, dreaming of love — gone.

He now believed he’d always been “BAZZ,” 24, straight, alpha as fuck, and brutally single.

He sat there, shirtless, hairy belly out, raging at the camera.

“Yo fuck all y’all haters! I’m BAZZ, I run this f-fuckin’ stream! MILFs hit me up — only if you ain’t FAT. Betas out.”

He farted loudly, then laughed till he drooled.

His followers spammed the chat with “BAZZ 4 LYFE”.

In a dark corner of cyberspace, a new king of cringe was born — a dumb, horny, angry incel loser, forever.

The screen flickered.

Barry… Bazz… had never been anything else.

The camera flickered on.

The image was low-res, slightly warped, and too close. The lighting was harsh, a single bulb casting shadows across the sweaty, pimply face of a young man hunched over a battered desk covered in soda cans, tissues, and half-eaten microwave burritos.

He squinted into the webcam, adjusting his crooked glasses, and let out a loud sigh through his open mouth.

“Alright, bros… welcome back to The Alpha Files, episode 347,” he mumbled, voice cracking and too loud, like he had no idea how volume control worked.

“I’m your host, uh… Braydn Rockwell,” he said, snorting as he rubbed his hairy belly under his shirt, which read “FEMINISM IS CANCER – SUBSCRIBE 4 TRUTH.”

He scratched his crotch with one hand and adjusted the camera with the other.

“I know what y’all are thinkin’, bros… like, ‘Braydn, why you still a virgin, bro?’ And first of all—fuck you, alright? Women are, like, all brainwashed now, and I ain’t gonna waste my seed on some fake-ass OnlyFans thot. Nah, dude. I’m SAVIN’ it. For a real one. Like… Goth Gamer Wives. They’re out there. I seen ‘em.”

He leaned in, sweat beading on his forehead, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. His breath fogged the lens, reeking of cheap ramen and desperation.

“I got plans, dudes. Big plans. Gonna hit 1k subs this week, and then? BOOM. Alpha. Gonna get rich, move outta my mom’s basement, and, like… start my own podcast empire. I got thoughts, bro. Deep thoughts.”

He farted loudly, then snickered.

“Y’all hear that? That’s the sound of freedom. No chick tells me what to eat. No chick tells me when to shower. I’m, like, feral, bro. PURE. That’s what real men are.”

He sat back, belly out, fingers idly rubbing his perpetual erection under his anime boxers.

“I could get laid, easy, but, like… I got standards. Ain’t no bitches gonna ride this unless they got, like, huge anime tits and play Elden Ring. Shit, I’d take a hentai body pillow over some stuck-up ho any day.”

His voice cracked again, his jaw slack as drool ran down his chin.

“Anyway, subscribe. Like. Share. I’ll be ranting about why women ain’t funny and how I’m buildin’ a new society of REAL MEN. No cucks, no betas, just us, dudes. Virgin kings. Power.”

He flexed his scrawny arms, revealing patchy armpit hair, and grunted like he just did a bench press.

The screen froze on his dumb, sweaty, grinning face.

Braydn Rockwell — 24, virgin, straight, dumb, horny, and completely alone — had finally become exactly who he wished to be.

[need4change]

a professor trying to test if physical transformations cause people to act differently. The participant is physically turned into a jock and slowly falls into the role mentally.

Julian sat hunched on the metal bench, shivering in nothing but a paper-thin gown that clung to his slender frame. The sterile, white-tiled room felt more like a morgue than a lab, lit by harsh, flickering fluorescents. The air smelled of bleach, sweat, and something sharp — like metal baking in the sun. Every breath he took felt dry, scratchy, unnatural.

A massive steel door stood before him, labeled only CHAMBER 3A in cold black lettering. Above it blinked a red light.

He swallowed hard, the sound echoing in his ears.

Dr. Becker stood beside a control panel, his long fingers tapping rhythmically on the touchscreen. The older man’s white lab coat was immaculate, his bald head shining under the lights. Julian had never met someone who smiled so little.

“Reminder, Subject 42,” Becker said, voice devoid of warmth, “you’ve consented to the Full Physiological Alteration Protocol for the duration of Phase I. Observation will take three weeks, during which you will not have access to mirrors, reflective surfaces, or external stimuli beyond what we provide. You will be monitored, recorded, and isolated.”

Julian fidgeted with the hem of the gown, his pale fingers trembling. “Yeah... yeah, I know. But just to be clear, like... this is all reversible, right?”

Becker paused. “Eventually.”

Julian’s stomach churned.

He was used to being skinny. The kid who got picked last in gym. The one with delicate wrists, wiry legs, and a dancer’s build — though he hadn’t danced since his last gig in Cabaret. He’d been scraping by working at a smoothie shop, still dreaming of Broadway. So when the university posted an ad for a “body transformation study” that paid $10,000, he’d jumped at the chance. He thought they’d maybe do some hormone stuff. Or maybe even just feed him protein shakes and make him lift weights.

But now, staring into the dim maw of Chamber 3A, Julian realized he hadn’t really understood what he’d signed up for.

Becker gestured. “Disrobe and enter.”

Julian hesitated, then pulled the gown off. Naked, goosebumps prickled his skin. His small chest, smooth and hairless, rose and fell rapidly with anxious breaths. He stepped into the chamber. The door hissed shut behind him with a mechanical thunk.

The chamber was cramped. Cold steel walls surrounded a single reclined chair, with thick black restraints — wrists, ankles, neck, even a strap across the chest. A sharp, chemical smell hit him, stinging his nostrils.

“Please sit,” Becker’s voice came from a speaker.

Julian sat, wincing as the cold metal kissed his bare skin. The restraints locked into place with a hiss. A robotic arm descended, hovering near his neck.

“You will experience minor discomfort,” the voice said.

“Wait, what the fuck does that—”

Click. A needle jabbed deep into his neck, fire spreading instantly. Julian’s back arched against the chair as something thick, oily, and hot pumped into him. His muscles spasmed, and his heart thundered in his ears.

Then darkness.

Day 3

Julian woke up soaked in sweat, his sheets tangled and damp. He groaned, sitting up. Every joint ached — knees, shoulders, even his jaw. His skin itched like hell, especially his chest.

He stumbled to the bathroom — a spartan metal cell with a single toilet and shower, no mirror. The shower head hissed weakly as he stood under it, scratching at his chest. His fingers scraped across bumps... no, not bumps — hair.

Thick, coarse hair. On his chest.

“No way,” he muttered, running his hand down. The hair trailed down his stomach now, where he’d been totally smooth before. His pecs—wait, his chest felt different. Fuller. His nipples were sore, jutting out slightly.

He poked at one, wincing. “The fuck...?”

Day 5

Something was wrong with his hoodie.

He tried pulling it over his head, and it stuck—clinging tightly to his shoulders. He forced it on anyway, but the sleeves barely reached his wrists, the seams stretched taut across his biceps.

His biceps.

He flexed one experimentally. It felt dense. He prodded it, and the muscle resisted his finger. His heart thumped.

He yanked off the hoodie and stared at his arm. The veins were visible, faint but there — and there was a line. A muscle line. It wasn’t huge, but it wasn’t the arm he’d known his whole life.

Julian sat on the bed, breathing hard, his hands gripping his thighs.

Which were also thicker.

Day 7

The food changed. Protein sludge. Disgusting, thick, salty, and somehow greasy. He hated it — but he craved it. He found himself licking the bowl clean, scraping the sides for every drop.

He’d started sweating constantly. His pits were damp all day. His crotch reeked — a musky, raw smell that clung to him. He scrubbed hard in the shower, but it came back within hours. His underwear stuck to his thighs, which were now meaty and firm.

His cock felt heavy. It hung thicker, veined. His balls ached every night.

“Part of the hormonal recalibration,” Becker said on the intercom. “Ignore it.”

Julian couldn’t.

Day 10

He woke up sore.

Not normal sore — torn, stretched, like his whole body had been fighting itself in the night. His neck was thick, shoulders hunched slightly forward, chest tight.

He sat up and heard something pop in his back. He groaned. The tank top they gave him was soaked, clinging to his chest. When he stood, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the steel shower — warped and blurry, but he could see the outline of muscle. Slabs of pecs. Veiny arms.

His thighs rubbed together when he walked.

Day 14

“Subject 42, please report to Chamber 3A for recalibration.”

Julian grunted.

He barely noticed the command anymore. His walk had changed—he stomped now, heavy feet slapping the floor. The tank top didn’t cover his stomach anymore. His abs showed. His traps bulged over the neckline, thick cords of muscle. His voice had dropped — he sounded like a fucking football player.

His balls itched. He scratched them constantly.

He missed dancing. He missed music. But he could barely think over the heat in his skin. His body felt like it was boiling. Always flexing. Always hungry.

Always hard.

He stood in front of Chamber 3A, breathing heavily.

He didn’t want to go in again.

But his cock twitched.

The door opened.

He stepped inside.

Julian’s heart pounded as the restraints unlatched with a metallic clack, releasing him from the chair in Chamber 3A. His skin was drenched in sweat again—thick rivulets sliding down his sides, pooling under the waistband of his tight gray gym shorts. The air in the chamber was rank with the musk of his own body. He didn’t remember when exactly he’d started reeking like this, but now it was constant. His pits, his crotch, his feet—all of him. Raw, aggressive male stink.

He stumbled out, legs wide to accommodate his thick thighs. Every movement felt massive—his limbs now weighed him down. The jock body didn’t move like his old one. His pecs bounced when he walked. His traps forced his arms slightly outward. His neck was thick, corded, hot with blood flow.

Dr. Becker was waiting in Observation Room Delta, standing before a massive black wall. Julian couldn’t see anything on it—yet.

“This is a pivotal moment, Subject 42,” Becker said, clipboard in hand. “You are to see yourself fully, for the first time since the protocol began. Do you feel different?”

Julian opened his mouth, but his voice cracked—low, coarse.

“I mean… yeah,” he muttered. “I feel… heavy. Like, my body’s always on. I can’t… can’t relax.”

“You’ve undergone substantial muscular hypertrophy, craniofacial restructuring, and androgenic adaptation. You’re functioning on significantly elevated testosterone. Your baseline hormonal profile now matches that of a collegiate football linebacker during peak season.”

Julian blinked, trying to process that. His scalp itched. His thick, sweaty hair clung to his forehead. His jaw ached—it had been doing that for days.

Becker pressed a button. The black wall flickered—then illuminated.

A full-body mirror appeared.

Julian staggered back.

“No… f-fuck, no way.”

His mouth went dry. The reflection staring back was massive. Tan. Shredded. A jock. A beast.

He inched forward, staring. His eyes—still brown—looked dumber, slightly slack. His brow was heavy, his cheekbones blunt, his jaw square and thick. His lips were full, parted slightly. His neck was a fucking trunk, bulging veins stretching down into swollen traps that rose like mountains.

His shoulders were wide, capped with mounds of solid meat. His arms… god, his arms. Veiny, thick, coated in a faint sheen of sweat and hair. He flexed one without meaning to—and the mirror shook. His bicep ballooned, vein snaking down to his bulging forearm.

“Dude…” he muttered. “I look like… like a fucking frat bro.”

His chest was massive. His pecs pushed against the tight tank top—clearly two sizes too small. Beneath them, abs cut deep like ridges in stone. His gym shorts barely contained his thighs—tree trunks of muscle. His bulge was obscene, outlined in the damp fabric, heavy and swinging.

Julian’s cock twitched. He backed up, flushed. “Fuck, no… this is… this is wrong.”

“You are experiencing dissonance,” Becker noted. “That is expected.”

Julian’s breath came fast, shallow. He couldn’t stop staring. He raised one beefy hand to his pec, pressing it. Firm. Hot. Powerful.

He groaned. His cock hardened. “Shit…”

He shouldn’t be turned on. This wasn’t him. This body—this freakish, horny, alpha jock body—wasn’t his. He was gay. He liked guys like this, sure—but now he was one. And feeling this body, the weight of it, the constant pulse of muscle… it was doing something to him.

Becker handed him a can of protein shake. Julian took it without thinking, cracked it open, and chugged. The thick liquid coated his throat. He belched loudly, chest heaving.

“Damn, that’s good shit,” he muttered, then froze. “Wait. Fuck. Why’d I say that?”

“You are acclimating,” Becker said.

Julian couldn’t stop flexing. His traps twitched. He caught himself smirking in the mirror—smirking.

“Yo…” he chuckled dumbly. “I’m kinda… fucking jacked, huh?”

Becker scribbled.

Day 17

Julian—Jules, as he’d started calling himself—was always sweating. His tank top was permanently damp, clinging to his pecs, darkening his pits. He walked heavy, stomping, shoulders wide, chest out. His voice had dropped another octave.

“Yo, doc, can I get some fuckin’ weights or somethin’? I’m goin’ nuts in here, man,” he’d barked, bouncing pecs absently.

He still thought he was gay. He still thought about dudes. But now… when the female assistants passed by, his eyes drifted. Down their tops. At their asses. And his cock twitched.

“F-fuck, nah… I’m just horny, bro,” he muttered one night, stroking himself, grunting, musky pit funk heavy in the air. “Still gay. Still me.”

But the way he flexed in the mirror, tongue out, smirking dumbly—he looked like a bro.

He acted like one.

And he didn’t even notice.

Jules scratched at his balls absently, seated on the reclined metal chair in Chamber 3A. His tank top was soaked with sweat, clinging to his pecs, darkened around his bulging pits. His cock sat heavy in his gym shorts, outlined clearly, twitching now and then. He stank. The chamber stank. But he didn’t notice anymore. He liked the funk. It made him harder.

Dr. Becker entered, followed by two assistants in lab coats. One carried a device that looked like a bizarre helmet, the other held a thick, battered baseball cap, sweat-stained, with the faded letters STATE U stitched across the front.

Jules blinked. “Yo, what’s this? Some new brain zapper shit?” he laughed, flexing his massive arms, bouncing his pecs with ease. “Hope it ain’t gonna fuck with my gains, bro.”

Becker smiled. “Quite the opposite, Subject 42. Today, we complete your reconditioning.”

The assistants approached. Jules didn’t resist as the cap was shoved onto his head — it stank like a locker room. Sweat, grime, old beer. The moment it settled onto his scalp, something clicked in his brain.

Thud.

His jaw slackened slightly.

“Duuuuh…” he muttered, eyes blinking lazily.

A warm pulse flooded his skull. His balls twitched. The machine was activated.

WHIRRRRRR—CLICK.

Cables latched onto his cock and balls. He grunted.

“Yo, the fuck, bro? That’s cold as fuck, dude!”

Images flickered across the screen in front of him — football, cheerleaders, beer pong, tits, tailgate parties, chugging beer, laughing bros, and sweaty locker rooms.

His cock surged.

The machine pulsed, sending electric charges through the cables, down into his nuts.

“AAHHH—FUCK!”

Becker noted calmly: “Memory drain initiated. Sexual identity first.”

Jules thrashed, biceps bulging, teeth gritted. “Nngghh! No—fuck—I like dudes, bro—shit—I like—!”

ZAP.

His brain throbbed. His cock jerked. His balls drained, not of cum — but of who he was. He felt it leaving. His first crush. His first kiss with a guy. The first time he sang in Rent. Gone. Pulled from his brain through his nuts.

“Fuckin’—shit, man—I… I—uh…”

He blinked. Tits on screen. He moaned.

“Yo, them tits are… kinda fire though…” he mumbled, drool dripping from his lips.

ZAP.

Becker adjusted the dial. “Erasing performance memories. Theatre. Dance. Speech patterns.”

Jules whimpered. “No… I love the—fuckin’ fuck, what was I sayin’...”

More images. Beer chugging, bench presses, girls grinding on him, bros yelling "NO HOMO!", massive football hits.

Jules began to drool.

“Bro… I wanna… fuckin’ party, dude…”

Becker leaned in.

“You no longer respond to the name Julian.”

Jules grunted. His cock twitched.

“Your name is TREVOR. Say it.”

The cap pulsed, sending heat through his skull.

“Guhhh… T-Trevor…”

“Louder.”

Trevor’s eyes were glassy. “I’m Trevor, bro.”

Becker smiled. “Good. Now drain.”

Trevor moaned as the machine sucked, his cock jerking, his balls aching, his mind breaking. Every zap made him dumber. Every pulse stole a word, a memory, a feeling. Gay? What the fuck was that?

He flexed. He laughed.

“Dude, I’m fucking Trevor, bro!”

Trevor roared, pecs bouncing, cock throbbing, as his past vanished.

TWO DAYS LATER

Trevor stomped down the hallway, shirtless, a six-pack of beer in one hand, cap backwards, cock swinging in his gym shorts.

“Yooo, where da hoes at?” he bellowed, voice deep, dumb, and loud. “Trevor’s ready to FUCK, bro!”

He saw a mirror. Flexed. Smirked.

“Fuckin’ alpha, bro,” he laughed. “No homo, bro. I ain’t gay, dude.”

Julian was gone.

Trevor was forever.

[need4change]

just wanna get the stress out and be a fucking lazy guy with a rotten butt, keeps letting out low farts and scrolling on tiktok all day, with no real goals or problems

You stand at the edge of the crumbling old park, teeth clenched, trying not to scream. The summer air is thick with humidity and smog, your dress shirt soaked with sweat from another goddamn 12-hour shift. Your boss screamed at you for a typo in an email. You missed lunch again. And the cherry on top? Some kid on the subway called you “sir” and offered you a seat. You're thirty-four. Thirty-fucking-four. Too young to feel this old, too tired to even care anymore.

You glance down at your phone. Three unread messages from your idiot boss, two from your mom asking if you’re seeing anyone, and a Grindr notification from some faceless torso begging for nudes. Again.

Your thumb hovers, then you sigh and shove it back into your pocket. You’re done. Done with work, done with men who treat you like a body part, done with feeling invisible and exhausted and trapped in a life that just grinds you down every damn day.

You wander deeper into the park, away from the noise of the city. Your shoes squelch in the mud as you stomp through a half-forgotten path overgrown with weeds. That’s when you see it—a cracked, moss-covered wishing well, half-sunken in the muck, choked with vines and god knows what.

You stare at it, panting, sweat dripping down your temples. You laugh bitterly.

“Fuck it,” you mutter.

You fish a grimy quarter from your pocket, flick it into the dark hole, and without thinking, snarl:

“I wish… I wish life was fucking easy. No boss. No stress. No bullshit. Just… no problems. Ever.”

The air around you shivers.

There’s a deep, gurgling glurp from the well. You stumble back. Then it hits you—the smell. Rotten eggs, sour milk, week-old ass—a stench that makes your eyes water and your stomach churn. A thick green gas erupts from the well with a hissing hiss, slamming into your face and forcing itself into your nostrils, your throat, your lungs.

You gag, eyes streaming, coughing as the gas curls around your body like sticky fingers. Your knees buckle, and you fall on your ass in the mud.

And then it begins.

A crude bubbling sensation crawls through your gut, as if something inside you is swelling, warping, rearranging. You groan, clutching your stomach, but your hands… your hands are thinner, longer, the veins more visible. Your pale, hairy arms start to twitch, hair falling out in clumps, replaced by smooth, tan skin.

Your ass shifts against the muddy ground. And then—pffrrrrbbbt—a low, lazy fart leaks out of you. Loud, wet, and foul.

“What the fuck…” you rasp, mortified. But your voice… it’s off. Higher-pitched, cracking, full of lazy indifference.

Your belly gurgles again, and suddenly your butt swells beneath you—soft, jiggly, and massive. You grope at it in horror. It’s round, rotten-feeling, and radiating heat. You shudder, and another lazy blorp of gas escapes from it, the stench vile.

“Nah… dude, no way,” you mutter. Dude?

Your clothes sag around you now, hanging off a skinnier, lankier frame. You fumble to your feet, stumbling, your pants sliding off your bony hips, revealing the baggy grey boxers clinging to your farting ass.

You’re sweating buckets, shaking, your brain foggy, like you just woke up from a 24-hour nap. You scratch your stomach dumbly, your nails chipped, and your once-trim nails now bitten, dirty.

You burp—loud, crass, and accidental—and then pull your phone from your pocket. Your fingers, twitchy and clumsy, unlock it without thinking. You open TikTok. Autopilot.

And suddenly it’s just you, swiping, eyes glazed, watching some hot girl lip-sync to a dumb audio. Your mouth hangs open.

“Bro… she’s like… hot as fuck,” you mutter, hand sliding absently to your crotch.

You blink.

“What the… what the hell’s happening?” you mutter, panic bubbling beneath your slack expression.

A massive fart rips from you, and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You’re too busy scrolling, watching the next TikTok, and the next, your thoughts slow, sluggish, stupid.

Something’s wrong.

But thinking feels hard, and your body? Funky, gross, and lazy. Your old life? It’s fading, bro. Fast.

You wake up in your childhood bedroom. The walls are plastered with old band posters—some emo crap you haven’t thought about in years—and a stack of unopened mail sits on the dusty desk. The clock blinks 2:47 PM in ugly neon red. Your head pounds like a jackhammer and your mouth tastes like you’ve been sucking on rotten socks.

You glance down. You’re still in yesterday’s ratty hoodie and those loose, saggy sweatpants that hang halfway off your hips, showing off the waistband of your worn-out briefs. Your stomach protrudes slightly over the elastic, soft and doughy. You run a hand over your greasy, unwashed hair—your nails ragged, your skin sallow and blotchy. You look… lean? Yeah, lean all right. Like a skinny-ass teenager who barely eats but still manages to be gross.

Your ass itches. You shift on your crusty bed sheets and let out a lazy fart. The sound is wet and disgusting, lingering like a fart cloud hovering over a dumpster. You don’t even flinch.

“Whatever,” you mutter, scratching your bubble butt like it’s a goddamn itch you’ve ignored for weeks.

Your phone buzzes nonstop, but the only notifications you care about are from TikTok and Instagram. You scroll. You watch. You laugh dumbly at cringe videos. Your thumbs move on autopilot, and your brain feels like mush.

You try to remember what the hell happened last night. That stupid wishing well, the gas, the farting, the weird sinking feeling in your gut. But your memory is hazy, and the parts that come back feel like a bad dream—or a shitty TikTok challenge you regret doing.

You stumble to the bathroom. The mirror greets you with a pale-faced kid with dark circles under his eyes, a greasy mop of hair, and an expression that screams “I haven’t showered in days.” You run your hand down your face and catch sight of your bubble butt reflected behind you in the mirror. The sight almost makes you gag.

Your pants are baggy, the waistband stretched out, but your butt looks like it has a life of its own—big, soft, and kind of disgusting. You shift, and a low fart escapes. The stink hits you immediately—like gym socks left in a locker for a month.

You gag. “Goddamn, you’re nasty,” you say to your reflection, but deep down you know it’s not just the stink. You’re… different. The gas didn’t just change your ass. It’s like it rewired your whole goddamn brain.

You remember your job, your boss, the grind, but they feel so far away, like someone else’s life. Your biggest ambition now? To not have to get off the couch today, maybe get some snacks, scroll TikTok, and let rip a few farts whenever you feel like it.

You pull out your phone again and open Grindr Tinder You scroll past the usual guys, but the messages don’t even register. Instead, you tap on a “straight” filter just to see what’s up.

The profiles that pop up are all clean-cut, suburban kids—baseball caps, chains, blonde hair, chewing gum, dumb smiles. You laugh, a little bitter, a little empty. You know you’re not one of them, but the damn gas seems to be dragging you toward that dumbass world.

