newyoutf

[newyoutf]

Can i see the alternate versions of myself? I'd especially love to see my arab version!

Hey there! Sorry for the wait, calibrations took a bit longer than expected. But you know what? Here, come with me. I want to try something different this time. Stay close though, I don't want you to get lost in the multiverse. Ready? Come through this portal with me.

See this guy? This is you, but in the dimension I like to call Arab World. Now come with me. You'll see what I mean.

We're here. Careful, cover yourself with this keffiyeh. We can't be seen like this, we'll be arrested for sure. Okay good, now wait...

There! See that guy carrying the heavy crate? Let's follow him.

That's Amir, a strong and handsome Arab man who helps around the local market. You might have guessed it