You drop the phone on your stomach and lean back on your bed, legs splayed out, your bubble butt hanging loose. Another fart escapes—long, wet, totally unapologetic.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your mom: “Are you eating? When are you moving out? Love you!”

You don’t respond. You don’t care. You’re stuck now—in your body, your dumb ass brain, and this smelly, lazy lifestyle.

Because no matter how hard you try to fight it, you’re turning into the dumbest, grossest, straightest, laziest Gen Z loser you could possibly imagine.

You’re slouched on the couch in the basement, legs spread wide, one hand down your sweatpants, the other lazily scrolling TikTok on your cracked phone. Crumbs from Doritos cling to your hoodie. You haven’t changed clothes in three days. Hell, you don’t even know what day it is. Not that it matters. Every day’s the same now—wake up, fart, scroll, snack, fart again, maybe jerk it if you’re bored.

. Now, everyone just calls you Brody.

Your mom screams down the stairs: “Brody! Can you PLEASE take the trash out?! It smells like something died down there!”

You grunt. “Chill, mom, I’m doin’ stuff!”

You ain’t doin’ shit.

You let out a massive fart, the couch cushion rumbling under your soft, rotten bubble butt. You smirk. That one was nasty. The stink hits immediately—sour, cheesy, just wrong—but you don’t even flinch. Kinda proud, actually.

Your phone buzzes again. TikTok DM.

“Bro, u see that ass on that chick from chem class? 🔥🔥🔥”

You smirk, licking orange powder off your fingers, and reply with a sloppy selfie—your oily hair sticking out under a backwards cap, a smug, slack-jawed grin, and your tongue out like a moron.

“Lmao yeh bro she thick af 😮‍💨💦”

You send it without thinking, then shift, scratching your fart-prone ass.

You don’t work. Don’t go to school anymore. You dropped out, remember? Couldn’t focus. Too many lectures, too many rules. You hated that crap. Now, you’re just vibin’, as you like to say. Living at home, sponging off your mom, making dumb TikToks of you farting on random objects and rating the stink. People actually follow you for it. Like, thousands. They call you “BrodyTheTootGod” now.

Your room? Absolute wreck. Clothes everywhere. Empty soda bottles. Sticky socks. Crusty tissues. You don’t even bother cleaning. Who gives a shit?

Sometimes, late at night, you vaguely remember something—an office? Deadlines? A life before this? But those thoughts slip away the moment you let out another fart and dive back into TikTok.

You are Brody now.

19 years old, lazy, dumb as bricks, straight as hell, and nasty. You live for snacks, stinky farts, dumb memes, and scrolling TikTok for booty. You don’t care about jobs, the future, or your old life. That loser? He’s gone. Wiped out by a wish and a cloud of rancid gas.

[need4change]

A popular jock comes out as gay and tries to end things amicably with his girlfriend. She doesn't take too kindly to it and makes some changes to her old boyfriend.

Blake Mason didn’t cry. Not when he shattered his collarbone sophomore year, not when his dad screamed at him after losing the playoffs, and definitely not when Sydney Prescott, his girlfriend of two years, was throwing another one of her tantrums.

But today was different.

He stood frozen in her bedroom, palms sweaty, his varsity football hoodie suddenly suffocating around his broad, sweat-dampened frame.

“Say it again,” Sydney spat, eyes wide, manicured fingers clutching the edge of her dresser like she might snap it in two.

Blake licked his dry lips. “I’m gay.”

His voice cracked—something it hadn’t done in years.

Silence crashed between them like a tidal wave. The room, usually scented like vanilla and her overpriced perfumes, now smelled like something bitter. Toxic.

Sydney’s chest rose and fell in jagged breaths. She was still in her cheer uniform, midriff bared, legs crossed in fury.

“You’re kidding. This is a joke, right?” She laughed, bitter and sharp. “You’re not a fag.”

Blake winced at the word. “Syd, don’t—just… I didn’t mean to hurt you. I needed to be honest.”

She stared at him, eyes glassy. Then she snapped.

“You don’t get to be honest, Blake. I blew you on prom night. I defended you when people said you were too into your teammates. I shaved your ass crack, for fuck’s sake!”

“Sydney—”

“NO. You wanna be gay? Fine. But I’m not gonna be some fag hag.”

She stormed past him, heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Blake turned to follow—then froze.

She yanked open a drawer, pulling out an old, blackened notebook. He didn’t recognize it. It looked ancient—leather cracked, pages yellowed, the air around it suddenly hot, thick, like the oxygen had been sucked out.

“What is that?” he asked, chest tightening.

She didn’t answer.

Her mouth twisted into something cruel, and she began muttering—low, guttural words in a language Blake couldn’t understand.

“Wait—wait, Sydney, stop! Seriously, this isn’t funny—”

“You wanna be gay?” she snarled, slamming the book shut with a bang. “I’ll give you the body of a real fag.”

And then she spoke a word—sharp, guttural, like tearing metal.

Blake screamed.

It hit him like lightning.

His spine arched, a violent spasm seizing his entire back. He fell to his knees with a thud, palms slamming the floor.

His gut twisted—hot, boiling, like acid was churning through his insides. Sweat burst from every pore, soaking through his hoodie and varsity tee. His body jerked, seized, then convulsed again, harder.

“Syd—fuck—fuck, what the hell’s happening?!”

He tried to stand—his knees buckled. His arms shook violently. His biceps—once thick, solid, the envy of the locker room—twitched, muscles tensing, shrinking. He gasped as his hoodie sleeves grew loose, bunching at his elbows.

Blake ripped the hoodie off, panting.

His t-shirt clung to his chest, soaked with sweat, and clung tighter with each second. He reached up to wipe his face, but his arms—thinner now, visibly so—felt weak.

“Fuck. Fuck. No—what the hell’s going on—?”

He tore the shirt off, fingers trembling.

His chest… was different. His pecs, once proud, flattened, softening. His waist narrowed, torso slimming, abs re-carving themselves into something leaner, tighter, twinkier. His once-solid build was fading, melting.

“God, no—my chest, my arms—this isn’t real, this can’t be real!”

His hands darted to his face—it itched. His jaw tingled. A crack echoed in his skull.

His cheekbones jutted forward, sharp and high. His eyes burned, lids stretching, as they grew larger, rounder, more… doe-like. He stumbled to his feet, running to Sydney’s full-length mirror.

And he froze.

His face—his face—was no longer his. His chin had slimmed, lips puffing, growing full, pouty, obscene. His nose slimmed with each breath, his lashes longer, fluttering involuntarily.

His eyes—those were still his, somewhere in there—but wide, glassy, framed by thick lashes. The face staring back at him was pretty. Femme. Fucking hot.

“No. No—what the fuck—” Blake’s voice cracked again.

A sudden, violent POP from below. He collapsed, clutching his hips. They shifted, bones grinding, cracking. His pelvis flared, hips widening.

“GAAAHH—FUCK—!”

His ass exploded with heat. Muscle rearranged. Fat piled on. His tight gym shorts screamed at the seams.

Blake’s ass grew, pushing outward, round, perky, pornographic. He clawed at his waistband, but his fingers twitched, unable to grasp, as his bubble butt jutted out.

“No no no—NOT MY ASS—NOT LIKE THIS!”

Sydney cackled.

Blake collapsed on the floor, panting, sweat-soaked, and sobbing.

Blake lay trembling on Sydney’s floor, his once-mighty body curled into itself. The hardwood was cold against his skin—his skin that felt alien, soft, almost silky now, drenched in sweat. His breath came in rapid, shallow gasps as he tried to make sense of the body beneath him.

His t-shirt lay in tatters. His shorts clung tight to his gargantuan bubble butt, riding up deep between his cheeks, exposing far too much.

“I—I’m gonna kill you, Sydney,” he hissed, or tried to. But even as he spoke, something snapped deep in his throat.

Pain.

Sudden, sharp, and white-hot. His hands flew to his neck, clawing at his throat.

“Ggghhhh—what the fuck?! My throat—Syd, what did you—?!”

She stood over him, arms folded, phone out, recording. Smirking.

“I told you, babe. Everyone’s gonna think you’re a fag—with that voice.”

Blake coughed, hard—his voice crackling, bubbling inside him like something rotten. His vocal cords felt like they were being stretched, pulled tight, then tighter, until he could barely draw breath.

He groaned—high, squeaky.

“No, no, no—don’t—ugh, fuck—I sound—I sound wrong! I sound like a fucking girl!”

Another twitch—his Adam’s apple shrunk, vanishing beneath the soft skin of his now slender neck. His next breath whined out in a swishy, nasal whimper.

“Oh. My. Gawd,” he gasped—his real voice now—a lispy, effeminate, fake-sounding drawl.

He slapped his hands over his mouth, eyes wide with terror.

“Nuh-uh. NO. That’s not how I talk. I don’t—I’m not—I don’t sound like that!”

Sydney laughed, doubled over.

Blake’s world spun. His voice—it didn’t just sound gay—it sounded like a caricature, like every faggy twink he used to mock behind closed doors.

He crawled to the mirror again, shaking.

“Oh my gawd… I’m, like… seriously fucked,” he whispered—and his voice betrayed him again, fluttery, breathy, obscene.

Sydney circled him like a predator. “And guess what, Blake? You’ll act like one too.”

Blake turned. “What the fuck does that mean? I’m still me, bitch!”

Another snap of her fingers.

His brain felt like it got punched.

A dull, throbbing ache spread across his skull. Not like pain—like pressure, thick and smothering. Blake clutched his head, groaning.

“Nnnnnngh… what the fuck is happening in my head?!”

The world blurred—memories slipped. Football plays, weightlifting routines, hanging with the bros, chugging beers on Friday nights—it all melted, faded, gone.

In its place?

Confetti. TikToks. Lip gloss. Theatre. Blake blinked, confused, and scared.

He looked down at his phone, still in his hand.

Instagram. Open on his own page.

And the photo staring back?

A selfie—him, shirtless, pouting with his new lips, ass jutted in the mirror. Posted. Liked. By guys.

“What the… wait—why did I post that? Ohmygod that’s so—wait, I don’t post thirst traps—do I?”

His thoughts spun. They didn’t feel like his anymore.

He giggled—a breathy, involuntary sound. His hands clapped over his mouth.

“No. NO. I’m not—I don’t act like this! I’m not some thirsty little fag! I love sports. I love beer!”

Sydney stepped in, tilting his chin up with one perfectly manicured nail.

“You did love sports. Now you love attention, Blake. And likes. And compliments. Especially from guys.”

He whimpered.

His hips swayed as he sat back. His fingers fluttered to his fat ass, squeezing it nervously.

“Is it… is it, like, too big?” he muttered, voice sugary.

“Just right,” Sydney purred. “And it’s only gonna get worse.”

Blake sobbed. His hands trembled. His mind was slipping.

And he couldn’t stop it.

Blake crouched on Sydney’s floor, hands trembling, tears streaking his now-glossy cheeks, his bubble butt jutting obscenely behind him. He could feel it—how the fat wobbled when he moved, how it dominated his narrow frame, demanding attention. His lean, twinkish body glistened with sweat, every breath a syrupy, lispy wheeze in that femme little voice.

His mind felt like cotton candy, sticky, light, useless. He didn’t even remember the last time he’d thought about football. Or beers. Or anything except his butt, his hair, and whether his jawline popped in selfies.

“No, no, no, I’m not—I’m not a fag,” he whispered, hands fidgeting, clutching his thighs. “I’m just—like, kinda… fluid or whatever… right?” He glanced at Sydney, desperate. “This is just, like, a phase? Please?”

Sydney leaned back, feigning thought. “Hmm. Maybe you need a new name. You’re not Blake anymore. That name’s for jocks. You’re more of a… Eliot. Yeah. Eliot James.”

Blake blinked. “Eliot…?” The name settled, creeping into his bones. Eliot James. It sounded… soft. Safe. Like someone who took acting classes.

He gasped. “Wait—I… I think I wanna… audition for, like, that new Netflix thing. Or maybe do some musical theatre in the fall…”

His stomach turned. The words felt right. And wrong. He clutched his head, panicked.

“I don’t do theatre! I’m not some softboy! I like, I dunno, pussy! Not… not Hamilton! I swear I’m straight!”

Sydney grinned like a shark. “Oh, you’ll crave pussy, Eliot. More than anything. But you’ll never be man enough to satisfy a woman. You’ll be the straightest, most pussy-obsessed little bitch alive.”

Her fingers snapped.

Eliot convulsed.

Heat exploded in his groin. He shrieked, high-pitched and pathetic, as his cock compressed. His hands shot to his crotch, feeling it shrink, curl, wither.

“Nnnnngh noooo! Not my dick—what the fuck, it’s—it’s so small!”

His tiny dick twitched, hard and useless. His legs kicked, hips bucking desperately, pathetically.

“Gimme pussy! I need it—I need to fuck! Please Sydney, I’ll do anything!”

Sydney stood over him, unmoved. “You’re straight now, Eliot. Completely. But you’re queerbait—all bubble butt, crop tops, and thirst posts. Girls will tease you. Guys will mock you. And you’ll hate it.”

Eliot sobbed, scrambling to his feet.

His reflection caught him off-guard.

He was pretty. Slender, pouty, with soft skin and big doughy eyes. His hair was artfully tousled—like he spent hours making it look messy on purpose. His waist was tiny, his jeans painted on over his enormous twink ass, his tiny dick barely a bulge.

“Yo, I’m not gay, okay?” he muttered to himself, practicing in the mirror. “I get so much pussy, bro. Just, like, don’t call me that again. I swear, I’ll—fuck, I’m straight, bro. STRAIGHT.”

His voice dripped with insecurity.

He posted a shirtless thirst trap immediately.

Caption: "Just a straight king out here respectin’ women 💪🍑 hmu ladies."

His DMs blew up—with guys.

He seethed, pacing.

“Sydney, please—I hate this! I’m not some fuckboy theatre major, I swear! I’m not a fag, don’t call me that—I just wanna fuck you, babe, please!”

He dropped to his knees. “I need you! Take me back! I’m straight, I swear, I just—fuck—I’m, like, addicted to pussy now!”

Sydney only laughed, phone in hand, recording.

“I don’t date twinks, Eliot. Good luck with your acting career.”

And she walked out, heels clicking, leaving him drooling, horny, humiliated.

Forever Eliot. Forever straight. Forever a joke.

[need4change]

Traditional Too

You can't stop staring at your phone.

It’s 11:23 PM on a Thursday, and Brandon’s already gone to bed—again. No “goodnight kiss,” no cuddling, not even a half-hearted grope under the covers. Just a mumbled “g’night” and the creak of the bedroom door closing.

You sit alone on the couch, in your stretched-out sweatpants, a beer in one hand and your phone in the other, watching TikToks you don’t even like anymore. Your back aches from another hellish day at the office. Your boss is a micromanaging prick, your coworkers are fake as hell, and your inbox is a war zone. You’re too tired to work out, too tired to jerk off, too tired to do anything except sit there and stew.

Five years with Brandon. Five.

You used to think it was perfect. You both had decent bodies back then—Brandon used to be stocky, always lifting, and you were wiry, lean, more of a runner. Sex used to be fun, spontaneous, messy. Now it’s once a week, if you’re lucky, and it always ends with one of you pretending to enjoy it for the other’s sake.

You’ve talked about trying new things. A third. “Opening up.” But the idea makes you nauseous. The thought of coordinating it, talking about it, sharing Brandon? Exhausting.

You just want things to go back to normal. Before all this. Before work stress. Before the silence at dinner. Before Brandon started obsessing about marathons and keto, and you started fantasizing about simpler lives, simpler roles. Clearer roles.

That’s when you remember the website.

It was a blur, that late night, two months ago. You were drunk, lying in bed after another failed attempt to get Brandon hard. You were browsing forums—relationship advice, supplements, porn—until you ended up on some shady link called “TRADLOVE—Restore the Natural Order”.

You clicked it.

The page was black with glowing red text. Janky, almost threatening. You barely remember the words, but one thing stuck with you:

LOVE LOTION Apply together. Return to True Roles. One Love. One Bond. One Path. No returns. No refunds.

You ordered it on impulse. No price. No confirmation. Just typed your address and hit send. You assumed it was a scam.

But now, staring at the package in front of you, you’re not so sure.

It arrived today, crammed into your mailbox in a beat-up box soaked with some kind of sticky residue, like someone sneezed on it. No label. No instructions. Just your name scribbled in red ink on the side like a threat.

You picked it up this morning, gagged at the sour, chemical stench, and tossed it into the kitchen drawer. But now—alone, horny, restless—you open it.

Inside is a small glass jar, the contents thick, green, and bubbling, like it’s breathing. LOVE LOTION is written on the lid in blocky black Sharpie. You unscrew it.

The smell hits you hard—sweat, bleach, and something fermented, like a locker room towel left in the sun. You recoil but… something about it keeps you from throwing it out.

Instead, you stare at it. And a thought worms its way in:

What if it works?

You don’t tell Brandon.

The next day, Friday, you set the scene. You leave work early, pick up candles, cheap wine, even rose petals from that awful dollar store. You cook dinner—burn it, but whatever. You just want to try.

Brandon walks in, sweaty from a run, his tank top clinging to his too-lean torso. He smiles when he sees the table, surprised.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Us,” you say, heart racing. “Thought we could… reconnect.”

That night, after a tense dinner and a bottle of wine, you pull out the jar.

Brandon grimaces. “What the hell is that?”

You grin, trying to be charming. “It’s a couples’ thing. Some… massage oil. Thought it might help.”

He raises an eyebrow but shrugs. “Can’t hurt.”

You both strip down. You lay on the bed, petals scattered like a parody of romance. You unscrew the jar again—the smell is worse now, thicker, like sweat, cheap cologne, and church incense. Your stomach churns.

But you dip your fingers in.

It’s slimy, greasy, hot to the touch, like it’s burning your skin on contact. You smear it on Brandon’s shoulders, rubbing it into his skin as he winces.

“Jesus, it stinks,” he mutters.

“You’ll get used to it.”

He takes the jar, rubs some on your chest. It tingles. Then it burns. You hiss.

“Dude, are you okay?” Brandon asks, pulling back.

You nod, trying to play it off, but your skin feels like it’s buzzing, like it’s crawling from the inside.

You keep rubbing the lotion in. His hands are on your arms now, sliding over your biceps, down to your stomach. His touch feels… weird. Too soft. Too delicate.

Your heart is pounding.

Then it starts.

At first it’s just a tightness in your chest. Your breath shortens. You sit up, rubbing your pecs—and freeze. Your chest is swollen, muscles tightening, hardening, as if someone’s pumping them full of air.

“Babe… what’s happening?” you ask, voice lower, rougher.

Brandon stares, eyes wide.

“Your… your arms…” he stammers.

You look down. Your arms are thicker, veins rising, shoulders bulging under your skin. Your stomach cramps—you groan—and a six-pack presses forward, tight, ripped, gleaming with sweat.

The burning intensifies. Your skin itches, and you claw at your chest, fingers pulling loose dark hairs that weren’t there before.

Your jaw cracks, widening, reshaping—your face growing square, strong, a shadow of stubble prickling your cheeks. You stumble to the mirror.

A stranger stares back. Lean, muscular, with short, dark hair, perfectly faded at the sides, a smug, cocky expression you can’t stop making.

“Fuck…” you groan.

Behind you, Brandon gasps—and then moans.

You turn.

His hair is longer now, blonde, falling over his softer face. His hips are rounding, chest smooth, his eyes wide, bright blue. His lips plump, parted.

He looks… hot. But… different.

“What’s going on?” he whimpers.

You step toward him. Your legs are thicker, every step heavy, your cock hardening, massive, leaking.

Your brain swims.

Lead. Provide. Dominate. Protect. Breed.

You reach for Brandon—no, your wife—and pull him close.

“Don’t worry, babe,” you say, voice deep, slow, commanding.

“I’ve got us now.”

The room stinks.

It’s not the lotion anymore—it’s you. The sweat pouring off your body, the musky tang of your pits, the cheap cologne smell that somehow wasn’t there before. You can taste it in the air—sour, spicy, male.

You’re pacing the bedroom, panting like a beast, your thick, heavy cock slapping against your thigh, dripping pre-cum with every step. The weight of it, the heat in your core, it’s all wrong but so right. Your whole body is buzzing, tight, every muscle tense, pumped.

Your skin is red, slick, veiny, twitching with little spasms. You keep running your hands over your pecs, pinching your hard nipples, flexing your biceps just to feel how big you’ve gotten.

Brandon—no, "Bree"—is curled up on the bed now. His blonde hair falls over his face in soft, perfect curls. His eyes are glazed, dazed, fluttering as he shifts his now-slimmer body under the covers. His hips are wider, waist tight, chest hairless, the faint outline of small, perky tits forming beneath his pale skin.

You stare at him—at her—and feel something inside you snap.

Not love. Not even lust.

Possession. Ownership. God-given responsibility.

You don’t even think about it—you just act. You crawl on top of Bree, your huge frame dwarfing hers now. She looks up at you with big, submissive eyes, her lips plump, glossy, trembling.

“W-what’s happening to us?” she whispers, voice light, airy, almost bubbly now.

You smirk. That same cocky grin you’d always hated on frat bros at the bar. Now it’s yours.

“We’re fixin’ things, babe,” you grunt, the words spilling out of your mouth like they’ve always been there. “Becoming what we’re meant to be. What God wants us to be.”

Your brain flickers. You want to laugh at that thought, but it doesn’t feel funny. It feels real. Your cock pulses with that thought—God wants this. God made man to lead… and woman to obey.

You roll your neck, and crack—your traps bulk out, your neck thickens, veins bulge across your shoulders. Your voice rumbles, deeper, like a meathead’s—slower, a bit stupid, but confident, loud.

Your thoughts are simplifying.

It’s like someone’s turning down the noise in your head, the doubts, the anxiety, the endless thinking. All that gay shit, all the complex emotions, the “relationship problems,” the therapy, the talk of “equality”—it’s all melting away, replaced by clarity, purpose.

You’re the man. That’s it.

You shove your face into Bree’s neck, inhaling her scent—sweet, vanilla, feminine—and grind against her soft body. She moans, high-pitched and submissive, giggling as you pin her down.

“Daddy…” she gasps.

That word hits you like a shot of adrenaline.

Daddy.

Your cock throbs, pounds, your hips jerk, and for a second, you almost blow your load right there.

You grip Bree’s wrist tight, pulling her arms above her head. Your hands are huge, calloused, powerful. She squirms, but not in fear. In eager submission.

“This is how it’s s’posed to be,” you growl, voice thick, like you’re chewing every word. “Man in charge. Woman on her back. Just like God intended.”

Bree whimpers. “Yes, Daddy… yes…”

You slam your hand against the headboard—it cracks, but you don’t care. You feel invincible.

And then—your mind jolts.

Suddenly, you’re thinking about church. About Sunday suits, Bible studies, grace before meals. You see yourself there, standing tall in a crisp shirt, Bree on your arm in a modest floral dress, smiling up at you, obedient, proud.

The American flag. Family values. Leading your household. Protecting her purity. Raising kids right. No degeneracy. No perversion.

You grunt, eyes rolling back, images pounding into your brain.

You want to pray.

You want to breed.

You want to fight for your country, vote red, and build your fortune. You want to own a truck, work with your hands, and fuck your wife every night like a real man.

You are becoming him—the guy you hated, mocked, feared.

You are him.

A God-fearing, alpha male, patriotic, Christian, Republican, bro.

You snarl, baring your teeth.

And Bree—your perfect little tradwife—moans, spreads her legs, and giggles.

You wake up with a snort, your mouth dry, your throat scratchy. Sunlight is pouring through a window—huge, with American flag curtains. You blink, confused, scratching your itchy chest as you sit up in bed.

But it’s not your bed.

It’s massive, with white sheets, pillows embroidered with Bible verses, and a wooden headboard carved with “Chad & Bree, Est. 2024.”

Your heart beats a little faster, but you’re not… scared. Just groggy. Hungover, maybe. You stretch, yawning, and as your arms rise, you freeze.

Your pecs are huge. Round, hard, veiny, and covered in coarse dark hair. Your nipple sticks out, fat and erect, and you can feel the weight of your chest with every breath.

You glance down.

Your abs ripple, deep-cut, your obliques sharp like blades. You run a massive, calloused hand over your stomach, grinning without realizing it.

“Fuck yeah,” you murmur, voice deep, gravelly, almost dumb-sounding, but confident. Proud.

You flex your arms—biceps bulge, veins popping, your forearms thick and meaty, covered in dark hair. You feel powerful, masculine, perfect.

“Morning, babe!” a voice chirps.

You turn—and there’s Bree, bouncing toward you in a tiny pink sports bra and short shorts, her huge blonde curls pulled into a perky ponytail. Her boobs bounce with every step, round and tight under the bra. Her blue eyes are bright, her lips glossy, smiling wide.

You feel your cock twitch, already hard.

“Damn, baby,” you grunt, running your hand over your pec again. “You’re lookin’ hot. These tits... fuck.”

Bree giggles, crawling onto the bed and straddling you, her manicured hands running over your chest.

“Your pecs are soooo big, Chad,” she moans, squeezing them like she’s worshipping you. “You’ve been working out so hard for me.”

You smirk, flexing under her touch.

“Gotta stay jacked for my girl,” you say, grabbing her waist, gripping firm ass cheeks in your hands. “God made me strong to take care’a you, babe.”

Your cock pulses, thick and heavy, pressing against her. She gasps, grinding against it.

“Mmmm, Daddy, you feel so big…”

“Damn right I do.”

You flip her onto her back, pinning her with one hand. You lean over her, sniffing her vanilla perfume, watching her stare up at you with adoring eyes.

This is your life. Perfect.

Your name is Chad Walker, 22, Republican, Christian, Alpha Male. You own a home gym business, drive a jacked-up truck, vote red, and spend every Sunday at Victory Church, praising Jesus and thanking Him for your tradwife.

You work out twice a day, eat clean, and bang Bree every night to fulfill your God-given duty.

You kiss her neck, your voice rough.

“Gotta keep breedin’ ya, babe. Gotta make us a real American family.”

Bree moans, gripping your arms.

“Yes, Daddy. I wanna be your good little wife forever.”

You growl, hips grinding against her.

God. Country. Control.

You’re Chad now.

And there’s no going back.

You slam the barbell back onto the rack with a grunt, sweat pouring down your face. Your pecs heave, rising and falling, thick with pumped blood, your tank top soaked, clinging to every vein, every cut, every hard-earned inch of muscle.

The garage gym smells like iron, protein powder, and your own ripe pits—you haven't bothered with deodorant yet. Why should you? Bree loves it when you come in dripping, reeking of man.

You flex in the mirror—your favorite part of the day—admiring your square jaw, buzzed sides, and perfect fade. You wink at yourself, phone in hand, tapping record.

“Morning grind, baby,” you grunt into the camera. “If you ain’t lifting for God, Country, and your Wife, what the hell are you doin’ with your life?”

You flex your biceps, your veiny forearms, your shredded abs, and smirk.

“Chad Walker here—blessed, jacked, and ready to f***ing dominate.”

You post it to your 2 million followers on TrueBro, your favorite patriotic social media app. Your followers eat it up. Comments flood in:

“Preach, bro 💪🇺🇸🙏” “King of gains and gospel 🔥” “Breed that tradwife, brother.”

You grin, proud. Alpha energy. All day.

After a protein shake and a quick shower, you throw on your flag-print shorts, tight polo, and head downstairs, where Bree’s waiting at the counter, frying up bacon and eggs in just a little floral apron, her tits bouncing as she flips the pan.

“Mornin’, Daddy,” she chirps, turning and planting a kiss on your pec. “Breakfast for my man.”

You grab her ass, hard, pulling her close.

“Damn, baby. Lookin’ like a whole snack.”

She giggles, biting her lip, pressing into you.

“Just tryna keep my man fed… and full.”

You slap her ass, and she squeals.

“Damn right. Gotta keep breedin’ ya, babe. Can’t let these hips go to waste.”

You sit down, devouring the food—six eggs, half a pack of bacon, protein pancakes—and sip your black coffee from your “Let’s Go Brandon” mug. On the wall, a framed Bible verse hangs beside your NRA certificate and a massive American flag.

After breakfast, it’s Bible study with Bree. You lead, reading from Ephesians, talking about submission, duty, marriage, and God’s plan.

“Wives submit to your husbands, as unto the Lord,” you read aloud, your deep voice steady, commanding.

Bree sighs, eyes wide, nodding.

“Yes, Daddy… I want to obey you forever.”

By midday, you’re out in your jacked-up F-150, country music blasting, heading to your gun range, waving at neighbors who admire you—strong, successful, clean-living. You post another selfie: sunglasses on, flag hat, holding a rifle.

“Chad Walker—armed, faithful, American. God bless the USA.”

You believe it with your whole heart. You don't remember ever not being this man.

You don't remember what life was like before Bree, before the gym, before Jesus.

You don't remember ever being gay, ever feeling weak, ever questioning your purpose.

You’re Chad. This is who you are.

At night, you return home, shirt off, sweating, cock hard, and Bree’s already in bed—naked, smiling, ready to be bred.

You climb on top of her, grip her hips, and thrust in with a grunt.

“Time to give you a real American baby, babe.”

She moans, wrapping her legs around you.

“Yes, Daddy… fill me up…”

You fuck her hard, deep, like it’s your duty, your God-given right.

You’re Chad Walker.

Husband. Breeder. Patriot.

And you’ve never been happier.

[need4change]

brossimilation - Justin's new roommates

“No, no, no… Where the fuck are they”, yelled Eli angrily as he rummaged through his room. He was looking for a pack of condoms for him and his bf, AJ. AJ was set to come over later on, and they were going to have an evening to themselves, and after a long and busy week, they wanted to have some fun. They were both overly cautious and, so made sure they always wore protection when they had sex.

“What's wrong brah?” came the loud and obnoxious voice of Justin. Justin was Eli’s annoying roommate. Sure he was jacked and really hot, Eli and AJ were into him. But Justin was a self-obsessed asshole, he talked about himself all the time unless he was talking about the girls he fucked. He also always checked himself out either flexing or playing with his hair before going out. He would fuck girls pretty much anytime he went out and either through his stupidity or perhaps odd planning, they would end up pregnant with his kid. Justin was a proper pain, worse was when AJ came over, he would always try to show off to them both, knowing that they were gay they would be into him. But if they avoided him or downplayed how hot he was, he would get annoyed and mumble some homophobic slur, so the boyfriends played along.

“AJ is coming over and I’ve lost my condoms,” said Eli.

“No worries brah, I’ll leave you one of mine in the bathroom,” Justin smirked. 

“That's great, but I’ll keep searching. What time are you going out to meet your friends?” asked Eli.

“Like now, bro. The condom is ready for you under the sink. Enjoy!” Justin yelled before leaving.

Eli put off the idea of using one of Justin’s knowing it probably had a hole in it or worse it had been used. Eli spent 20 minutes searching for it before there was a knock at the door. He sighed in annoyance, AJ was here on time, and he failed to find his condoms. 

“Hey,” Aj said as he strolled into the room as Eli held open the door.

“I just got here, why do you look so down?” AJ asked Eli as he settled.

“I haven’t gotten any condoms,” he replied sulkily. 

“Well look in the bathroom, I’m sure Justin has some lying around,” AJ suggested.

“Sure,” Eli surrendered, knowing Justin had left one for him

AJ made his way to the bedroom, and Eli headed straight to the bathroom. He opened the cupboard under the sink, and low-and-behold there was a single used condom left for him by Justin. Eli pinched the end of it with his fingers and held it up, Justin had left quite a load in it. He held his breath and pulled it over his dick, it fit perfectly, but it was cold and slimy. 'Better to go warm it up in AJ' Eli jokingly thought to himself.

Eli quickly made his way to his room where AJ was laying naked on his bed. He threw off his clothes and leapt onto the bed.

“See, it wasn’t hard finding one of Justin’s,” AJ said slyly 

“I’m pretty sure he’s used this one, so you owe me big,” Eli joked back 

“Well you better get on with it and warm it up” AJ cooed.

He was right though, it was getting rather cold and slimy around his dick. Eli wasted no time and got stuck in. It was such a relief to get back to fucking his boyfriend, the two had had such busy weeks and never had any time to themselves. As Eli started, he swore the slime was moving about, probably just his thrusting. The slime, however, had a mind of its own and began slithering its way down his shaft.

“Don’t stop babe, this is great” AJ moaned as Eli continued to thrust his dick into him. But he began to slow down slightly as an unnerving feeling spread throughout his groin and waist. His butt contracted, tightening up while his thighs wobbled like jelly. As Eli gave a strong thrust into AJ, he felt waves of vibration as his skin gelatinized.    

A stomach ache followed, but there was no pain, instead, a six-pack popped out, with deep lines cutting in between them. Then slightly saggy pecs ballon out with size, his nipples point sharply. Eli then felt his arms begin to ache and so started stretching them.

“Are you flexing babe?” asked AJ, not noticing or caring about his boyfriend's sudden muscle growth. Eli was confused by this, he was only stretching, though as he moved his arms they somehow ended up in a flexing position. As he tensed his arms, his bi's grew substantially and popped out a lump which settled into firm muscle. This growth travelled up his tri reaching the tips of his fingers, as his hands swelled in size.

Eli spontaneously gulped as the aching made its way up his neck and then onto his head. Eli couldn't feel as his face was rearranged, all he could feel were pins and needles. AJ couldn't see it either, as the changes happened so slowly that he barely noticed anything moving or changing, that and the pleasure of Eli's dick going back in. 

The feeling lifted from his head through his hair which began growing longer and changing up too. He looked back down at his boyfriend who was moaning as each thrust of his waist sent a strong vibration down his body. It felt so good to fuck AJ, and yet something in him was feeling off about it. As the weird feeling vanished, he got back to fucking his boyfriend. He should've cummed by now, but he wasn't complaining. He got more aggressive, thrusting in harder and speeding up the rythm. His balls were bloated with a huge load that was ready to explode. Eli felt pleasure crawling down his shaft, the thrusts becoming quicker as he wanted to try and preserve something until…

“Fuck yeah brah,” Eli shot a huge load into AJ. AJ sat there and took the warm load. But something was off, hadn’t Eli worn a condom? Eli took his dick out and looked down ignoring the sight of his new pecs and abs, to see his bigger dick. He had forgotten all about the condom, which had actually melted into his foreskin. 

“Justin?”  AJ looked directly up at Eli, he looked confused.

“Huh, what are you talking about bro?” Eli replied casually. He had Justin’s same obnoxious tone and barely realized he had the same habits of using bro and brah. The two continued to gaze at each other, but Eli started to see a change in AJ. The load he had given him wasn’t his anymore, it was Justin’s. Eli watched in both terror, and also in excitement as if subconsciously he knew what would happen. 

 As AJ began to grow on the bed, the same six-pack popped out of his stomach and the same pair of pecs ballooned out. Eli saw as muscle exploded across AJ’s arms and legs. Before finally watching as AJ’s face began to remould into a complete copy of Justin’s. 

“Bro, you’re literally Justin,” cried Eli

“BRO, you’re Justin” AJ shot back. 

The two looked frustrated, they could barely think as their brains melted away. They turned around to look at themselves in the mirror, and shockingly, both had now turned into exact copies of Justin. 

“How the fuck has this happened bro?!!” AJ exclaimed, he too now had the same obnoxious voice and abundance of “bros” and “brahs”.

“I don’t know bro,” Eli replied. As the two squabbled over what had happened to them, their minds became duller, adjusting to their new reality as Justin.

“We need to find Justin, and figure out how to turn back,” said AJ. but as Eli stared into the mirror at himself, he began to indulge in his new image and body. He had lusted after this for a long time and now he had it.

“Yeah, totally brah, let's do that,” he said apathetically. He took his right arm and began flexing it. It felt so fucking good to be flexing his muscles.

“What are you doing, brah?” AJ asked.

“Just flex bro, it feels so good,” Eli replied. His mind had all been melted at this point, all that was left was the arrogance and self-obsession that came from being Justin.

AJ followed suit and gave into the indulgence of being Justin. He couldn’t help but feel intoxicated by how hot and sexy he and Eli were now. As they stood there flexing, indulging and becoming intoxicated by being Justin, thoughts of how superior, being Justin was, crept in. Any resistance or plans of changing back abruptly disappeared, and they happily surrendered to their new fates. As they switched flexing arms, they replicated the same personality of Justin, which lead to them thinking more like him. Their knowledge of Justin's desires became their desires, thinking that they were the hottest, going out to parties weekly, and working out to ensure they looked sexy at all times, which they did. Justin was also exclusively straight, and they would be too, surprisingly they both got erect thinking of boobs and pussy. They both knew, however, that Justin had a habit of breeding chicks. They would now share the same goal, popping out as many offspring, which would all become more Justin's, as they could.

There was no trace of Eli or AJ, except memory, which was quickly forgotten. They knew they were clones, but they didn’t care, only that they were Justin now. The only difference was that they weren't the original Justin, so they would obey him and all his commands while fulfilling their own purposes as clones of Justin.

The main door to the apartment opened and the loud obnoxious voice of Justin filled the apartment, followed by the light steps of high heels and feminine voices. Justin stomped his way over to the room and opened the door, before closing it behind him. He looked at the two and smirked. 

“You two brahs worked perfectly, you look just like me,” he smirked.

“Yeah, brah, Eli and AJ are gone, it's just Justin and Justin now,” Justin (Eli) smirked back 

“Good, those fags were annoying, now we can get on with the important stuff,” said Justin (AJ), smirking as well.

“You better get dressed, I’ve got like three girls and some fag out there and they all need a good load of Justin in ‘em,” Justin explained.

"Who's the fag?" Justin (AJ) asked.

"Doesn't matter, he thought I was mid and needs to be converted too. Just make sure he gets a big load in him, then come out and take the chick who'll be waiting for you, now enough talking bros, get dressed," he grinned before dumping a pair of identical sets of clothing on the floor, leaving his clones to get changed. Eli and AJ picked up a set of clothes and hurriedly changed into them. They both wore identical black shorts and a blue tank top, with a backward cap on top. The same look as Justin, no one would ever tell them apart. AJ rushed out to join Justin, quickly getting his arm around a brunette chick and leading her back to a room.

But, before Eli left he couldn’t help but take a picture himself. He put on a typical fuckboy look and lifted up his tank to reveal his abs, before snapping a pic for Snapchat. He headed out to join his brothers, fucking girls and assimilating any guys who dare insult them.

[need4change]

Brand new roommate

A bit of a surprise write tbh, hope you enjoy.

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

Ryan sat in his room studying peacefully as the apartment door slammed open and Tyler wandered in. Ryan could guess Tyler was probably bored again. He was doing sports and business, and his work was incredibly intensive. Though Tyler was a nice guy, he was getting more agitated as the weeks went on. Ryan was mainly to blame. He had stopped Tyler from having his friends over, going out and getting drunk, or even playing his games too loudly. Ryan was also studying and he couldn't have distractions, especially from drunk frat bros, who made a roar every five minutes. He also found them and Tyler very attractive, which was another far more addictive distraction.

“Awe fuck man, what to do! what to do!” howled Tyler as he stood in the main room purposelessly. Ryan knew Tyler must’ve had a really intense day, but he didn’t want him playing games or doing anything loud as he had a science paper to complete.

“Fuck, Ryan where are you?” Tyler called out. Ryan was confused by this call but obliged his roommate.

“Hey, what can I help you with?” Ryan asked politely, his boner started chubbing up at seeing Tyler's ripped chest out.

“Bro, come in my room I’ll explain,” he said. Ryan noticed he seemed incredibly agitated, this had been building up over the week. Ryan and Tyler casually made their way to his room when Ryan got in Tyler closed his door, doing the lock, before walking over to his bed and pulling down his gym shorts and briefs. Ryan was so confused by this but also really turned on.

“Ty…” Tyler cut him off before he could speak

“Bro, don’t worry ok, all I need you to do is help me out one time. Just gimme a little blowie here and now. The door's locked so no one will see,” he explained.

“Tyler you're a really good…” Tyler cut him off again.

“Bro, I know you're chubbing a boner, and I really need this. I’ve been working to death all week and I’ve kept my side of the deal and not played any games or had anyone over. Please, bro, just this once,” He pleaded, Ryan could see Tyler was bringing out everything as he was even giving him puppy eyes.

“Fine then,” Ryan conceded.

“Fucking thanks, bro,” Tyler replied as he sat on his bed and took out his 6-inch wonder. Ryan eagerly came over to him, but before he got on his knee’s Tyler had another request.

“Bro, I need you to strip too and can you put these on,” He asked, throwing a pair of black briefs at him. Ryan was yet again puzzled by this but obliged. He was going to get his wish and suck off Tyler. Ryan Stripped to his bare skin and pulled up the sweaty brief, that clung tightly to his meagre frame.

Tyler opened his legs and let his member flop out, as Ryan went to his knees. Ryan grabbed his dick and opened up his maw. As Ryan's lips touched his tip, Tyler howled with pleasure. Tyler's dick was amazing, better than he had dreamed about. Ryan happily sucked away at it going up and down, while Tyler moaned joyfully.

“Fuck bro, that's amazing,” He complimented, before grabbing Ryan’s head and forcing him further into his crotch. Ryan was taken aback by this but it only enhanced the act. Ryan's dick should've been growing to a full mast by now, but the tight restrictive briefs held it so tightly that it forced his dick to remain flaccid.

“I’m so happy we’re here now, honestly I was gonna hold off…” Tyler began, Ryan listened attentively, interested in what he was rambling on about.

“But you just had to be annoying, stopping me from seeing my bros and being a huge fag all the time,” Tyler growled. Ryan was taken aback, he had never thought his smiley nice jock roommate would use such language around him.

“Sitting there and staring at us while we have fun. God, it must be so boring for you bro, focusing so much on your studies and not relaxing once in a while. Now, we can change that bro,” Tyler went on, his grip on Ryan's head getting stronger.

“Now, bro we ain’t gonna be against each other or stopping each other having fun. No more not playing games while you study or not at all, we’re gonna play together. I’m also gonna get you signed up for sports and take you to the gym with me bro. We can work out together.” he continued to moan as his dick got longer, and the pleasure of Ryan sucking his dick was starting to get to him.

“You’re not gonna be into me or guys anymore, instead we’ll be each other's wingmen and crushing pussy, every Friday night, here, bro. And when we don’t get any we’ll just help each other out, ain't gay if we're both straight. We’ll be the best bros together,” He finished, his balls were now filling up with his load and preparing to fire. Ryan, who had been listening intently, was enjoying himself but quite concerned by what he heard. What was he going on about? Was he this upset about not doing stuff together, or was he lonely? Either way, he needed to talk afterwards, especially about Ryan being straight. Ryan looked up to see Tyler lifting up as if he could feel his load coming. Tyler continued to moan as the pressure came and he realized what was coming. Tyler’s face turned to a massive shit-eating grin and looked straight down into Ryans' eyes.

“No homo, faggot,” He said with a shit-eating grin. At that moment his dick erupted spewing slimy shots of his cream straight down Ryan’s throat. There was so much that Ryan was gulping it all down as if it was a drink. With each load of cum that settled in his stomach, Ryan got heavier. Eventually, it was all done and Ryan stumbled up trying to grab something to hold him up. Tyler grabbed him and pulled him to the bed and laid him down.

“There we go bro, come and sit here with me,” He smirked, as he looked down upon a helpless Ryan,

“What were you talking about?” Ryan stuttered out, his stomach now emanating weight across his body.

“Don’t bother talking bro, you’ve got a lot of brotein in you now. Just let my shit absorb into your system,”

“Huh,” Ryan responded, as his stomach growled. The weight began dissipating, changing into a new feeling. Pleasure sparked inside his stomach before spreading out across his body. Ryan twitched on the bed, a smile grew on his face as the sensation reached the tips of his toes and fingers. Ryan’s body began to grow, shooting upward, while his legs stretched off the side of the bed. His fragile and thin chest began to pump with mass as his pecs perked up into mountains, while below a maze of ravines formed in his core as his abs popped out one by one until he had a neatly carved six-pack.

“Oh fuck, I want more… more,” cried Ryan as the pleasure started taking a hold of him. He couldn’t feel anything but bliss.

“That's right bro, just let the brocess do its thing,” Tyler responded, taking pride in his work.

Ryan's arms and legs were next. His thighs became thick with meat and muscle, which rippled all the way down to his toes which grew fatter and meatier. His loose butt also tensed up as layers of muscle packed onto his backside. So much so, that it began to tighten close off his butt from ever being penetrated again. His arms felt waves of muscle wash down to his fingers. His biceps popped with veins and his hands turned into giant paws with long sausage fingers.

“Wait, this isn’t right,” Ryan cried as he tried to regain freedom from the bliss, but it was too much and he was back in it, drowning in the sensational feeling.

“Of course it is bro, you’ll thank me later,” replied Tyler.

The change now focused on Ryan’s feminine but nerdy face. Its long shape squashed into a rounder shape, while his jaw and cheeks became sharper. His eyes grew wider while his brows grew furrier, his long nose widened and pointed out more, and his mouth became poutier. Brown hairs then began to sprout all over his face, snapping a thick chin strap around him and amplifying a douchey look. His long and neatly styled quiff patted itself down into a short curly cut, while his sides took on a medium fade.

His mind is ablaze with thoughts, but they are drowning in bliss. Ryan could barely think up a plan to escape as he found himself both enjoying and horrified at what was happening. His intelligence dissolved into matter, and his IQ was painfully hammered down. His aspirations were trashed as new ones forced their way in. He no longer wanted to study science and partake in nerdy hobbies, now he wanted to do sports and business, like Tyler. He wanted to work out, play sports and have a good time. He wanted to party and get drunk, not sit back and write papers endlessly. And lastly, he wanted to…

Ryan grabbed his undies as his cock stirred to life, growing harder and his balls filling up with cream and expanding into golf balls. All the pleasure now shot straight to his groin and his hands followed. Ryan wanted to fuck, no he needed to fuck… chicks. His homosexuality was sucked down into the depths of his balls and he was left with a lustful heterosexuality. He couldn’t help but find blonde bimbos, tits and tight pussies hot now, it's all that turned him on. But that wasn’t enough, he had a thick and potent cream now. He needed to stick his fat cock in them and pollinate them with more of his jock litter so a new generation of jocks, in his image, would rise. Like Tyler, Ryan could barely tolerate faggots and nerds. He didn’t want to beat them or tease them as that was pointless, but if they got in his way or irritated him by checking him out. Then just like Tyler he would give them a nice load of his jock cream and watch them grow into more jocks. It felt like a calling to convert those lesser than him, just as powerful as his need to breed.

“You're almost there bro, lemme help you out,” Tyler smirked, grabbing Ryan's python and giving a good tug. Ryan barely cared, Tyler was straight like him so there was nothing gay about it.

“Oh fuck bro, it's coming,” Ryan moaned as the pressure hit his balls.

“Fuck… here… it comes, brrooooo,” Ryan cried as his dick erupted and cum was shot all over the room, before evaporating. His old life is gone now. Tyler let go of his dick and let his briefs ping back to his skin. Ryan got up and looked at a smirking Tyler.

“No homo bro,” was all he said, as a smirk grew on his face.

“So bro, what should we do now?” asked Tyler.

“I’m thinking we get a pizza for food and play some cod. Maybe there's a party on at some frat house, later on, I’m eager to show off these guns to the babes,” Ryan said, flexing his arms and smirking at Tyler, who was happy with his new roommate.

[need4change]

Netflix and Chill

“Hey bestie,” yelled Debbie, as Cody entered.

“Hey,”

”So I’ve got the popcorn, just gonna order some pizza and then we can watch Jacob and Julia,” Debbie explained.

“Fantastic,”

Cody had come over to see his best friend Debbie, to watch their monthly movie together. Tonight was some cheap cheesy rom-com, but that's what they both adored. Debbie had prepared their usual seating on her bed, as it was the most comfortable area in the house. Cody jumped on and got comfortable while Debbies brought out the pizzas and switched off the lights.

“Oh, where’s the remote? Oh, here it is, ready?” she said before clicking start. The screen came on but as it did there was a quick flash. Cody felt a shock go through him and moaned quietly.

“Are you ok, bestie?”

“Yeah, just a little static shock”

Debbie smiled at him before turning to watch the movie. The movie started out as any cheesy romcom would with a girl looking out as the new next-door neighbours moved in. Cody’s eyes widened as he saw a shirtless Jacob on the screen. He looked around 6 feet, had a perfect six-pack and had an adorable face. The first scene is her awkwardly trying to talk to him and so on.

As the movie sets the mood, Cody starts to move about as he can’t quite sit right, constantly feeling like he’s sitting up too tall. As soon as he settles, he becomes irritated again as his shirt feels tight. He takes it off and throws it to the side. He lays his hands on his stomach and chest, feeling over them. Oddly though, they felt different, his pecs were big and soft, while he swore he had a six-pack. Before he thought about it, Jacob appeared again and stared right into him.

Jacob was playing some sports and talking with his bros. As Cody watched, he began to idolize playing sports and working out. He sighed slightly, thinking it didn’t have what it took, but then quickly remembered he had a perfect physique which he worked on every day, all he needed to do was sign up for a team.

The movie continued, and the pair were in their bathrooms getting ready for a big event. While this was happening Cody was feeling all sorts of weird. He was itchy all along his torso and on his chin, which when he scratched, found a thick treasure trail and some chinstrap stubble. Then his head felt weird and as he went to touch it found his hair feeling odd. He swore it was shorter and gelled over to the side for some reason, but as Jacob picked up a cap, he realized what he was missing. Cody reached over to the side table and picked up a cap and plopped it on his head, before twisting it around. As he twisted it, he felt his thoughts come to a halt as all he could focus on was the movie.

A breeze blew over Cody and he shivered slightly.

“Hey, bestie. I’m cold could we put the blanket on,” he whispered

Debbie paused the film, before throwing the blanket over them both. Cody got comfortable under it, before continuing with the film.

The movie was now building up to the climax and they were at their big event. Cody was feeling off though. Something just wasn’t right. He shuffled up to Debbie and lay there under the sheets, still unsettled. Debbie then randomly moved over, laying next to him before snuggling up to him. She lay her head on one of his big pillowy pecs and sighed as she watched Julia lament her boy problems. Cody was taken aback, this was weird for him to have his best friend, a girl, lay on him. But as she did he felt settled, he put the whole thing behind him and continued with the film Although, without thinking, put his arm around her.

As they watched, Debbie began feeling all over Cody’s body, slowly sliding her hand across his six-pack and in its crevices, before rubbing his other pec. Cody should object, but it felt good. It felt good to have his hard work at the gym and on the field recognised and appreciated, even if it was his best friend. Cody relaxed and reciprocated by rubbing Debbie's back. Cody realized the movie was finally coming to an end as Jacob and Julia were now searching for each other in the crowd, it was only a matter of time before their happy ending. Knowing this, Cody began to itch, for something. He couldn‘t put his finger on it, but he needed something. Pleasure arose in his crotch and he realized he was getting horny as well now. Here, now… why was this happening? He put his hand over his crotch and held it tightly to keep it under control. Cody was relieved when he saw that the main character had seen each other and were approaching for the final kiss. As they approached each other though, the room was filled with that cheesy rom-com music that set the scene. As each beat of the song vibrated through the room, Cody found his horniness getting worse and worse.

“He… hey… Could you turn… it… up,” whispered Cody. Debbie turned it up until the room was being blasted with noise and it was unbearable for Cody.

“Wai.. wait,” he whispered again, before grabbing the remote and turning it back down. But as he put it down he saw Debbie staring right at him. The music was still going, Cody felt the beat going through him, his mind empties as he looked into her eyes, his mouth open as if he was ready to explain himself like a dumbass. His subconscious moved his head closer to hers, and he began to wonder what he was doing until…

“MMMhmmhmm” As if, in sync with the music and Jacob, Cody’s lips quickly locked with Debbies. The pair made out for a few seconds before realizing what was going on. ‘What am I doing?’ Cody thought, as he made out with Debbie.

‘This isn’t right, I’m gay…’

‘No… I’m no… I’m… I’m straight af boi’ he thought as he shook off any idea of being gay. That was such a dumb thought and way too far-fetched.

The pair made out just like on the screen until Cody had had enough. Just like Jacob was doing, he threw off his shorts and pulled down Debbies pants, before turning the cheesy music up loud again. He switched on a side lamp and looked down at Debbie who seemed to be enjoying every moment. Cody felt off again, as he knew what he was about to do, but shook it off as his dick was doing the thinking now. And in the rhythm of the song, Cody lowered his cock and began to fuck Debbie’s brains out. His lips dived back in and he started making out with her while they fucked. She felt his now muscular body. Cody bobbed up and down as his dick rubbed her hole, sending waves of pleasure through them both. Cody’s mind raced with ideas and thoughts, all of which were centred around Debbie being his girlfriend, sports and partying, while he felt repulsion at ideas of being gay, twink-ish or nerdy. The repulsive thoughts were sent down to his balls which were growing into large golf balls. Cody kept fucking her to the beat of the song until he heard the change in the tune. He could feel it coming now, the climax of the song and the climax of the sex.

“UGGGHHH” he moaned as his dick squirted out a torrent of cum inside her. Cody fell to the side exhausted and watched as he saw Jacob do the same. Cody was filled with confidence and arrogance as he lay there, feeling great after doing the deed, he looked back at Debbie and gave her a kiss on the lips again.

They looked back to the movie one last time, only to see the credits roll.

[need4change]

The Do-Over

This is one of my favorite stories that I've done, so much so that I've been considering bringing this idea back and turning it into a series for Patreon. I hope you enjoy!

As Arthur Saunders peered down towards his kitchen counter, the newly-minted 29-year-old scratched his head as he attempted to understand what he was looking at. It was earlier in the day when he first encountered the medium-sized box as he accidentally kicked it upon exiting his apartment. Despite his own curiosity about the box given the fact that there was no label or return address listed, the man had several birthday-related errands to run and was forced to quickly place the box inside before leaving for the majority of the day.

So despite his slight tiredness upon returning back to his apartment after a lively day of various celebrations with friends and family, Arthur’s mind began to continuously ponder not only what was inside the box but who had sent it. Based on the lack of postage or a shipping label, it was clear that someone had physically dropped the package off on his doorstep. But who would do that and not even knock on the door or attempt to speak with the man?

Although Arthur believed his curiosity was already at its peak, he soon realized that this was not true as he cut open the box and pulled back the cardboard flaps. Sitting in the box was a huge red button with the words “DO-OVER” painted white on the top, which instantly puzzled the young man. Although he assumed the button was all that was inside the box given the slew of packing peanuts that filled most of the box, Arthur gripped onto the button and found that a full contraption was unearthed upon lifting it up and out of the box.

As he set it down on the kitchen counter, Arthur spent a few minutes observing the bizarre item. Although the bright red button was a prominent feature, it was connected to a jet black base that was rounded and nearly double the size of the large button. On the base itself, Arthur discovered two large rectangular LED screens that sat both above and below the large button. Although he could tell that they were meant to display some sort of text or visual, the dull haze of the screen revealed that there was no power to the contraction… at least not yet.

Intrigued about what exactly the device did, Arthur found himself lifting it up and inspecting it in search of a power button. But alas, no such discovery was found by the man, which caused him to set the item down and direct his focus towards the huge box. In hopes of finding some sort of instructions, the man plunged his hand deep into the sea of packing peanuts and aimlessly felt around.

Eventually, the man was able to pick up on the slip of paper that was included in the box and fished it out. Upon grabbing it and holding it out in front of him, the curious man narrowed his eyes as he hoped the paper would provide some much needed explanations.

Dear User, Congratulations on being selected to test out the brand new Do-Over Program. Upon being submitted by an acquaintance of yours, our company has been slowly observing you and your actions for the past few months. Upon noticing your general feelings of stagnation and confusion over your life, we’ve deemed you to be a perfect fit for the program. The device you’ve been provided will allow you the opportunity to do-over your life, which will cause every aspect of your personality to be randomized in hopes of providing you an entirely new and positive outlook towards life. Although such a concept may seem scary, please know that none of these changes are permanent (as long as you don’t wish for them to be). With the perks of being chosen for this program though, our only ask is that for our own research that you wait at least 24 hours before attempting another do-over.  In regards to completing the program, there are two possible options. Firstly, you can continue to explore and test out various different lives and identities until you find one that seems perfect to you. Upon doing so, you can then lock the new identity in, which will cause the device to be retrieved and sent to the next participant in the program. If you do not accept any of the new lives created by the program, there is also another option that will return you to your original life. With this option though, we only recommend it if you have discovered that the entire process has caused you to have a renewed interest and sense of determination of how to move forward. If you choose this option, please contact S-C Enterprises via the provided information and we will send an employee to retrieve the device. Regardless of the end result you choose, we hope you have an enjoyable experience as a part of our program. Sincerely, The Do-Over Team

Upon finishing reading the note and setting the piece of paper onto the kitchen countertop, Arthur found that he now had more questions than he had answers. Who had submitted him to this program, and what did the company mean by saying they’ve been observing him for months? Surely they weren’t actually watching him and observing his online behaviors, right? 

Despite being significantly unnerved by the contents of the note, Arthur couldn’t deny that his curiosity was piqued by the reveal of what the contraption sitting on his counter was capable of. The premise sounded like something straight out of a science fiction 80s film, but it felt surprisingly pertinent to him. 

Although he hated to give props to a group that was apparently stalking him both in person and virtually, it was true that Arthur wasn’t quite happy with the cards he had been dealt with in life. When he first decided to go to university, the concept of being a teacher and helping mold young minds seemed like a rewarding career path. But after several years of actually being a teacher in a posh all-male school, the dull monotony of lessons along with the disrespect from both his students and fellow faculty members left him feeling like a husk of himself. With the constant influx of assignments to mark along with having to create lesson plans, Arthur found that even his own free time in his flat was devoted to his career… which only made him loathe it further.

To make matters worse, the realization that he was now only one year from reaching his 30s left the teacher feeling quite depressed and anxious. Although he knew that he personally loathed his current career choice, the crushing reality of his ever-increasing age meant that it was becoming incredibly unlikely for a last minute career change. Even worse, he had so many other hobbies and dreams that he couldn’t even mentally envision what to do with his life. In his free time, the man loved to write short stories or play video games, but the likelihood of becoming a famous author or Twitch streamer seemed impossible. Overall, his life left him feeling trapped and utterly helpless. 

As he realized just how correct the letter’s assumption of his unhappiness was, Arthur’s eyes soon found themselves peering down to the blocky white text of “DO OVER” plastered across the top of the red button. Although he remained significantly unnerved by the contents of the letter, the bold white letters on the button had an inversely calming effect. Closing his eyes, the text flashed through his mind like an opening night marquee and thus caused the man to envision the endless amount of possibilities that he could have taken with his life. Before he could even comprehend what he was doing, the man reached a hand out and quickly slammed it down onto the bright red button.

The loud noise suddenly emitting from the contraption caused Arthur to suddenly open his eyes and look down in slight fear. As a sound similar to gears whirling seemed to emit from the inner mechanism of the device, Arthur let out a soft scream and jumped in shock as the speed of the noise increased until a booming pop filled his flat. 

Soundtracked by the noise, Arthur watched as a small knob suddenly popped out and revealed itself on the left side of the device. It was perfectly in line with the rectangular LED screen, which left the man curious about if the knob was somehow linked to the screen. Just as he began to reach out to mess with the knob though, both screens suddenly became active and lost their dim and dull display. 

In awe, Arthur watched as the screens finally began to display text. At first, it was just the top screen that went into action, displaying a simple welcome message that addressed him by his full legal name. But upon displaying that message for a few seconds, the screen erased the text as a slew of text emerged. As Arthur watched each statistic display itself though, he quickly realized that it was somehow perfectly displaying accurate descriptions of himself. 

Name: Arthur Saunders Age: 29 Height: 6’1” Weight: 95kg  Physique: Average  Ethnicity: Caucasian Nationality: British

Before Arthur could even attempt to formulate a reaction to what he was seeing, his eyes watched as the bottom screen suddenly roared to life. Looking down to see what was happening, he watched as letter by letter a word was forming. Although he soon figured out what it would say by the fifth letter, Arthur still watched with intense curiosity as the word Randomizing manifested. Just as the “g” finally appeared to finish the word though, Arthur gasped in shock as a loud and shrill whirring noise began to emit from the device.

Unlike the metallic whirring sound that was due to the gears inside the device changing, this whirling was undoubtedly electronic due to its frequency. Out of nowhere, the noise spiked to ear-numbing levels and forced Arthur to grit his teeth while lifting his arms up to shield his ears.

For a few moments the sharp noise maintained its maximum intensity, which continued to just assault Arthur’s eardrums to the point where the usually non-religion man was mentally begging for salvation. To his relief and utter shock, his prayers seemed to work as the noise suddenly halted and caused the entire room to go quiet (besides the intense ringing that was still rattling in Arthur’s ears). 

Unfortunately though, this tranquility didn’t last for long as a bright white light suddenly erupted from the device and completely engulfed Arthur’s modest flat. Frantic to not be blinded by the intense assault on his vision, the man pulled his hands away from his ears expeditiously and used them to cover his eyes. 

Although he had assumed that the assault on his senses had been utterly affected, it seemed this wasn’t the case as Arthur could feel a dull vibration ripple across his entire body. Upon gritting his teeth, the man was left with nothing to do but ride out this uncomfortable sensation that left him feeling as though he was viciously drifting through the ocean.

After what felt like hours, the bizarre sensations riddling Arthur’s body suddenly ceased. Although he was unsure of whether the blinding light that had filled his flat had finally stopped, the confusion and fear over what he had been feeling caused him to take a risk and slowly part his eyelids. Given the blinding light and the deep vibrations that had wrecked his body resembled that of a bomb, Arthur had assumed that his flat would be in some state of disarray. But as he looked around, everything appeared to be exactly like he had last seen it from the slight piling of dirty dishes in his sink to the device that remained on the kitchen counter.

Such a reveal was confusing to Arthur, which caused him to rub his temples and attempt to figure out what exactly he had just experienced. “What the hell wa-” he began, his words suddenly stopped dead in their tracks. As his eyes bulged out in shock, the man lifted a hand up and allowed his fingers to graze along his Adam’s apple. For 29 years of his life, Arthur had always had an average and very clearly British accent when he spoke. But as he talked now, it quickly became clear that it wasn’t the case. Instead, the words that came out of his mouth resembled a deep boom that echoed through his flat and unequivocally American. “Is, is that my voice?” he asked aloud to no one in particular, his body shivering as he realized he wasn’t insane in his first assumption. He truly did sound just like the men he had seen in countless American blockbuster films.

Just as he was on the verge of becoming incredibly panicked over the new voice in which he spoke with, a loud ding suddenly rang out from the device and caused Arthur to look down. Upon doing so, he watched as the bottom screen began to display text. As he watched each line of text display itself, Arthur quickly realized that it was the same stats as the top screen, although they were now being listed in reverse order and displaying very different information.

Nationality: American Ethnicity: Caucasian

Although Arthur felt proud of himself for assuming that his assumption of his new accent was correct, there was also a lingering sense of panic as he finally took a moment to realize that the device was truly randomizing his body and turning him into someone else. With the concept of having a new life to try out now validated, the man looked down with cautious excitement as the next few lines of text began to appear.

Physique: Muscular Weight: 163 lbs Height: 5’11”

Upon watching those three lines of text appear on the screen, a loud gasp instantly escaped from the man’s mouth as he couldn’t believe the concept of becoming incredibly muscular. Although he had a moderate amount of muscle in his arms and legs, it was often clear that he was an average man by the slightly pudgy stomach that was small yet still made itself present in any shirt he wore. It was always a place of insecurity for the man, so when he looked down at himself and noticed that his stomach was completely flat, a relieved smirk manifested onto his face. This smirk quickly turned into a cocky grin though as he reached his hand underneath his shirt and ended up discovering a well-defined six-pack that left his hands feeling as though they were traveling down a brick road.

Despite wanting so badly to explore more of his new physique, Arthur forced himself to stop as the final two lines of text revealed itself to him.

Age: 23 Name: Michael Chad Johnson

Upon learning of his new name and age, the realization that he was now someone entirely different from Arthur Saunders set in. In his mind, it was one thing to gain a muscular physique and another to become an entirely different person. As such, the concept was both incredibly exciting yet also undoubtedly nerve-wracking. In hopes of calming this anxiety though, the man took a moment to remind himself that this could all be temporary and that caused him to take a deep breath and ground himself once more.

With the last of the text now displayed, Arthur wasted no time rushing away from the kitchen counter in hopes of getting a better look at himself. The man made a direct bee-line towards his bathroom, quickly flipping on the light and shutting the door behind him. As the lights above the mirror flicked to life, Arthur felt butterflies in his stomach as he found himself looking at his new visage. He looked so hot!

The man couldn’t help but smile as he looked into the mirror and admired the new features that his face possessed. Not only was he in possession of a well-angled jawline, but his blue eyes were incredibly inviting and at odds with just how classically masculine and intimidating he looked. Although it was only 6 years of age regression, Arthur quickly picked up on some noticeable changes. Given the fact that his new age made it so he wasn’t up late every night planning class lessons and grading papers, there was no indication of the slight wrinkles that had recently begun adorning his face. On top of this, the man also picked up on how his complexion had completely altered, shifting away from a slightly pasty shade to something that was much more well-maintained and tanned.

Eager to see more of his new physique, the man wasted no time taking his shirt off and throwing it aside. Upon turning back to stare into the mirror, Arthur was greeted to the glorious sight of a ripped physique. Although he was momentarily upset by the loss of chest hair that adorned his chest and down his stomach, he quickly accepted the change as he traded it in for an impressive six pack and pair of pecs. 

Not wanting the remaining clothes to hinder his exploration of his new physique, Arthur quickly dropped his pants until all that he was dressed in was a pair of underwear. For several minutes the man was transfixed as he tensed his leg muscles to admire his thick thigh and calf muscles. As he turned around and craned his neck back to the mirror, the man was also relieved to discover he had a prominent yet firm ass now. 

But while all of those aspects were exciting, the sudden strain against the fabric of his underwear caused Arthur to take note of his manhood. While he was admiring himself, he had understandably gotten quite turned on to the point where a rock hard cock was struggling to remain concealed. Unlike his former 5-incher, the manhood he was now in possession of had to be at least 7 inches and twice as thick. As he gripped onto it and gave a slight squeeze, the man moaned as he began to leak pre-cum. This is a dream come true, he thought, allowing one hand to caress his cock while the other flexed and squeezed on his new physique.

So while Arthur was having a blast admiring his new jock body, the device that remained unattended on the kitchen counter was continuing to move onto the next stage as text appeared on the top screen.

Stage Two: Location Alteration Current Location: United Kingdom Residence Style: Flat

Given Arthur’s new identity as an American, the second screen suddenly began to rapidly scroll through all 50 states to settle on his new home along with a list of different housing styles. After a good 15 seconds of bouncing between countless options, the device finally settled on two choices for the new Michael Chad Johnson.

New Location: Virginia Residence Style: Mobile Home

So while Arthur remained in a euphoric state exploring his new body, the man was unaware of the fact that he and his residence had been teleported to a vacant lot in a rural Virginia trailer park. Given the larger plot of land that he now called his own, the man’s flat began to expand and rearrange itself into an expanded rectangular shape. While the magic began to connect all of his piping and electricity to the plot of land, the interior of his new home was being redecorated to give a cozy Americana feel. Although a lot of the man’s original décor remained (such as the few shelves of superhero memorabilia that he had), it was condensed to allow an entire row of shelving to display vintage Americana style décor and signage.

By the time Arthur had finally exited the bathroom to return to the device, the changes to his new residence had finished and immediately threw the now-younger man for a loop. It was so bizarre to discover the new layout of his home as he attempted to navigate his way back to the kitchen. Throughout his journey to return to the device, Arthur also noticed the slew of blank picture frames that now hung off of his walls. It was a bizarre sight for the man to behold, especially as he knew that they would soon be filled with random new images as more of this Michael character’s backstory was created…

Upon returning to the kitchen counter, Arthur Saunders’ return was perfectly timed with the text of the device erasing as the next step in the process began. To his immediate interest, the next stage was revealed to be the announcement of both Arthur’s and “Michael’s” hobbies. Rather than just a text reveal though, the top screen of the device became much more visual as it was divided into three individual sections. As soon as the lines were finished dividing up the spaces, Arthur watched as each individual section began moving up and down. Watching each section rapidly spin up and down, it quickly became clear that the visual was supposed to be reminiscent of a slot machine. After a few more rotations around, each section finally stopped to lock in three emojis.

|🖊️|💪|🕹️|

To Arthur’s amusement, he saw these and immediately realized that they perfectly described his hobbies. Whenever he wasn’t hard at work grading papers or creating lesson plans, the man loved nothing more than writing, working out, or playing video games. Although he shouldn’t have been surprised about how accurate the device was given the magical abilities of it, he still found himself impressed that he could be narrowed down so specifically. 

Soon afterwards, the bottom screen adopted the same visual style and began to aimlessly spin. With intense curiosity, Arthur found himself bent over the counter and excitedly looking down to wonder what his new hobbies would be as Michael. One-by-one, the emojis that formed caused Arthur’s heart to flutter in a tizzy of intense joy.

|📱|💪|🎼|

Although he had no idea what the music emoji would entail, the visual of seeing a cell phone and a flexing emoji back to back left Arthur taking into account his hunky new physique and becoming excited about the concept of being a hunky influencer. While the magic quietly worked itself in the background for a few minutes though, the man began to ponder whether his educated guess was actually right as nothing seemed to be happening. But soon enough, his phone began to go absolutely haywire as a flood of notifications began to ring out and fill the room with an endless sea of dings.

Despite not being able to unlock the phone as it continued to ding and reveal endless notifications, the man’s lock screen was able to provide a decent amount of information as he saw these notifications coming from both Instagram and TikTok. With each like and comment notification flooding his phone, the man’s mind couldn’t help but wonder what his new social media content would be like.

Eventually Arthur was given the opportunity to explore his new social media as the notifications finally stopped after a few more minutes of notification spamming. To start things off he headed over to his Instagram to see what had become of his account. Upon doing so and heading to his account page, the man was flabbergasted to discover that his new account of michaelchad757 had nearly 100k followers. Given the fact that his former account only had 400 followers, the growth was monumental and left Arthur oddly feeling incredibly proud despite not actually being Michael.

Upon clicking on his most recent post, Arthur was immediately turned on by innate confidence that his new self displayed as he smirked for the camera and flexed his mighty biceps. Based on the comments underneath the post, it seemed that Arthur wasn’t in the minority in terms of how hot and bothered his flexing made people feel.

After quickly scrolling through the rest of his post history and finding tons of flexing videos or thirst trap photos that showcased his ripped torso, Arthur was buzzing with excitement to see what sort of visual delights awaited him on TikTok. As such, the man quickly exited out of Instagram and switched over to the other app that had become overloaded with notifications. Upon doing so and heading to his account, Arthur was shocked to discover that his account there was even bigger than his Instagram. With over 250,000 followers and over 2.6 million likes, he was an undeniable TikTok star!

For the most part, his TikTok account was exactly what he expected: an endless slew of thirst traps where he cockily smirked on the camera before removing his shirt and flexing his muscles as a random song or sound soundtracked the video. As he continued to scroll through videos, he found that Michael had a favorite move - popping his pecs to the beat of any song that he used in the video. It was incredibly hypnotizing to watch his plump chest ripple and bounce to the song, which made more sense as to why he was able to amass such a huge following despite being the most vanilla of thirst traps. 

After scrolling through at least 20 videos of his new body doing the same sort of moves while stripping, Arthur found himself thrown for a loop when he came across a video of Michael doing something non-flexing related. Instead, he watched as his shirtless body stood in front of a mirror and instead began to freestyle rap rather than flex. Such a reveal was a huge shock to Arthur, especially as he himself wasn’t much of a rap guy. Pop and alternative were usually his favorite genres, so this new reveal was quite the 180 for the former teacher.

Yet as he exited out of the app to explore his Apple Music, he found that the device had deleted all of his favorite tunes from his library and replaced them with unknown rap songs that Michael seemingly adored. Upon hitting shuffle, the first song that popped up seemed like an instant no to Arthur as the instrumental was a far cry from his usual tastes. But as the beat continued and rapping began, the transformed man found himself absentmindedly perfectly replicating the words and the flow of the rapper. 

Upon allowing the song to finish up, Arthur was somewhat amused by this new quirk. Although he loved his pop music more than anything, he found himself willing to embrace this new change as he viewed this new life as only temporary since he could just do another attempt with the device tomorrow. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, the device seemed to pick up on Arthur’s acceptance of his new situation as the screens lit up once more and began to move to the next stage.

The bright lights of the screen pulled Arthur away from his phone, which caused him to tuck it back into his pants pocket as he devoted his attention to the device once more. While doing so, Arthur quickly discovered that the next stage would be deemed the “mental changes”. As the text quickly deleted itself, the man watched as the screens evolved once more and became more visual. Instead of a slot machine graphic though, each screen revealed a large roulette wheel. 

In a snap, each roulette slot suddenly became adored with various text. While the top screen had a slew of numbers ranging from 70 to 130, the bottom screen’s slots were filled with text that listed various things such as “heterosexual”, “asexual”, “homosexual”. As he read the bottom screen, he was able to quickly figure out that the roulette wheel there was meant to decide his new sexuality. Given his status already as a bisexual, the device had already grayed out that option to make it clear that he was intended to have a new experience with Michael’s life. The top screen remained a mystery for a few minutes before the term “IQ” was suddenly manifested in the middle of the roulette wheel. 

Instantly, the concept of changing his IQ set off alarm bells in Arthur’s mind. The concept of gaining a new body was a dream come true, but the 50/50 chances of becoming either smarter or dumber than what he already was was a risk he was unwilling to take. As such, he tried his best to search for a way to skip the intended changes. But his entire search of the device revealed no skip button and he gulped in fear as the top wheel began to spin just as he set it back down on the counter.

For what felt like an eternity, the wheel continued to just aimlessly spin as if it was taunting Arthur for its impending choice. As such, Arthur’s entire body felt absolutely sluggish as the weight of the upcoming decision weighed on him. To both his relief and horror, the wheel finally decided to stop on the number 74. Given the fact that his IQ had seemingly been in the 100 range based on how that entire range had been grayed out, 74 was an extreme downgrade. 

Instantly, Arthur could feel the intense ripple effect of the IQ choice as his mind was seemingly drained of his knowledge. In no time, it quickly became clear that he wouldn’t be a teacher anymore as all of his university knowledge was sapped away and left him with a high school education. To make matters worse though, Arthur’s knowledge was further impacted as his low IQ made him a piss-poor student with a bare minimum vocabulary. Rather than easily passing all of his classes and graduating near the top of his class, Michael was an obvious idiot who struggled to stay focused on boring class lessons. As more of Arthur’s high school experiences were erased, they were soon replaced with memories that fit a total slacker like Michael. Given his new low attention span and dislike of boring classes, Arthur’s thoughts of high school brought forth new memories of being a total nuisance in class as he loved to disrupt the teacher or sit in the back making small talk with his other jock friends.

This life path as a total himbo also led to an unintended side effect as new memories emerged where Michael opted to go by his middle name of Chad. This was mainly due to the fact that everyone in his friend loved to taunt him and jokingly call him a “total Chad”. Given the fact that his middle name was actually Chad, he opted to forgo his ill-fitting first name and become the complete Chad fantasy that his best bros had heralded him.

Speaking of jocks, Chad’s high school experience made it so the only place he really excelled was in sports. Throughout his 4 years, he had played football, wrestling, and baseball and been the star player on each team. If it wasn’t for his barely passing grades, he could have gotten full-ride scholarships to countless major schools. But alas, the man found himself utterly bored with school by the time the last sports season of the year was over. Rather than wasting his time and waking up early to spend 7 “dull ass” hours trapped in a classroom, Chad dropped out a month before graduation and began to just work out at the gym 24/7. 

This decision had a serious impact on Chad’s life, causing him to get kicked out of his parents’ house and left to fend for himself. Given his jock physique, he ultimately found himself making money occasionally training some pudgy middle-aged loser who wanted to lose weight at his local gym. It was pathetic in Chad’s eyes to watch someone fail to do the bare minimum in terms of workouts, but he refused to make his thoughts known so he could continue making money. After nearly six months of crashing on the couch of his jockish best friends, the man had finally gained enough money to move into a mobile home in a nearby trailer park. 

By the time the second wheel had begun spinning, the light behind Arthur’s vibrant blue eyes had faded, leaving behind simply the dull stare of an idiot himbo. As such, the only reason why the man’s attention was kept by the device was the bright vibrant colors of the wheel as it widely spun around. This transfixion that the device kept on him was maintained even as the wheel stopped spinning and landed on the heterosexual option, so much so that he didn’t even object to such a reveal. 

“Fuck yeah bro, that’s lit!” Chad exclaimed, pumping a fist in the air as deep down Arthur finally submitted to become his ultimate straight jock fantasy. Upon closing his eyes and thinking about what it would be like to be a straight man, Arthur found himself envisioning a blonde bimbo on her knees and looking up with a lustful stare. While this fantasy was helping lead him into this new sexual orientation, the man’s cock was hardening as his memories of love and relationships were altering. 

Rather than being attracted to jocks like his best bros or sweet and kind girls, Arthur’s mind found his memories altering to where he almost exclusively hooked up with members of his high school cheerleading team. There were countless memories where he would be approached after a game by a girl looking to congratulate him for a great performance, which would soon lead to erotic fucking in the locker rooms or baseball dugouts. Although Arthur was once a sensitive lover who was more interested in the emotional connection he had with someone, it was all physical for Chad. He didn’t give a fuck about personality or emotional connection, all that mattered to him was whether a girl had a “banging bod” or not.

Upon the wheel’s effects finally finishing up their changes to the new Chad’s mind, the screens went blank again before announcing that the final stage - career prospects - was about to begin. As Chad looked up towards the first screen, he was utterly confused to see that his career was listed as a “Professional Educator & Aspiring Writer”. He fucking loathed school, so he would never dare to become a loser that spent all of his time dressed up all nice and teaching dumb shit that didn’t matter in real life! The concept of becoming a writer was funny to Chad as well, because he was fully aware of the fact that he was a complete idiot. He loved that fact about himself, so the concept of becoming a writer with his elementary school level writing abilities was hilarious.

After finishing his laugh at the concept of having such loser jobs, Chad watched as the bottom screen lit up and began to display text. His mind was quite confused though as the screen displayed the same text as the top screen: “Professional Educator & Aspiring Writer”. To add more confusion to the mix, the words educator and writer were suddenly erased to leave two large blanks.

As soon as this was complete, Chad jumped in shock as a keyboard suddenly extended out of the device. At first the man had no idea what he was supposed to do, but as he looked at the screen and watched as a text cursor began to blink within the first blank. “Oh shit, it’s like a game huh?” Chad dimly exclaimed, chuckling as he thought about the concept of picking his own career. Although he had the opportunity to pick any possible career that could provide him with a more lavish lifestyle, Chad’s low IQ didn’t allow for such intense thinking. As such, the man’s id led the way as he opted to pursue his immediate impulsive thoughts and typed out his answers. Upon looking it over, the man gave a dopey smile before he pressed the enter button to lock in his answer.

With a loud yet cheerful ringing suddenly emerging upon hitting enter, Chad found himself staring intensely at the bottom screen as more text began to finally fill the screen.

Professional Thirst Trap & Aspiring Rapper * CHOICE ACCEPTED *

Instantly, Chad tilted his head back and gasped as an intense tingle began to massage his skull. Deep within his brain, the jock’s mind was undergoing one final transformation to complete his new life for the day. Although his memories of becoming a worker at his local gym were true, this altered slightly as he became TikTok famous to the point where brands were actively reaching out to do deals and endorsements with him. With such a steady amount of income coming in, the man ultimately quit his job and focused on creating thirst trap content. Now instead of the grueling chore of a 9 to 5, Chad simply spends all of his time now working out and filming vanity videos of himself flexing for the camera.

Given just how fast his brand had grown over the course of the past year, Chad knew that he had his audience in the palm of his hand. So, knowing just how much people thirsted for him (for obvious reasons in his opinion), Chad also found himself making even more money as he opted to open up an OnlyFans account. Despite his OnlyFans account name being Chad Johnson (which always made him chuckle as he was a total Chad and had one glorious Johnson), the young jock was willing to show practically everything besides his impressive manhood. 

Although this was partially due to wanting to keep the ladies guessing, the main factor was that he knew that a large portion of his fans were gay men who thirsted over him. He had always had an issue with queers ever since he caught some nerds checking him out during gym class, so there was always a boiling rage he felt whenever he saw a man thirst-commenting on any of his photos or videos. The concept of some pathetic losers jerking off to his glorious body was utterly disgusting in Chad’s eyes, but the man was smart enough not to make those thoughts known so he wouldn’t be canceled. As such, he ultimately opted to forget about it as they were paying customers who helped fund his lavish lifestyle of expensive fitness gear and sports cars despite still opting to live in his trailer.

Given the constant influx of money he received every month from brand deals and OnlyFans, Chad spent most of his free time pursuing his other passion - rapping. Ever since he was a little boy, he had been drawn to the genre and found himself writing raps for fun whenever he was bored (which was pretty often). Now that he had no worries given his healthy income, the man finally decided to fully invest into his career as an aspiring rapper. Thinking back caused Chad to recall the release of his most recent EP, which had done moderate numbers given the size of his fanbase. 

Unfortunately, Chad’s cockiness made him unable to realize that he truly wasn’t the greatest rapper. Even when people commented under his posts to specifically pinpoint why he wasn’t good at the genre, he refused to believe such nonsense. Those losers were just jealous of his immense talent and trying anything they could to make him give up on his dreams!

As he continued to think about the intense criticism he got and considered making a diss track about those pathetic losers trying to hold him back, the changing of the text on the device’s screens caused him to forgo that thought and see what it said.

If you’d like to keep this life, please press in the knob to lock it in.  If not, you can press the button again tomorrow to try again. Thanks for using The Do-Over! 

Upon reading the text, Chad found himself struggling to comprehend everything that had just occurred to him. He knew deep down that he didn’t used to be like this, but the details were so vague and thinking about it too hard was just making his head hurt… and he hated that!

Luckily for him, a ding from his phone stole his attention and caused him to forget about the confusing transformation that had just befallen him. To his amusement, a text from Chad’s newest hookup had arrived. Although he had a feeling that he had never met the woman before, the memories that rushed into his mind upon thinking about her caused him to think otherwise. He could instantly recall countless nights of fucking where she eagerly worshipped his muscles and was utterly submissive as he fondled her perky breasts, teased her nipples, and slapped her soft peach-shaped ass. He was a total hunk, so it wasn’t a shock that girls like her would bow down to a total alpha!

Cockily smirking upon recalling just how great it was to fuck her, Chad took a moment to adjust the thick bulge that was straining against his underwear before unlocking his phone and entering the text messaging app. Upon doing so, his heart began to beat a little bit faster as he read the “omw” text and looked at the attached photo showcasing the raven-haired woman in her car.

Knowing that the woman only lived a few minutes away, Chad was quick to run around his trailer. Rather than cleaning up though, the man was simply moving items off of the couch and his bed to make sure they had no obstructions once they started messing around. Upon exiting his bedroom, the hunk took a detour into the bathroom where he quickly grabbed a box of condoms out of the medicine cabinet and returned to the kitchen.

After setting them on the counter next to the device that had transformed him, the sound of a knock on his door caused him to perk up and adopt his best machismo persona. With a swagger in his step, he strutted over to the door and pushed it open. As he flicked on the porch light and lifted his arms up to pose against the doorframe, he smirked as he saw Katie standing there dressed in a long trench coat.

“‘Sup babe?” He remarked, smirking as the woman looked up at him with “fuck me” eyes. To his surprise and pleasure though, Katie then suddenly moved towards him, but rather than stopping upon being face to face she just continued. Despite the man’s impressive physique, she was unfazed as she plowed right into his shoulder and caused him to move away and allow her entry. Such an action was an incredible turn on to Chad, as evident by the way he bit his lip and stifled a slight moan as he picked up on the scent of her flowery perfume. 

By the time he returned into the living room upon shutting the front door, the woman had already pulled off the trench coat and revealed an expensive-looking pair of white lace lingerie. So clearly turned on, the jock couldn’t resist reaching down and gripping onto his bulge as he savored the sight of the woman’s D cup breasts struggling to remain trapped within the garment. To make matters even worse, Katie then began to tease the man by attempting a slight striptease. 

“Oh, you want this don’t you?” she purred, guiding her fingers down to her panties which she began to slowly nudge down past the top of her curvy hips.

“Fuck yeah babe,” Chad exclaimed, making his way closer to her until their lips were mere centimeters away. Given the close proximity, the man was overcome by his lustful desires and leaned in to whisper that into her ear. “I wanna fuck that tight pussy of yours so bad…” As he pulled back away from Katie’s ear, the man noticed how the woman now had an equally cocky smirk on her face. 

Upon waiting a second,  she looked the man up and down and began to speak once more. “Then why are you still standing here doing nothing,” she matter of factly asked, which instantly sent Chad in a frenzy.

With incredible haste, the jock put his strength to use by wrapping his arms around Katie’s shoulders and the small of her back before lifting her up. Knowing exactly what to do, the girl pushed her feet off of the ground and used the momentum to wrap her legs around Chad’s waist. Now intimately intertwined, the duo pushed their heads forward and began to sloppily kiss each other. 

As their tongues began to their partner’s mouths, Chad continued walking until he was in the kitchen. Eager to get to the main event as if it was the first time he’d fucked in years (even though he knew he had literally just fucked another girl the night prior), the jock set the woman down on his kitchen countertop while pulling away to begin peppering kisses up and down her chest. 

In more attempts to display his alpha behavior, the man felt no remorse for gripping onto the front of Katie’s bra and ripping it off rather than just unfastening it. Based on the way the woman gasped and moaned as Chad pulled the material off and revealed her breasts, it was clear that she didn’t mind it either. 

With Chad basically nude already, all he had to do by the time he peeled off Katie’s panties was to drop his underwear and kick them to the side. Now staring at each other’s nude forms for a moment, both of them felt an undeniable attraction to each other that made a deep fiery lust emerge within them. As such, Chad looked towards the box of condoms on the counter and quickly grabbed onto them. Upon opening it and tearing one of the packaged condoms open with his teeth, Chad smirked as he rolled it down his irresistible eight inches of manhood.

Upon giving a knowing glance at each other, Chad wasted no time penetrating the woman’s pussy and beginning to fuck her with impressive stamina. As he continued to use his whole body with each thrust, the slapping of skin was also soundtracked by the high-pitched moans of Katie as Chad immediately began to pleasure her. Due to this, the woman found herself losing control of her body as it caused her to flail around.

So while their passionate lovemaking was occurring, neither of them picked up on the fact that one of Katie’s frantic hands had accidentally bumped into a large circular object that was on the counter. As a result, none of them could see how the device with the large red “DO-OVER” button landed onto the floor perfectly so that the extended knob was pressed in and locked into place. 

Given how preoccupied Chad would be for the rest of the night into the next morning, the jock would never discover the device again as the magic within would allow it to be transported back to the company’s headquarters so the next deserving candidate was given the chance for a do-over. As such, Chad would wake up the next morning and go about his daily routine with no memory of the life that he had accidentally given up. Although Arthur himself certainly wouldn’t be too pleased to discover that he had become an idiotic straight himbo, Chad loved that aspect of himself and thought that he was living the dream life!

Interested in reading more of my content? Head over to my Patreon to discover more than 140 hot transformation stories like this one! Additionally, I've also recently added a perk to the $15 tier where members can submit themselves to be the protagonist in future stories! If you'd love to be transformed by me, this is the only opportunity since I don't do commissions anymore.

[need4change]

Can you turn me into one of those onlyfans queerbaiters like Sam Vass please… I wanna live an easy luxurious life with guys paying to stare at my fat muscle ass

You’re nothing special.

Just some soft, average, kinda dumpy gay dude with a boring job, a shitty apartment, and a growing obsession with transformation stories online. You scroll endlessly through Tumblr, Twitter, wherever, seeing these perfect, dumbass influencers making bank showing off their asses and fake “no homo” grins. You hate yourself for it, but… you can’t stop staring at Sam Vass. God, that fat muscle ass. That arrogant smirk. Straight, homophobic, queerbaiting fuckboy trash — but rich as hell. Worshipped by morons. You want it. You want in.

One night, drunk and feeling pathetic, you whisper it aloud like a damn prayer: “Can you turn me into one of those OnlyFans queerbaiters like Sam Vass, please… I wanna live an easy, luxurious life with guys paying to stare at my fat muscle ass…”

That’s when the smoke hits. Thick, choking, sulfurous. You stumble backward, coughing, the room spinning like you’ve just mainlined vodka straight to your skull.

“Wish granted.”

A voice — yours? No. Him.

The smoke wraps tight around your body, dragging you down to your knees. Your skin tingles, then burns. A searing, filthy heat crawls up your spine as your flesh starts to bloat, puff, and tighten.

You scream—but it comes out deep, guttural, stupid. Your hands claw at your body, but they’re already changing, fingers thickening, nails shortening, knuckles cracking loud. Your arms inflate, smooth skin stretching over veiny, dense biceps. The fat on your belly is melting but reshaping, turning into thick, striated abs, a slab of muscle that twitches involuntarily.

“F-fuck… oh shit… fuck it hurts…”

Your clothes rip, tearing open as your chest explodes outward, pecs ballooning with heavy, sweaty mass. A tattoo sears itself onto your left pec — VASS — black, vulgar, ugly.

“W-wait no, I didn’t… not like this…”

You try to stand, but your legs buckle, thighs swelling with so much meat they chafe together. Your cock aches, stretching longer, fatter, pulsing with need. You smell different — raw, salty, unwashed. Your ass quakes, massive, jiggling with each breath. That fat muscle ass you wanted? It’s yours. Heavy. Sweaty. Used.

You stagger to the mirror.

Your face.

Gone. In its place — his face. Sam fucking Vass. That perfect, douchey grin already curling on your full lips. Your nose is sharp, your jaw squared and shaved, your beard neatly groomed — thick and black, greek features. Your eyes glow with vapid, cocky stupidity. The smoke shoves into your skull and you groan, clutching your head.

“Nnngghh… what the f-fuck…”

Memories crack open, crush your old self. Your job, your friends, your sexuality — deleted. Your thoughts drip into sludge. You remember posing, oiled up, teasing gay fans with your bulging ass while mocking them.

You laugh. Loud. Dumb. Obnoxious.

“Fuckin’ fags, bro,” you grunt, grabbing your pecs, bouncing them like it’s all you know. “Yo, where the pussy at, bro? Gotta fuck, gotta bust…”

Your old name? Erased. You’re Sam now. Sam Vass. Queerbaiting Greek God. And all you care about? Showing off, getting paid, and fucking.

Your phone buzzes.

A DM: “Yo bro, drop that new video, can’t wait to see you stretch those boxers.”

You grin, dumb as bricks, horny as hell.

“Fuck yeah, bro. Time to make bank.” You wake up in your new penthouse, the city lights flashing through floor-to-ceiling windows. Your head pounds, but not from a hangover — from desire, from the insatiable hunger twisting your gut. Your thick chest rises and falls beneath a tank top stretched tight over your swollen pecs. Your ratty boxer briefs are soaked with last night’s sweat and… something else. Yeah, you pissed yourself. Didn’t care.

You roll onto your fat muscle ass, that glorious beast of a butt Sam Vass made you into. It jiggles so much you hear the squelch. You flex, bouncing those heavy cheeks like they’re a cash machine, and damn, it pays off — your phone is flooded with thirsty messages and tips from desperate dudes who can’t get enough of your act.

You laugh, a throaty, arrogant bark that sounds nothing like the guy you used to be. “Bro, these fuckin’ fags eat this shit up,” you sneer, scrolling through your OnlyFans dashboard. Thousands watching live, thousands paying to see your tight boxers drop, your hairy arms flex, your thick pecs glisten under the studio lights you had installed just for this.

Your mind? Forget intelligence. It’s mush. All that’s left is ego, lust, and a raging thirst for pussy you didn’t have before but need like oxygen. You hate men now — can’t stand the thought of another dude touching you — but you love how much they throw cash at your ass.

You hear the familiar ding of a new DM. “Bro, you gonna show us those abs? Need that straight muscle magic.”

You grin, smacking your thick thighs together, feeling the sweat run between your legs. “Hell yeah, dude,” you growl, grabbing your phone camera and flipping it to selfie mode. Your thick accent thickens with the fake bravado. “Yo, fuckin’ watch me kill it. No fags allowed, but I’ll take their money.”

You slam open your bedroom door. A gorgeous blonde walks in — your latest hookup, dripping with perfume and nails freshly manicured. You grab her by the hips, your massive hands rough and sweaty. “Ready to ride, baby? Daddy’s gotta breed.”

She giggles nervously, but you don’t care. You’re in charge now — a predator in designer sweatpants and a cross necklace swinging over your chiseled chest. You drag her to the bed, your breath heavy and raspy.

As you fuck her hard, your cross necklace bounces violently with every thrust — a sick, twisted symbol of your new self: Horny, homophobic, hateful, and impossible to stop.

You scream at her, your voice rough and booming: “Fuckin’ pussy, best thing ever. I’m Sam Vass, baby, straight as fuck, and I’m gonna fuck your brains out ‘til you’re pregnant with my legacy.”

She moans, but your mind drifts to your OnlyFans feed buzzing non-stop. Fans begging for you to drop your next video. Fans throwing hundreds your way just to hear your dumb, entitled bro voice. You flex your pecs, sweat dripping, muscles gleaming. “Gotta keep the cash coming,” you mutter. “Gotta keep these fags drooling and these girls begging.”

You don’t remember your old life. The soft, boring, gay guy you used to be is a faded nightmare you don’t want to face. Your whole world is now skin, muscle, cock, cash, and pussy. And the stupid pride in being a straight, Greek homophobic, douchebag OnlyFans king who’s got the world eating out of his hand.

You love it.

You need it.

You are Sam Vass.

[need4change]

I've had a crush on my best friend since highschool. we are both skinny twinks with small frames, dark hair, glasses, but he was always above me. Better at flirting, better at sex, gets more attention from guys. this coupled with my new findom kink just made me obsessed with him even more. I feel the need to pay him but he would never be into it. god i wish my best friend was into findom so i could hand over my cash...

You’ve had a crush on Casey since high school. You’d never admit it out loud—he’d just laugh, ruffle your hair, and call you “cute”—but it’s the truth. The two of you have always been inseparable, always the nerdy gay duo in a sea of jocks and judgment. Skinny frames, pale skin, dark hair, and glasses. But Casey? He was always better.

He was the one who flirted effortlessly with the hot guys at the club. The one who had threesomes while you swiped hopelessly through Grindr. The one who didn’t just look the part of a twink, but owned it. Tight little tees, midriff always showing, a soft six-pack just visible beneath the fabric. You could only fantasize while he lived it.

And then you discovered findom.

It started as a joke. A late-night Tumblr rabbit hole. “Paypig culture” memes, guys begging for the attention of cocky influencers. You thought it was ridiculous. Until you imagined Casey like that—smirking, shirtless, demanding your wallet, mocking you for being desperate. Something inside you snapped.

You got hard.

That night changed everything.

Now it’s all you think about. Every time you hang out—watching anime on his couch, gaming, or just getting bubble tea—you’re distracted. Watching the way he lounges with his legs spread, how he checks his phone like he’s bored of the world. How he knows he’s hotter than you, even if he never says it. You want to give him everything. Your cash. Your dignity. Just for a crumb of attention.

But Casey? He’s not into findom. Not even close. He’d never degrade you like that. He’s sweet, chill, clueless—and that makes it worse. You want him to snap, to see you as the pathetic loser you are and use you.

You’d pay him anything to make it happen.

Tonight is no different. You’re both back in town for the weekend, crashing at Casey’s apartment. It's cramped, messy, and smells like weed and old pizza, but it's his. He’s sprawled out on the couch in nothing but gym shorts, laughing at his phone, scrolling through TikToks of some shirtless influencers doing pushups.

“Bro, these dudes are raking in cash doing literally nothing,” he mutters.

Your heart races.

“Like, for real,” he continues. “If I had an OnlyFans, I’d be a millionaire by now.”

You laugh nervously. “You should try it.”

Casey smirks, eyes half-lidded. “You’d pay for it, wouldn’t you?” he teases.

Your face burns.

“I… maybe,” you mutter, your voice cracking.

He raises an eyebrow, pausing. “Wait, are you serious?” His grin widens. “Dude, that’s hilarious. You’d pay to see my ass?”

You try to laugh it off, but something about your reaction sets something off in him. His expression shifts, eyes narrowing just slightly.

“Huh. Maybe I should start charging you to hang out.” He chuckles, but there’s a weird edge to it.

You don’t respond. Your heart’s pounding. You’re hard. Fuck.

Later that night, you’re lying awake on the air mattress in his room. Casey’s passed out, shirtless in his bed, his hand down his shorts. You can hear his faint snores, his chest rising and falling. You ache for him—ache for something.

A buzz.

Your phone lights up.

A message from an anonymous number: “You want him to be your findom? Wish granted. But you’ll regret it.”

You blink.

“What the fuck?” you whisper.

You look up—and Casey is sitting up in bed, eyes open, staring right at you.

“Get your wallet,” he says, voice cold, unfamiliar.

You freeze.

“What—?”

“I said, get your wallet, fag.”

Your stomach drops. You try to respond, but your body’s moving on its own. Your fingers tremble as you fumble through your backpack and hand him your wallet.

He doesn’t blink. He pulls out your cash—only forty bucks—but it’s everything you had.

“Pathetic,” he sneers. “This all you got?”

You nod, heart pounding. Your legs feel weak.

“You’re fucking nothing, dude. Always drooling over me like a little bitch. Now you’re my bitch for real.”

You want to run. Scream. Wake up.

But instead—your knees give out.

You drop to the floor.

And it hurts.

You cry out, clutching your sides. Your clothes feel loose. You pull up your sleeves—your arms are thinner. Smaller. Your hands are shaking, your fingers longer, bonier. Your chest—flat. Your already skinny frame is shrinking.

“Oh my god,” you gasp.

Casey watches with amusement, flexing abs that weren’t there before. His body’s growing, filling out with lean, tight muscle, his skin glowing with a bronzed, oiled sheen. His eyes are darker, colder.

“You’re gonna pay me every cent you ever earn,” he growls. “And you’re gonna love it, loser.”

You whimper.

And for some horrible, humiliating reason… you do.

You wake up to the sound of heavy footsteps. Your eyes flicker open, but the light stings. Your body aches. Your bones feel brittle. You try to sit up—only to realize you’re lying on the floor. A pile of your own clothes bunched beneath you like discarded rags.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

“Rise and fucking shine, fag,” comes Casey’s voice—deeper, rougher, laced with smug amusement.

You look up—and freeze.

He’s towering over you.

Shirtless, veins bulging along his new thick arms. His chest is massive, round, pumped up like he’s spent hours at the gym—but you know he hasn’t. His smooth, golden skin glistens. He’s got on some grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, and—Jesus Christ—his bulge is massive.

You feel tiny.

“Damn, you look even more pathetic now,” he smirks. “Were you always this short?”

You stammer. Try to stand—but your legs wobble. You stumble, falling again, knees slamming the floor.

“Don’t even try,” he laughs, stepping closer, looming. “I own you now. Wallet. Now.”

Your body obeys before your brain does. You fumble your thin, bony fingers through your clothes, finding your empty wallet.

“N-no cash,” you croak.

Casey grabs your chin between his fingers—hard. “You worthless little fag. Don’t fucking speak unless I tell you to.”

You shiver. His fingers are huge, rough. His face—perfect. Angular jaw, scruff darkening his chin. His dark hair is styled into that arrogant bro look—short on the sides, tousled on top. His eyes—ice cold.

“Good,” he says, letting your face go like it’s trash. “No money? Then I want your phone. You’re selling that shit today. Every cent, you hear me?”

You nod, unable to stop trembling.

Your phone—gone.

Your pride—gone.

As the day drags on, your body changes more. You can feel it—feel yourself shrinking. Your old clothes hang off you like blankets. Your arms are skin and bone. Your glasses slide down your sharper nose. Even your voice cracks, high-pitched, weaker.

Casey’s just… bigger. And louder. And more of an asshole.

Every time he mocks you—it hurts. Not just in your chest. But in your bones. Your ribs ache. Your spine feels bent. You can’t stand up straight.

You can’t stop obeying.

Later, you’re on your knees in front of him.

He’s on the couch, spreading his legs wide, scratching his abs.

“You even smell like a fucking virgin now,” he laughs, wrinkling his nose. “Jesus. No wonder you’ve never had a boyfriend.”

You flush with shame.

“Open your mouth,” he commands.

You obey.

He spits.

It hits your cheek.

“Oops.” He grins. “Now beg me to let you clean it up.”

You shudder. “Please…”

“Louder.”

“Please, Casey… please let me clean it…”

“You mean sir.”

“Please, sir…”

You don’t even recognize your own voice anymore. It’s high. Nasal. Pathetic. Your throat tightens, and not just from humiliation.

Your clothes fall off you as you tremble. You’re so fucking small. He’s massive, looming, like some god of muscle and ego. His phone buzzes. He scrolls lazily, ignoring you.

“Send me another hundred,” he mutters.

You freeze. “I—I don’t have—”

Casey grabs your face again. “Figure it out. Sell your shit. Now.”

You run—hobble, really—to your backpack, rummaging for your old stuff. You’re sobbing.

Something’s gone wrong. So wrong.

You used to be equals.

Now you’re just his—his pet, his cash toy.

That night, he brings home a girl.

A blonde. Big tits. Tight crop top. She giggles as Casey slaps her ass and leads her in.

You’re in the corner, shaking, dressed in a shirt so baggy it looks like a tent.

Casey locks eyes with you. “Get lost, fag.”

You nod.

“But not before you pay me.”

You transfer everything left in your bank.

You hear them laughing in the bedroom, the bed slamming into the wall. The girl moaning. Casey grunting like a beast.

You curl up on the cold floor.

Your dick is tiny. Shrinking. Useless. You can’t even jerk off anymore.

You’re nothing.

And it’s only going to get worse.

You can’t remember the last time you stood up straight.

Your spine feels curved, like it’s meant to keep you low, beneath him. Your knees ache, calloused from weeks—months?—spent crawling, begging. You’re in his apartment. No, his kingdom.

Casey’s new throne? A black leather recliner where he sits in just ratty boxers, his thick, musky thighs spread wide. His sweaty pecs twitch as he scrolls his phone, abs glistening under a gold chain with some dumb lion pendant. He belches, scratching his crotch.

“Oi. Worm,” he grunts. “Where’s my protein shake?”

You scamper—scamper—to the kitchen. Your bony fingers struggle to open the fridge. Every movement feels wrong. Your joints pop. Your breath wheezes. You see your reflection in the metal fridge door.

And you want to scream.

You’re tiny. Your face is gaunt, pale, your eyes wide, watery, permanently red from lack of sleep. Your glasses barely fit your crooked nose. Your lips are thin. Your hair’s thinning—your body has no fat, no muscle. You look like a starved rat in oversized clothes.

But it’s your dick that hits hardest.

Or what’s left of it.

A shriveled nub. You can’t remember the last time it got hard. You can’t get hard. Not unless he calls you a fag. Not unless he tells you you’re worthless. That’s the only thing that gets you off now—his disgust.

You deliver the shake, hands trembling. Casey takes it and drinks deep, watching you like trash.

“Fuckin’ nasty. You reek.”

He stands. His frame is massive. Towering. V-shaped. His cock bulges under the boxers, huge, swinging as he steps toward you.

“Give me your phone. You made anything off those dumb little commissions today?”

You nod. “T-twenty-five dollars, s-sir.”

He laughs.

“Twenty-five bucks? That’s all your fag ass is worth?”

He snatches your phone, drains your account. All twenty-five. Gone.

“You know the rule, right?”

You nod. Your throat tightens.

“I take your cash… you lose more. Stand up.”

You try. Your knees wobble. Your spine won’t straighten. Pain sears down your back. You groan—your ribs feel tighter. Your whole body contracts. Your arms shrink again. Your legs shrink again. Your clothes slip off—nothing fits.

He smirks.

“You’re fuckin’ disgusting now. Look at you. Barely a fuckin’ man.”

You drop, panting, smaller than ever. He steps on you. His big, sweaty foot presses your chest, grinding you into the floor.

“You used to be my equal. Remember?”

You sob.

He leans down, spits in your face.

“Now you’re my wallet, my fag, my paypig loser bitch.”

You nod, tears streaming.

“And I’m a fuckin’ king. Straight, rich, jacked, girls beggin’ to get bred.”

He grabs his cock through his boxers, stroking.

“Bet you wish you could fuck, huh? Nah. That thing’s a joke.”

He kicks your leg.

“You ain’t ever gettin’ a date. Not even with fags. You belong here, under me, broke and alone.”

You gasp. Your heart races. Your tiny dick aches, twitching—pathetically.

“Fuck, you’re gettin’ off to this?” he laughs. “Jesus.”

He strokes his cock harder.

“You don’t deserve release. Ever.”

You whimper. “Please, sir…”

“No.” His eyes gleam. “You’re broken. Just how I like it.”

He cums.

On your face.

You cry, but it’s not sadness.

It’s gratitude.

You have nothing left.

Only him.

And he’ll never stop taking.

[need4change]

My creepy uncle is out of work and staying with us and I cannot wait until he leaves. When he’s not at the gym, dude just sits on his ass, drinking beer and watching porn full volume on the tv in our guest room. I swear I can hear the fuckin’ sleazy creep jacking it through the walls regardless of the time of day. Even though he’s got a beer belly from the drinking, he’s got a good body from lifting. I hope I never understand why he’s so content with his miserable life at his old age

You came home from college two days ago. The house still smells the same — lemon-scented cleaner masking the faint reek of dog — but everything else feels wrong. You're 22, just finished your degree in economics, summa cum laude. Internships lined up. Grad school offers. A boyfriend. A future.

But then there's your Uncle Dean.

Out of work. Again. He’s been squatting in the guest room for three months now — a favor to your mom, she says. When he’s not at the gym puffing up those grotesquely veiny arms, he’s on that busted-ass recliner with his legs spread wide, drinking dollar-store beer and watching the most obnoxious, nasty porn imaginable. Volume maxed out. No shame. Just groaning, grunting, slapping sounds through the drywall, and you swear you can hear him jerking it. Morning. Noon. Night.

He’s like some kind of perverted caveman, all belly and biceps, stinking up the whole back of the house. The reek of Axe body spray, sweat, and cum wafts out every time he opens that door.

You’ve been keeping your distance, staying sane. Helping your mom in the kitchen. Pretending things are normal.

"Hey, Kid! Grab me a fuckin’ beer, would ya? My hands are busy," Uncle Dean hollers from the guest room, followed by some kind of wet, slapping noise. You freeze, spatula in hand, your stomach turning. Goddamn him.

You roll your eyes and pretend you didn’t hear.

Your mom sighs, looking up from her casserole. “Honey, he’s family. Just get him the beer.”

You don’t want to argue. You just want him gone. So you open the fridge, glaring into the cold light, and for some godforsaken reason, you grab two beers. One for him. One for...?

You shake it off and march down the hall.

As you approach the guest room, the sounds get louder — moaning, panting, some dude grunting on the TV. Dean’s voice cuts in, “Yeahhh, ride that cock, bitch,” followed by a gross, wet squelch and the unmistakable sound of skin slapping skin.

You knock. “Beer,” you bark.

Silence. Then shuffling. The TV’s still blasting.

The door creaks open. There he is — sweaty, shirtless, hairy, his gym shorts tented and slick with god knows what. He grins at you like the devil himself.

“Took your sweet ass time, kid.”

You shove the beer into his hand. “Enjoy.”

You turn to leave — fast — but his voice hooks you like a fish.

“Why don’t you join me, son? You need to relax a little.”

You freeze.

“Get off my back, Dad,” you snap without thinking — and your voice is wrong. It’s lower. Rougher. You blink. What the fuck?

Dean chuckles, sucking on his beer. “That’s the spirit. Now crack yours open.”

You glance at the beer in your hand. You weren’t going to drink. You never drink this garbage. But now... it looks good. Real good. Your mouth is dry.

You pop the tab. Take a sip. Warm, pissy beer... but you don’t stop. The bitterness settles in your gut like a curse.

Next thing you know, you’re sitting down on the ratty old futon beside him, the porn still blaring.

Your legs splay wide, your ass sinks into the cushions. Something feels off. Your thighs feel heavier, thicker. You shift, and your shorts ride up, revealing more hair, more meat.

Dean raises his can. “Welcome home, boy.”

You don’t remember finishing your beer, but the can’s empty, warm against your palm. Dean hands you another without asking, cracking his own with a loud hiss.

“Atta boy,” he grins, lounging in his stained tank top, his gut peeking out under it, hairy and gleaming with sweat. His hand’s already down his shorts, casually scratching at his balls.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t be this comfortable.

Your shorts dig into your thighs — your spreading thighs. You shift, and your legs refuse to close. They’re heavier. Meatier. You glance down.

What the fuck—

Your legs are thicker, your knees pushing wide apart like you’ve spent years squatting plates in a gym instead of studying econometrics. You reach down, fingers trembling, feeling your thighs — dense, solid muscle, wrapped in a layer of coarse, greasy hair.

“Relax, Chase,” Dean says, eyes on the porn. “Ain’t nothing wrong with getting comfy at home. You’re stiff, uptight. You need to let go.”

Your heart pounds, but the buzz in your head is dulling it. Your skin feels sticky. You wipe your face, and your hand comes away with sweat — and grease? Your pores feel clogged, oozing. Your shirt clings to you, soaked under your pits.

“Shit, you’re sweating like a hog,” Dean laughs. “Guess you’re finally filling out.”

You heave yourself up, stumbling toward the mirror above his dresser. The glass is foggy, crusted with dust and some yellow stain in the corner.

You stare.

Your neck is thicker. Your jaw’s wider, unshaven. There’s stubble sprouting, and your clean-cut look is morphing into something brutish. Your eyebrows look heavier, your eyes glassier. You fumble at your collar — your shirt’s straining. You pull it off, and fuck.

Your torso’s meatier, your pecs puffing out, soft with bulk and twitching. You scratch your chest — hair’s sprouting there, wiry and rank. Your gut’s swelling, not fat, but that beer belly bloat, tight and shiny. You see smears of sweat and grime on your sides. Your own stink hits you — like the locker room of a truck stop gym.

“Yo, you good?” Dean’s behind you now, beer in hand, grinning ear to ear. “You look better already. Just need a few more brews in you, son.”

“Not your... son...” you murmur, but it sounds weak, confused.

Dean slaps your back — hard — and you grunt. The sound you make... it’s not yours.

“You’re my boy now,” Dean says. “You’re home, ain’t you?”

You stumble back to the futon, your legs heavy, your feet dragging. You drop down hard, and your shorts split at the thigh. Your underwear sticks to you, soaked through. Your balls feel swollen, itchy, and you can’t help it — your hand slides down, scratching at yourself.

Dean tosses you another beer.

You drink.

By the time the third beer’s empty, your gut’s hanging over your waistband, your skin slick, your pecs bouncing when you shift.

The TV moans louder — some blonde chick on all fours, getting railed by some beefy loser. You’re staring, mouth slack.

Dean snorts. “Getting hard, boy? Told ya. This’s what life’s about.”

You want to look away.

You don’t.

Your cock’s half-hard, twitching in your soaked boxers.

“Yeahhh, your brain’s slowing down,” Dean mutters, licking his fingers. “That’s good. Means it’s working.”

Your head’s fogged, every thought buried under the buzz of alcohol, the stink of sweat, the sound of moaning. You scratch at your chest again — it’s hairier, and your fingers are dirty, nails chipped.

You stare at your hands.

Not your hands.

Meaty. Calloused. Greasy.

You gasp, your breath reeking of beer. You can’t stop fidgeting, scratching your nuts, shifting your wide sweaty ass on the futon. Your posture’s gone, you’re slouched, sprawled, like you own the place — like you’ve always been here.

Dean leans over, grabs your shoulder.

“Tomorrow? We’re hitting the gym. Gotta bulk up that chest, son. Get you real thick. You ain’t going back to school. That’s for fags and nerds.”

You grunt. “School’s for... fuck... I got offers...”

Your voice cracks — low, coarse, dumber. You scratch your belly.

Dean chuckles. “Nah, boy. You dropped out. You’re my boy now, remember? Just chillin’ here, drinkin’, jerkin’, hittin’ the weights. Livin’ life.”

You blink, confused.

That... sounds...

Kinda good.

The next morning hits like a wrecking ball of beer shits and BO.

You wake up shirtless on the couch, your shorts bunched around your knees, one hand still down your boxers, the other clutching an empty can. Your mouth tastes like ass, your tongue stuck to your teeth. Your gut’s bloated, poking out, and your whole body stinks like beer, sweat, and crusty cum.

You groan, scratching your chest, and feel matted hair, wet and coarse. Your fingers glide over your belly, now thick and solid, like a keg strapped to your front.

“Rise n’ shine, big guy,” Dean calls from the kitchen, shirtless, already chugging a beer.

You blink, confused. “Whuh… what time…?”

Dean tosses a can at you — it hits your bare chest with a loud slap. “Time to pump up. We hittin’ the gym.”

You stare at the can in your hand, fingers slow to work. It’s cold, dripping. You don’t even think — just crack it open and chug. It burns going down, but it feels right.

You stumble into the bathroom and stare at the mirror.

The guy looking back isn’t you.

He’s a brick wall of meat and grease. Your face is wider, jaw thick, with a dark beard patching in, unruly and sweaty. Your once-clean hair’s now a buzzed, greasy mess, some blonde streaks showing, cheap dye from Dean’s cabinet. Your eyes look dumb, half-lidded, like you’re still trying to remember your own name.

You flex, and your pecs bounce. You grin, watching them jiggle, and then sniff your pit — ripe, reeking, soaked with musk.

“Hell yeah, bro,” you mutter. “Lookin’ fuckin’ jacked.”

You pause. “Bro?” That’s… weird. You never talk like—

Dean slaps your back, grabbing your neck. “You ready, son?”

You blink. “I’m… I’m not your son…”

Dean leans in. “You are now. Ain’t that right, Brad?”

Brad.

The name claws at your brain, digging in. You try to say no, to say Chase, but what comes out is:

“Fuck yeah, I’m Brad.”

You don’t even question it.

Brad. Deadbeat Brad.

Your brain fogs over again. School? Gone. Career? Fuck that. You dropped out to lift, drink, and smash pussy. That’s what real men do.

You grab your junk, adjust it — it’s heavy now, low-hanging, your balls swollen, coated in sweat. Your dick’s fat and dumb, twitching just from the thought of chicks. You grin, scratch your gut.

Dean tosses you a ratty cut-off tank top — it smells like pits and beer, and you pull it on, barely covering your bouncing pecs and round gut. You flex again. “Dude, I’m fuckin’ massive.”

Dean nods. “We’ll hit the gym, hit some protein, then maybe hit the bar. You can scope some tail, yeah? My boy needs to bust some fuckin’ nuts.”

You nod, dumbly, cock already twitching. “Yeah... fuckin’ chicks, bro... gotta fuck, y’know?���

You sniff your armpit again, loving the rank stink, and laugh. “Damn, I’m ripe as hell.”

“Smell of a real man,” Dean grins.

You leave the house with Dean, loud, shirt barely covering your gut, beer in hand. You catcall some jogger, grab your crotch, laugh like an asshole.

You’re Brad now. Dean’s boy. His perfect son.

A dumb, horny, reeking, frat-dropout loser who lives for beer, biceps, and banging sluts, with no future, no shame, and no way back.

[need4change]

my friends been acting... different. i swore two weeks ago he showed no interest in the gym. he was skinny and weak. now he's somehow bigger than me! shoulders are wide, pecs bouncing at all times. he used to be smart too, unbearably so. he would go on and on about physics and calculus, or his newest graphic design project. now i catch him staring vacantly at nothing. drool trickling from his mouth as he sweats profusely. he looked like an idiot frat boy. what the fuck happened?? come to think of it he did say he got a weird message from the frat on campus, but i can't remember what he said about it. *ding* whos texting me at 12:30am?? "get ready to join ΒΩΒ, ur gonna love it bro"

It’s late. 1:08 a.m. Your eyes sting from the glow of your laptop screen. The cursor blinks back at you, taunting. You’re so close to finishing the final draft of your comparative politics paper—something about authoritarian regimes and social identity theory—but your brain’s foggy from exhaustion.

You rub your eyes and yawn, glancing at the wall. Your side of the dorm is clean, organized: bookcase stacked with The New Yorker, Chomsky, and Gender Trouble. Your rainbow Pride flag droops slightly in the still air.

Across the room: a sweaty mess.

Your roommate Kyle’s desk used to be a cluttered haven of design books, color swatches, and empty Red Bull cans. Now? It’s strewn with protein tubs, half-eaten chicken breasts, and a grimy shaker bottle. Your nose wrinkles—God, the smell. Thick, sour, like someone rubbed locker room stench into damp socks and left them to rot.

Kyle is sitting in his gaming chair, shirtless, wearing tight mesh gym shorts that barely cover his thick, hairy thighs. He’s drenched in sweat—beads clinging to his broad, suddenly wide shoulders and trickling down the deep cleft between his pecs.

Pecs? He never had pecs. Two weeks ago, Kyle was scrawny, like you. Lanky, pale, nerdy. You used to joke about being “twink soulmates.”

Now… he’s huge.

You swallow hard, throat tight.

“Kyle?” Your voice sounds too small. “You okay?”

His head turns. Slowly. There’s a beat before he responds—blank eyes struggling to focus.

“Huh? Uh… yeah, bro. Jus’... chillin’, y’know?” His voice is thick, like it’s being pulled through molasses. A string of drool hangs from the corner of his mouth and drips onto his sweaty chest. He doesn’t even notice.

You stare. “You’ve been... working out?”

Kyle grins, sluggish and dopey. “Yeah, bruh. Gym’s fuh... fuckin’ lit. I love gettin’ pumped, man.” He lifts an arm and flexes—his bicep bulges, a vein popping along the surface.

You feel sick.

This isn’t Kyle. Kyle used to talk your ear off about color theory, queer cinema, Bernie Sanders. You’d spend hours binging Drag Race and analyzing shots from Moonlight.

Now he’s... a frat slab. And that smell—his body odor—it’s thickening, filling the room, crawling up your nose. Feral. Tangy. Unwashed.

You cough. “Dude, are you… sick or something? You’re sweating so much.”

Kyle snorts. “Nah bro, I’m just, like, jacked now. Gotta sweat out the toxins, y’feel me?” He lets out a wet fart, then laughs, dumb and lazy.

You flinch. Your heart pounds. Something’s wrong.

“I’m gonna open a window,” you mutter, standing—only to trip over one of his discarded gym socks. The fabric’s stiff, reeking of feet and cum. You gag.

As you reach the window, Kyle’s voice cuts through the heavy air.

“Hey, bro... you get any texts lately? From, like... ΒΩΒ?”

You freeze. “What?”

Kyle scratches his crotch, absentminded. “I got some, like... two weeks ago. Said I should join, get... swole. Felt weird at first, but... s’fuckin’ awesome now.” He belches, then chuckles. “Can’t ‘member much ‘bout ‘em though... but they feel good, bro.”

You stare, skin crawling. “What do you mean ‘feel good’? Kyle, are you—”

DING.

Your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen. 12:30 a.m. Unknown number.

“Get ready to join ΒΩΒ, ur gonna love it bro 😈🍻💪”

A shiver runs down your spine.

“Did they send... this?” you ask, voice trembling. You show Kyle the message.

He stares. Blank. A line of sweat runs down his temple.

“Dunno, man. Can’t really read much anymore... hurts my head.” He scratches his ass, then shrugs. “You’ll feel it soon. It’s dope.”

You back away. “No. No, this is... this is insane.”

DING.

Another text.

“First rule of ΒΩΒ: No thinkin’. Just chuggin’. 🧠❌🍻 Let go, bro.”

Suddenly, your head throbs. Your eyes blur. You clutch your temples.

“Nnngh... f-fuck... what...” You stagger, falling to your knees. Your brain buzzes, thoughts slipping away like water through your fingers. Your ears ring.

Kyle’s voice is distant, underwater. “It’s startin’, bro. Just relax.”

You can’t breathe. Your phone slides from your hand.

DING.

“Thinking is for nerds. Muscles don’t need thoughts. Let it go, Eliot. Become the bro. 💪💩🍻”

You scream—no, groan—as a wave of heat slams your chest. Your heartbeat feels heavy, pounding in your ears. Your shirt sticks to your skin—wet, suffocating. You tear at it.

Your fingers tremble. “No... I’m smart... I’m me... I’m not... not some... f-fucking...”

Your tongue feels thick, slurring your words.

“Bro,” Kyle whispers, crouching beside you, breath hot and rank, “just let it happen. You’ll love it.”

You sob. But deep inside, something... primal... pulses.

Your skin burns, your bones ache.

The texts... aren’t stopping.

You’re not stopping.

You’re on the floor. Cold tile pressing into your knees, your palms slick with sweat, trembling. Your lungs wheeze, each breath thick, labored — as if the air itself has become heavier.

Across the room, Kyle looms over you, his hulking frame casting a shadow in the pale moonlight spilling through the blinds. His pecs glisten, twitching with each slow, dumb breath he takes. The room smells like BO, feet, and something else — something animal, feral. Him.

Your phone buzzes again. DING.

You glance at the screen. You shouldn’t, but your fingers move on their own, drawn to the message.

“Time to get big, bro. Muscles first. Thoughts later. Gym shorts. No underwear. Let it all hang. 🏋️🦍🩳”

“F-fuck... n-no... I’m not... I’m not like him...” you whisper, voice hoarse. You try to stand, but your legs seize, a painful spasm twisting your thighs.

A sudden, burning heat erupts beneath your skin — like your muscles are boiling. You scream, falling forward, your chest slamming into the floor. You can feel your spine popping, your shoulders grinding, bones shifting under your skin.

“Ghhhuhhh... aAGHH!” you grunt, the sound alien, too low, too brutish.

Your shirt is drenched, clinging to you like plastic wrap. You claw at it, desperate, pulling until it rips, strands of fabric sticking to your sweaty, heaving chest.

You stare at your reflection in the mirror across the room.

Your nipples look... different. Puffy. Broader. Your pecs—once flat, slender—are swelling, pushing outward, rounding. You can feel them bounce with every panting breath.

“No... NO... this can’t... nghh... fuhhhck...” You try to form words, but they slur, muscle fog clouding your brain.

Kyle's watching, grinning, scratching his bare balls through his mesh shorts. “Told ya, bro... it’s gonna feel real good.”

You grab your jeans — they’re tight, unbearably so. Your thighs are thickening, the denim straining, creaking. Your calves bulge, veins surfacing, the fabric splitting at the seams.

POP. Your fly bursts.

RIIIIIP. The jeans explode around your sweaty legs, leaving only your boxers—which are soaked, stained, and struggling to contain your engorged, leaking cock.

You gasp, eyes wide. “What the fuck is happening to me!?”

DING.

Your phone buzzes again.

“No underwear, bro. Gym shorts only. Free the junk. Let that fat cock BREATHE. 🍆🩳💨”

“NO—!” you manage to scream, but the boxers dissolve on cue, literally disintegrating off your hips in wisps of smoke, leaving you naked, exposed, your dick throbbing, hanging heavy and dripping.

Then, fabric grows up your thighs — grey gym shorts, loose, stained, with a greasy waistband that rides low, way too low, your pubes thick and sweaty, visible over the top.

You stink. Like piss, sweat, and... cum. Your cock twitches, and you scratch your balls, groaning.

“H-huhhh... itchy... fuck... mmmn... balls... sweaty...”

You slap a hand over your mouth. That voice—gravelly, stupid. You try to think. Recite a poem. Remember a quote, anything.

“Ngh... Foucault said... fuh... fuh-cunt... wait... w-what? FUCK—!”

Your head throbs, your brain swelling, shrinking. Thoughts slip through your fingers.

You grab your phone.

The letters blur.

You can’t read the message.

You can’t read.

“No... no... NO! I’m... I’m smart... I’m—”

FART. A loud, wet ripper echoes off the tile. You moan, dazed.

Kyle laughs, dumb and loud. “Yo, sick one bro! You’re gonna be a fart machine by tomorrow.”

You reach back, hand pressed to your slick ass, ashamed — and horny?

“No... fuck no... I can’t be like this... I can’t be... a... a fuh... frat... bro...”

Your pecs bounce. Your cock drips.

Your brain buzzes, thoughts fading...

And the next text waits.

Waiting to break you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been crawling. The world is hot, sticky, and smells like ass.

You’re on all fours, your skin slick, your mouth open, panting. Your tongue feels fat, useless. Words try to form, but come out as dull groans.

“F-fuhh... guh... mnnghh... brohh...”

You feel like your brain has leaked out your ears. Everything’s blurry, like the air is thick with fog, and all you can feel is your body. It itches, it burns, it reeks. You can’t stop scratching, groaning, farting.

DING.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you can’t read the screen anymore. Letters don’t exist. They’re just squiggles.

Kyle grabs it for you, laughing dumbly.

“Heh... says yer name’s gone, bro. You’re Brick now. Fuckin’ tight.”

Brick. You grunt. That name... it feels right. Short. Thick. Stupid.

Your old name... what was it? Something gay... something smart...

You scratch your balls, sniff your fingers, and fart again, loud and wet.

“Ungh... Brick... fuhh... Brick fart... heh...”

You giggle, drool dripping down your chin.

You’re bigger now. Shoulders like boulders, pecs bouncing with each breath, gut slightly bloated from beer. You used to have a slim waist, but now you’ve got a solid, hairy slab of a belly. You smell like sour sweat, cheap deodorant, and cum.

The gym shorts are so stained, they look brown around the crotch. You’ve cum in them twice, but haven’t changed.

You don't change clothes anymore.

You don’t shower.

You just sweat, fart, jerk off, and hunt pussy.

You’re at a party now. Kyle led you here, told you it was time to breed. You don’t know where you are. You don’t care.

Music’s pounding. Your head bobs, dumbly. Every girl’s an object. Tits, ass, tits, ass. That’s all you see.

You spot her. Blonde. Tanned. Tight pink crop top, thick lips, huge tits bouncing as she dances.

Your cock throbs, leaving a wet streak down your leg.

You walk over, shoulders rolling, pecs bouncing, stink radiating from your pits.

“Uh... fuh... hey gurl... Brick... Brick wanna... fuh... smash?” you grunt, lips barely forming words.

She giggles, covering her nose.

“God, you stink... You a frat boy or something?”

You grin, flexing. “Brick... frat... fuh... big. Wanna... put cock... in hole.”

You grab your bulge, fart loudly. She laughs, eyes wide.

“Gross! You're nasty...”

You can’t stop sniffing her, grinding up behind her, cock pulsing, brain blank.

“Brick... need... breed... bad... cock heavy... full... fuhhh... nghhhh...”

She grabs your hand, giggling again.

“You’re a fuckin’ caveman. Let’s go.”

You’re in some random room, on a soiled couch, pants down, sweating bullets.

She’s straddling you, grinding, your cock buried deep inside her, balls slapping, your hands gripping her ass hard.

“Fuck! God, you’re huge!” she moans.

You can’t even think. You just grunt, drool, bounce her, your pecs flexing, your gut heaving.

“Unghh... Brick fuhh... Brick BREED... Brick FART—” PPPPPFFFFT.

She gasps, laughing, as your ass rips another one, the room reeking.

You thrust harder, deeper, your mind gone.

“Fuhhh... Brick... not fuh... fuhh... faggot... Brick straight... STRAIGHT... need cum... BREED...”

Your toes curl, your cock explodes, ropes of cum filling her. Your back arches, your mouth opens, and you moan like an animal, drooling, farting, cumming, sweating.

You collapse, panting, cock still twitching inside her.

She kisses your chest.

“Damn, Brick. You’re disgusting.”

You grin, dumbly. “Brick... smash... Brick fuck... again... soon... right?”

No reply.

You fart again, laughing.

You’re Brick now.

And you’ve never been happier.

No thoughts.

No shame.

Just muscle, cum, pussy, and farts.

[need4change]

Bro, I’m not sure what’s happening to me. I’m a 38 year old Civil Engineer and I’ve been going to psychologist for my anxiety. He’s been giving me psychological. Drugs and treating me with hypnosis to relax a little more. I’ve been feeling better. One day I went to my Instagram and there were all of these photographs of someone one who looked like me bust staying stuff like ‘gain’s and ‘hit your macros, bros’. He looks like a younger, more muscular me. I have no idea what’s happening bro? Can you help me?

You’ve always been a man of control.

At 38, you’ve built a solid, respectable life. Civil engineering doesn’t allow for chaos — every line, every measurement, has to be exact. You bring that same precision to everything: the way you dress, the way you speak, the way you live alone in that spotless condo with your organized bookshelves and your glass decanter of scotch you rarely touch.

But lately… something’s been off. Slipping. Like a thread pulling loose that you can’t quite find.

It started with the anxiety. The chest tightness. The late nights lying awake, your mind racing. That’s why you found yourself in Dr. Haddon’s office — highly rated, expensive, discreet. You didn’t expect much. Maybe a prescription for something light. Maybe a breathing technique or two.

You didn’t expect the tea.

Or the hypnosis.

Or the way your reflection’s been looking… different.

It happens on a Tuesday morning. You’re sipping coffee, trying to clear the fog from your brain, when you casually check Instagram — something you do once, maybe twice a week.

And there it is.

A photo. Posted from your account.

It’s you, but it’s not. The man in the photo is younger. Thicker. His chest bulges, glistening with sweat. His smirk is wide, almost dumb, with that flexed arm and cropped gym shorts showing off tree-trunk thighs.

The caption reads: “Hit ya macros, bros 💪💦 #AlphaGrind #NoDaysOff.”

Your stomach clenches. You didn’t post this. You don’t talk like that. You don’t look like that.

You scroll frantically. Another one. Then another. Dozens of likes. Comments from strangers: “Beast, bro!” “Looking juicy af 🔥”

Your fingers tremble as you delete them, heart pounding. You check your sent messages — nothing. But still, the photos came from your phone, your account. Your face.

Except it doesn’t feel like your face anymore.

It’s only then that you notice the time. You’re late for your appointment. Again.

Lately, time seems to slip past you. You’ll blink and hours vanish. You’ve missed meetings, forgotten appointments. Sometimes you find yourself standing in a room with no memory of walking there. Your brain feels… clouded. Slow.

Your clothes feel too tight today. Your slacks tug at your thighs. Your shirt clings to your chest. You must’ve gained a few pounds — odd, since you haven’t changed your routine.

You hurry out the door.

The waiting room is too bright. The lights buzz faintly, almost beneath your hearing, like static crawling along your skin.

You feel a dull pressure at your temples. Not quite pain, but building.

Dr. Haddon greets you with that usual calm. His voice always seems too even, his movements precise, measured. There’s something unsettling about his eyes — something hungry, though you’d never say it out loud.

“You seem agitated,” he says, stepping aside. “Come in. Let’s get started.”

You move to the chair you always sit in — that massive leather seat. As you settle into it, something feels off. Your legs press wider than normal. The leather squeaks. You adjust, and realize your thighs feel… thicker. The fabric of your slacks pulls, uncomfortable at your crotch. You shift again, spreading your legs without thinking — manspreading.

Why are you sitting like this?

“Tea?” he asks, already holding the cup.

You hesitate, but nod. Your mouth is dry, your head pounding. You need something to ground you.

You take the cup. That familiar, bitter smell hits your nose — earthy, pungent. Like mushrooms and metal.

You sip. It’s hot. Your throat tightens, but you swallow. Your stomach gurgles.

“You’ve been feeling disconnected,” he says, returning to his chair. “Losing time. Seeing… odd things?”

You nod slowly. Your hands tremble. Your palms feel… sweaty.

“There’s something wrong,” you mutter. “I think someone’s messing with me. I’ve been seeing things. Photos. Myself, but not. Like—bro, I—”

You freeze. That word. It slipped out, like it belonged. Like your tongue wanted it.

“I—sorry,” you stammer. “I don’t know why I said—bro. I meant—fuck. I don’t talk like that.”

“It’s perfectly natural,” Dr. Haddon says, his voice calm. Soothing. “You’ve been anxious for a long time. You’re beginning to release. Letting go.”

He picks up his spoon. Starts stirring his tea.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

You wince. Your head pounds. You stare at the tea in your hands, swirling slowly. The light catches the surface just right, and you swear you see your reflection. Younger. Smirking.

“You’ve done so well,” he says. “Would you like to get rid of all those pesky anxieties, once and for all?”

His voice echoes — not loud, but it reverberates in your skull.

You want to say no. To ask what’s in the tea. To demand answers. But your lips move on their own.

“Y-yeah… brah…” you whisper. Your eyes go wide.

“I—no—I mean yes. Fuck—sorry—I don’t know what’s—”

He keeps stirring. Clink. Clink. Clink.

“You’re letting go,” he murmurs. “You’re becoming.”

You shift again. Your ass creaks against the leather. Your crotch is tight. Your thighs pulse — like they’re swelling. You can feel your shirt sticking to your chest, damp with sweat. You smell something.

Yourself.

Musky. Rank.

You never smell like this.

Your fingers twitch. Your teeth grind. You grunt — low, involuntary. You feel pressure in your gut. A sudden, hot fart slips out — loud, wet. You freeze, humiliated.

“Fuuuck, that’s ripe, bro…” you mutter. Then your heart stops.

What did you just say?

Dr. Haddon just smiles.

“Excellent progress.”

Your fart hangs in the air — thick, humid, rank. The smell hits you immediately. You gag softly, horrified, shifting in the chair to escape it — but the leather’s slick with sweat under you now. Your sweat.

You never sweat like this.

You want to apologize, to stammer out some excuse, but your throat won’t cooperate. There’s a thick pressure rising from your chest, pressing behind your eyes, making it hard to think. The lights seem brighter. The air, thicker. Your limbs feel… heavy.

Dr. Haddon doesn’t move. He just watches, spoon still stirring in slow, endless circles. Clink. Clink. Clink.

Your body shudders. Something pops in your spine — a subtle shift, but real. You arch forward with a soft grunt, gripping your knees.

“Hhhhnnngh…”

A dull, warm ache blooms in your thighs — not pain exactly, but deep and insistent, like after a brutal leg day at the gym. Except you don’t go that hard at the gym. You’re lean, not big. You’ve always avoided getting too bulky.

But your pants are tighter now. The fabric is straining — across your thighs, your crotch, your glutes. You shift again, your ass grinding into the sweaty leather. You can feel it — thicker, meatier. Your belt bites into your waist, and you reach down, fumbling with the buckle.

“Uncomfortable?” Dr. Haddon asks, voice calm.

“Y-yeah… feelin’… uhh, tight, bro,” you grunt — another slip. “Shit — I meant, yeah, it’s just — I dunno, dude, I feel… big.”

You wince again. Your voice sounds off. Lower. Looser. The words sloppier.

And then it happens — another pop, this time in your jaw. Your mouth falls open involuntarily. You press a hand to your face. Your jawbone feels… stronger. Squarer. You blink rapidly, eyes watering as sweat beads down your temples.

Your skin feels hot. Damp. Itchy.

You rub your chest through your shirt. The fabric is wet, clinging. You feel… more. Your pecs press against your hand. Not flat. Not like usual. Firm. Dense. You press harder — the flesh doesn’t give like it used to. You feel the ridges of a developing six-pack beneath the sweat-slick shirt.

“What’s—happening, man?” you gasp.

“You’re finally relaxing,” Dr. Haddon says smoothly. “Letting go of all that tension. All that control.”

You shake your head, but the movement feels sluggish. You’re so… warm. So dull. Like your brain is wrapped in cotton. You feel a flutter of panic, but it’s hard to hold on to it.

“Need to… get out… I—fuck, I gotta go, dude.”

You try to rise, but your legs won’t obey. They spread wider, involuntarily, planted firm and heavy. Your feet ache inside your shoes — toes cramped. You glance down and see your socks stretching, heels bulging. You groan, tugging at your collar.

Your armpits are soaked. You stink — raw, animal. You can’t ignore it anymore. Your nostrils flare. Musky, almost sour, vulgar. And somehow, it’s… not completely unpleasant.

You sniff again. Deeper.

“Ugh, bro… that’s, like, strong as hell…” you mutter, blinking. “Smells, like… good, man.”

Your stomach growls, but not with hunger — more like need. A heavy, low, pulsing need. Below your belt, your cock stirs, swelling in your tight briefs. You gasp — it’s heavier than usual, hot. Your pants feel like they might burst.

You grip your crotch. The pressure eases, just a little. You let out a long, low grunt.

“Hrrrrghhh…”

You shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t you. You’re a professional. You’re—

“Civil… engineer…” you whisper.

“What do you do?” Dr. Haddon asks, watching intently.

“I—I’m a c-civil engineer,” you say louder, gripping your head.

“Are you?”

You freeze.

Your brain searches, but the words don’t come. Instead, all you can think about is lifting. The gym. Protein. Gains. You see flashes — images — of yourself, shirtless, flexing, sweaty, laughing with your bros.

You grunt, louder this time, as your shirt collar tears slightly, your traps thickening. Your sleeves pinch at your biceps. Your pecs are pushing the buttons of your dress shirt.

“I—I lift, bro…” you mutter, breath ragged. “Like… heavy shit, dude. Like… gainin’. Gotta… hit macros, bro.”

Your heart thuds. That didn’t sound like you. It sounded…

Stupid. Crude.

You fart again — loud, wet. You snort, laughing dumbly.

“F-fuck, dude — hahahaha, nasty!”

You clap your thigh, laughing hard, breathless.

Then you freeze.

What the hell did you just do?

Dr. Haddon leans in.

“Good, Chadd. You’re doing very well.”

Your cock throbs. Your head swims. You don’t remember giving him your name.

But he knows it.

You’re sweating through your shirt.

The leather chair beneath you groans with every twitch of your growing frame. Your body isn’t just bulking — it’s evolving, twisting into something obscene, massive, and hungry. You barely remember how you got here. All you know is that it feels good to grow. To stink. To spread.

You grunt, legs wide apart, pawing at your chest. Your shirt’s soaked through, plastered to your skin — you can see the dark outline of your pecs stretching the fabric, nipples jutting out, hard. Your biceps are so pumped they throb, veins snaking across them. You flex instinctively, dumb pride bubbling up.

“F-fuck yeah, bro…” you groan. “Look at these fuckin’ guns, bruh.”

You rip your shirt open — buttons pop, flying off. Your pecs burst free, thick, dense, the kind that look like they’ve been carved out of meat. Your abs ripple beneath them, deep grooves running down your torso, glistening with sweat.

You stink.

Your pits reek, musk pouring off you like steam. You sniff, eyes fluttering.

“Ughhh—smell that alpha stank, bro… heh… fuckin’ nasty…”

Your mind flickers. A memory tries to claw its way up — engineering plans, something about municipal codes — but it’s drowned under a wave of protein macros, bench press stats, and titty pics. You shake your head hard, like it’ll knock those thoughts loose.

Instead, something cracks in your neck. Your traps swell, stretching the skin. You moan, grabbing your crotch — your cock is hard, pulsing, leaking through your straining slacks.

“Need to score, dude,” you grunt. “Need some tight pussy, man, fuhhh…”

You stand — or try to. Your mass fights back. Your thighs swell thicker, your ass juts out, straining your pants until the seams rip. You stumble, grunting, pawing at your belt, tearing it off.

Your pants fall.

Your legs are tree trunks, powerful and veined, covered in a light dusting of hair. You’re wearing red athletic shorts now — when the fuck did you change? Beneath them, compression underwear clings to your fat, musky package.

You turn — mirrors line the wall. You stare.

You don’t recognize yourself.

Your skin’s tan, glowing with a golden-brown sheen. Your jaw is thicker, your lips full, smirking. A thin beard shadows your face. Your eyes are dark, intense — cocky as hell. A backward cap perches on your buzzed head.

“Daaaaamn, lookin’ tight, papi…” you mutter, running a hand down your abs. Your voice is Latino now, heavy accent slurring the words. You flex, pecs bouncing. “Mmm… yeah, I’d fuck me, bruh…”

You reach under your shorts, scratch your sweaty balls, and sniff your hand.

“Fuuuuck, I stink, bro. Hell yeah. Chicks love this alpha funk.”

You laugh, loud, crude, dumb. Your brain is static. You try to remember your old life — but it’s gone. Wiped out. Nothing but lifting, eating clean, posting gains, and smashing pussy.

Dr. Haddon steps up behind you. You barely notice. You’re mesmerized by your own reflection.

“How do you feel, Chadd?” he asks.

You grin.

“Fuuuckin’ alpha, dude. Big, dumb, horny... I gotta lift, bruh. Then I gotta fuck. Can’t think right unless I pump some iron and bust a nut in some chick.”

You fart — loud, greasy. You snort, laughing like a moron.

“Yo, let’s hit the gym, papi. Time to grind.”

You grab your phone. You’re already live streaming, shirtless, flexing, thrusting.

“What’s up, my bros!” you yell. “Chadd here, just slayin’ the gains today, ya feel me? Ain’t no excuses, baby — hit them macros, lift heavy, and eat that pussy, bruh!”

Your followers explode in the comments. You don’t care. You’re not smart anymore. You’re jacked, dumb, and alpha as fuck.

You’re Chadd now. And Chadd only needs three things: Gains. Stank. Pussy.

[need4change]

army or navy or marine?

“Put me in fatigues and sign me up for the Army, I guess.”

Almost immediately, the phone buzzed again. “Good. Discipline is everything.”

The words echoed in my head long after I’d put the phone down. Discipline? That wasn’t me. I was a writer, a thinker, a soft-spoken, skinny guy who lived for poetry and queer art shows. Not some drill-sergeant shouting orders.

That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, heart racing like a wild animal. Then the first wave hit.

It started with my skin. I felt it before I saw it — this strange tightening, like something beneath the surface was waking up, stretching, snapping to attention. My fingers tingled, prickling with a heat that spread slowly from my fingertips up my arms. I rubbed my skin, but it felt wrong — almost like it wasn’t mine anymore.

The next morning, I caught my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror and nearly froze.

I blinked, staring at a stranger who stared back.

Where were the soft curves of my face? The pale skin and wispy hair? Instead, there was this hard jawline, square and sharp like it’d been chiseled out of stone. My cheekbones jutted forward, casting shadows I’d never had. The skin had a strange bronze glow, like I’d spent months under the desert sun.

I reached up to touch my face, fingers trembling. The rough stubble scratched back at me — thick, dark, and coarse. Not the gentle fuzz I’d always had, the hair I’d secretly loved on my arms and chest. No, this was something else. Something rougher.

My voice caught as I tried to speak. “W-what the hell...”

It came out deeper. Rougher. Guttural, almost angry. I cleared my throat. Tried again. “Who... am I?”

Panic rose, twisting my gut as I looked down at my body. My shirt clung tighter than it should, stretched painfully across thick, rippling muscles I’d never dreamed of having. My arms bulged with veins that pulsed like living snakes. My shoulders were broader, wider — the whole damn shape of me was changing.

I tried to move my fingers, felt the calluses, the power in my grip. But the changes weren’t just physical. My brain buzzed, foggy and jagged. Thoughts raced and stumbled, like some wild animal trapped inside my skull. My usual interests — books, politics, queer culture — all faded into the background, like static on an old radio.

Instead, a new voice whispered. “Discipline.” “Strength.” “America.”

I shook my head hard, trying to shake it off, but it only made the fog thicken. A sudden craving surged inside me — a raw, pulsing hunger. Not for food, but for power. For control. For dominance.

I glanced down and saw my hands flex involuntarily, muscles tightening, veins throbbing. My chest — once soft, smooth, and pale — was now hard and swollen. Thick slabs of muscle clenched beneath my ribs, skin taut as a drum. The hair there? Vanished. Like it had been sucked away by some brutal vacuum, leaving my skin unnervingly smooth.

I swallowed hard, panic rising like bile. This wasn’t me. This couldn’t be me.

But then came the voice again, louder now, harsher, crueler. “Women. Girls. Real power. Real men.”

I shuddered. The old part of me — the part I loved, that celebrated who I was — screamed in protest. But the new part? The monster growing inside me? It laughed.

I staggered to the mirror again, flexing out of instinct. My arms throbbed, muscles swelling under my skin like live things ready to burst. My legs — thick, solid, powerful — could probably crush a soda can without effort. I touched my face, now rough and sun-kissed, and felt my new buzzcut scalp under my fingertips. No more messy curls, no more glasses perched on my nose.

I was someone else. Someone younger. Dumb as hell, I could tell — the sharp spark of wit and sarcasm I’d relied on was blunted, dulled into shallow confidence.

My mind screamed to fight it, to hold on to the smart, sensitive writer I’d always been. But the harder I fought, the louder the new voice became, crowing like a cock in the dawn.

“Bro, this is life. Army’s the way. Fuck politics. Fuck the gays. Trump rules, women drool. Alpha is king.”

I staggered backward, heart hammering, sweat breaking out on my skin. I tried to breathe, tried to ground myself, but it was no use.

The next morning, I woke up with a start — not because of the sunlight or an alarm, but because my body felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. My muscles ached in places I didn’t even know could hurt. I swung my legs out of bed and almost knocked over a dumbbell that hadn’t been there before. My legs? Fucking tree trunks. Thick, veiny, and hard as steel cables.

I limped toward the mirror, barely able to believe what I saw. My face was sharper, harsher—like a soldier’s face hardened by years in the sun. The smooth skin was gone, replaced by a thick, coarse beard shadow creeping over my jaw and chin. My eyes burned with a fierce, dumb pride. No trace of the nerdy writer who spent nights editing paragraphs or obsessing over syntax.

My voice? Forget it. When I spoke, it was like a cannon booming out of my chest: loud, crude, with a thick, almost mocking growl. “Morning, bro,” I sneered at myself. The words tasted foreign, like I’d swallowed a whole damn frat party.

I moved, testing my new strength. Every step felt like a stomp. My thick fingers clenched into fists, trembling with raw power. I tried to remember me, the skinny gay writer I’d been, but it was like trying to hold water in my hands — slipping through my grasp.

The buzzing voice inside me was louder now, harsher. It shouted slogans about discipline and honor, but also about women and dominance. The old empathy? Gone. The compassion? Fuck no. I was alpha now. And the thought of guys? Made me sick — a raw, seething disgust. “No fags around here,” I spat, flexing my biceps like they were weapons.

I flung on a fresh set of clothes — a tight army tee stretched over my swollen chest and camo pants that hung just right over thick thighs. I caught myself in the mirror again and grinned — a slow, cocky, asshole grin. “Yeah, that’s me. Army is life. Trump’s the man. Girls are the prize.”

I tried to catch a glimpse of the old me — the sensitive writer who dreamed of love and words — but he was fading fast, drowned out by the roar of the new identity. I felt my mind slipping into simpler things: gym workouts, drinking cheap beer, chasing tail, mocking anyone who didn’t fit my mold.

I even caught myself laughing at a meme that said, “If you’re not packing muscle and MAGA, what are you even doing?” And it felt good. Real good.

That day, I left the apartment for the first time as the new me — loud, swaggering, a walking embodiment of every army stereotype you can imagine. I strutted down the street with my chest puffed out, eyes scanning for any sign of weakness to crush. I greeted strangers with a booming, “What’s up, bro?” and tossed sexist jokes without a care.

Girls noticed. Hell, they practically threw themselves at me. I caught a blonde in yoga pants checking me out at the coffee shop and smirked, flexing casually. The thought of hooking up with her, of marking my territory, made my cock throb. I needed it.

But the part that killed me inside was the way I cringed at the thought of being touched by a guy. Even the idea made my stomach churn, like swallowing spoiled milk. I was turning into the exact opposite of who I’d been. The old me — the queer, thoughtful, careful me — was disappearing beneath layers of muscle, testosterone, and pure, dumb aggression.

By evening, I was roaring with friends I didn’t remember meeting, drinking beer like water, talking trash about “weak pansies” and “libs who hate America.” I found myself chanting slogans I didn’t know I knew, yelling about how women needed a strong man to lead them, how gays were “soft” and “degenerate.”

Inside, a tiny voice screamed in horror — but the dumb, loud frat-bro part drowned it out with a fist-pumping, “Fuck yeah, bro! This is the life!”

When the night ended, I crashed into bed exhausted, muscles burning, brain fuzzy but somehow alive. I caught a final glimpse in the mirror before sleep swallowed me — and the alpha army brat stared back, fully in control.

I wasn’t me anymore. I was something else. Something loud, crude, very straight, sexist, and homophobic.

And I was ready to own it.

[need4change]

would you rather be a rich, attractive, athletic, straight, funny, messy haired tiktok boy

or be influenced by your older brother into attending UMiami and becoming a super sporty, rich, straight, messy haired frat boy just like him, and having to get a sorority sister girlfriend who was a total valley girl??

I stared at this question for a while, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I’m thirty-something, gay, painfully average, every date I go on ends with them saying I’m “sweet” or “thoughtful” — never “hot,” never “fuckable.” I live off freelance checks that barely cover rent.

And the guys I do lust after — those TikTok bros, the kind who rack up millions of views doing shirtless dumbassery, prank videos, gym routines — they’re everything I’m not. Confident. Muscular. Stupidly attractive. Straight as hell. They don’t think before they speak, they don’t care who they offend, and the world loves them for it. They’re rich, adored, envied, worshipped by girls and dudes alike.

I hate how much I want to be them.

So I typed back, a smirk on my lips, heart pounding:

“Honestly? A. TikTok douche. Gimme the abs and money.”

It was a joke. Kind of. But as soon as I hit send, my phone buzzed like it got electrocuted in my hands.

“Choice locked. Initiating bro mode. Say goodbye, @transform4u”

“What the f—?” I dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a hard crack, screen going black.

And then it started.

At first, just a weird heat. My skin itched — no, crawled. My fingers twitched, trembled. I looked down and watched the veins in my hands rise, swelling, pulsing. My hands broadened, palms growing rougher, fingers thickening as they cracked and popped.

“Jesus—what the hell?” My voice sounded deeper, like it came from below. Panic surged through me. I stumbled into the bathroom, hands shaking, sweat already forming on my brow.

The light flicked on, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

“Fuuuck—” I gasped. My neck looked thicker, veins jutting out like cables. My collarbone vanished under growing slabs of muscle. My hoodie tightened — too tight — around my chest.

I yanked it off, panting, and stared in horror as my pecs flexed on their own, bulging outward with a loud pop. I watched hair vanish from my chest, my soft, pale skin glossy with sweat, muscle crawling to the surface like it was inflating under my skin.

“No, no, no—this isn’t real,” I muttered, but my voice betrayed me again — louder, cockier, with a dumb edge. Like every word was dipped in arrogance.

Crack. Pop. Snap.

My abs ripped into place. One after another, a tight, shredded six-pack etched itself across my belly, the definition too perfect, like I’d been cut out of marble. I couldn’t stop staring — my hand drifted down, fingers tracing the ridges in awe.

And it felt good. Too good.

I groaned, part pain, part… fuck, was I getting hard? My boxers tightened, my cock throbbing against the waistband, aching.

“Fuck yeah…” I gasped — not in fear, but admiration.

What the fuck was happening to me?

I tried to pull away from the mirror, but my reflection held me. My face—already sweating—was shifting, jaw cracking wider, cheeks flattening, lips puffing up into a permanent smirk. My eyes looked… stupider, but hotter. Bedroom eyes. And my hair — it rose up, messy waves forming, styled like I’d just rolled out of bed, like one of those viral thirst-trap bros.

I reached up and touched it — it felt real, coarse with product, effortlessly tousled. I knew girls would love it. And suddenly, I wanted them to.

“Shit, I look… hot,” I said out loud, my voice now fully changed — thick, dumb, confident, dripping straight fratboy energy. I flexed one arm, felt the veins bulge, the bicep swell. My nipples stuck out, hard as rocks. My gold chain — where did that come from? — caught the light, flashing like a trophy.

My sweatpants slung low on my hips, abs peeking over, cock still throbbing. I turned, eyeing myself from every angle.

“Damn bro… I fuckin’ nailed this look.”

Bro. I’d never called anyone “bro” in my life. But it felt… natural now. Right.

Something tugged in the back of my mind — me, the writer, the gay man, the guy who just wanted to be taken seriously. He was still in there, screaming, but buried, fading. Drowned out by the rush of hormones, by the likes, the followers, by the image of me flexing for TikTok, shirtless, girls screaming in the comments.

I couldn’t stop. I grabbed my phone, muscles bulging, and started recording.

“Yo, what’s up ladies? Just crushed chest day—feel fuckin’ jacked. Who wants a ride on this fuckin’ stallion?” I smirked, flexing hard, abs rippling, sweat dripping down my chest.

And it felt… so right.

I hit post. The numbers started climbing immediately.

And the old me?

He was slipping away.

The second I hit post, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The video uploaded in seconds, and within a minute, the likes exploded. Hundreds, then thousands. Comments flooded in.

“Daddy energy 🔥🔥🔥” “OMG ruin me 😩💦” “Who is this? Where did HE come from??” “Bro’s hotter than Matt Rife wtf”

My heart pounded. No — not my heart — my dick. It throbbed with each new comment, each thirst emoji, each girl practically begging to be fucked. My cock pushed harder against my sweatpants, leaving a wet spot of pre-cum at the waistband.

I stumbled back from the screen, groaning, half in shock, half in lust.

“Fuck, bro…” I grunted, clutching my thickening cock, “these bitches are thirstin’ HARD…”

I paused. That voice — that tone — it wasn’t mine. Was it?

No… no, I wouldn’t talk like that. I wouldn’t. I don’t use words like “bitches” or “daddy energy.” I’m not some MAGA TikTok fuckboy who calls himself a “stallion.”

Am I?

I looked back at the mirror — at him. That dude wasn’t me. That was a 19-year-old gym-built, messy-haired, ripped TikTok frat douche, flexing shirtless with zero shame, zero intelligence, and zero doubt. He smirked like he knew he was the hottest piece of meat online. And fuck, he was.

I tried to fight it, shaking my head. “No, no… I’m not this. I’m not—”

But then my phone dinged.

1,000 new followers. $250 donation: ‘take your shirt off again, bro 😍💦’

The phone vibrated in my palm, like it was feeding me power. I felt my nipples harden, pecs bounce involuntarily, abs flexing, as if my body was reacting to the fame.

And my mind… my thoughts… they cracked.

“Yo… I could fuckin’ do this every day,” I whispered. My voice wasn’t mine anymore — it was pure douchebag confidence, cocky, slurred, like my brain had too much testosterone to think straight.

I stripped the sweatpants off, now only in boxers, cock tenting hard, veins bulging down my thick thighs.

“I need… a pump,” I muttered, flexing in the mirror. My arms twitched, biceps swelling, shoulders rounding out, veins roping down to my forearms.

I didn’t think — I just dropped to the floor, started cranking out push-ups, grunting with every rep, my muscles pumping, skin slick with sweat. Drool pooled at my lips, but I didn’t wipe it. I liked it.

“Fuck yeah,” I groaned, “gettin’ fuckin’ swole for the fans…”

My phone buzzed again — another donation, another comment:

“God, you’re such a stupid hot fuckboy.” “Breed me, bro.” “MAGA AF, love it 😍🇺🇸”

MAGA. That should’ve made me gag.

But instead… my cock twitched, leaking again. Something about that — about being seen as that guy — made me feel invincible. Desirable. Worshipped.

My brain ached, pulsing with each stupid, horny, bro-y thought. I tried to remember politics, books, who I was, but it was static now. Just noise.

I stared in the mirror again. “Fuck books… I’m hot as fuck. That’s all that matters, right?” I flexed hard, pecs bouncing, lats flaring, cock throbbing in my boxers.

Then it hit. The craving.

Girls. Tits. Pussy. Breeding.

The words flooded my mind, blaring like a horny frat playlist on repeat. My body burned, every muscle aching for sex, for attention. I didn’t want to think — thinking was for losers. I wanted to fuck. Show off. Go viral. Again. Again. Again.

“Mmm, fuckkk… I need a chick on my dick, dude,” I groaned, flexing again. My voice was now permanently dumb, cocky, straight as hell.

My boxers were soaked, cock thick, pulsing, dripping pre-cum down my thigh.

I picked up my phone. Selfie camera on.

“Yo, bitches, who’s ready to get bred by the hottest fuckin’ TikTok king out there?”

I winked, tongue out, flexed my sweaty chest, ran a hand through my perfect messy hair.

The comments blew up.

I don’t know how long I stared at myself in the mirror.

Time didn’t matter. Only the reflection. And fuck, I looked insane.

My gold chain bounced against my pecs, sweat dripping from every cut, veiny muscle. My jawline? Sharp as hell. Hair? Still perfectly messy, like I’d just gotten outta bed after railing some chick all night.

I licked my lips, gave the camera that look — eyes low, lips parted, smirk locked in.

Every angle was fuckin’ perfect.

And then it hit me — not a thought, not a feeling — just a total blackout.

Like a switch flipped.

My brain shuddered, like it got rebooted. The last fragments of whoever the fuck I used to be got flushed out, replaced by a flood of dumb, horny, straight alpha instincts.

It was like… BAM — I knew who I was.

I looked back at the mirror, flexing, my cock tenting hard in my sweat-soaked boxers.

Nah. I’m Jax.

Yeah, Jax Hunter, verified, 2 million TikTok followers, rising fast. King of shirtless pranks, dumb gym advice, homophobic jokes that always hit, and fuckin’ alpha confidence. I didn’t read books — I read DMs from chicks begging to get bred, thirst comments, and sponsor deals.

I scratched my abs, ran a hand through my wild hair, sniffed my armpit — rank as hell. Smelled fuckin’ good.

Musk of a man who doesn’t think — just lifts, breeds, and wins.

My phone buzzed — another donation, some chick wanting a custom vid.

“Yo,” I said into the camera, flexing hard, “I’ll give ya somethin’ better than a fuckin’ vid. I’ll give ya this dick — raw, no pullout. This alpha don’t waste cum.”

I laughed, grabbing my bulge, balls heavy, cock dripping from constant T levels maxed out.

Every word, every thought — it was all about fame, pussy, and being the biggest straight alpha on TikTok.

I strutted out of the room, shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, chain glinting, and smirked.

Girls stopped. Stared. Guys envied me.

As they should.

I wasn’t some loser anymore.

I was Jax. I was famous. I was hot. I was straight. I was a fuckin’ God.

Camera on. Lighting? Perfect. I stood in the driveway, shirtless, sweatpants sagging just enough to flash my V-line, chain gleaming in the sun, pecs bouncing on command.

Thirst trap engaged.

“Yo what’s up, losers,” I grinned into the lens, cocky as hell, spitting into the grass, wiping my sweaty chest with a towel I didn’t need.

“Lotta you soyboys out there been asking me dumb shit like, ‘Jax, how do I get a girl?’” I laughed, deep, dumb, like I couldn’t believe these guys were real.

“Step one? Stop being a fuckin’ pussy. Stop cryin’ about your ‘feelings’ and get in the fuckin’ gym. Women don’t want your little therapy bullshit — they want THIS.” I flexed, veins bulging, nipples rock hard, abs rippled tight. “Hard fuckin’ meat. That’s it.”

Cut to: Me in the gym, slamming weights, grunting loud as hell, yelling “No homo!” at my spotter as I grind out reps. Every time I rack a plate, I wink at the camera.

Overlay text: “NO DAD BODS. NO PRONOUNS. JUST PUSSY.”

Back to the driveway. I’m chugging a beer now, belching straight at the camera.

“Look, bro — if you’re not smashing at least three bimbos a week, you’re not a man. That’s just facts. I ain’t out here takin’ girls to brunch. I’m takin’ ‘em to bed.”

Cut to: Me slapping a girl’s ass at the pool — her bikini top’s barely holding on, tits bouncing, her giggle pure valley girl airhead. She winks, blowing me a kiss.

I look straight at the lens.

“Beta bros stay lonely. Real men? We breed.”

End with my signature move — flex both arms, pecs bouncing, and say:

“Fuck your pronouns. Mine are BIG / DICK / ENERGY. Stay mad.”

Post. Viral in under 10 minutes.

Later That Night — Jax’s Crib

I’m sprawled on my king-size bed, shirtless (obviously), boxers tenting, watching the comments explode.

“Daddy pls ruin me 😍😍” “Alpha king 💦💦💦” “Can I be your bimbo? 😩” “Cancel him? Nah, I’ll let him cancel my gag reflex 🤤”

Then I hear it — knock at the door. I already know who.

Tiffani. Blonde as fuck, fake lashes, fake lips, real dumb. She’s got an ass like a fuckin’ shelf and tits pumped so full of silicone they bounce when she breathes. I open the door — she’s in a tiny crop top that says “Daddy’s Property.”

“Omgggg, Jax, your video’s soooo hot,” she squeals, pressing her massive tits into my chest, licking her lips. “I had to come over. I’m like, literally soooo wet rn.”

I grab her ass, hard. “Yeah? Prove it.”

I yank her inside, her giggle turning to moans as I throw her on the bed. My cock’s rock hard, pre dripping. She spreads her legs without me asking, already begging:

“Breed me, Jax, pleaseee. I want your alpha cock sooo bad.”

I don’t talk.

I fuck.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, there’s nothing.

No past.

Just me.

Jax Hunter. Alpha. Straight. Famous. Breeder.

And tonight?

I’m doing what I do best.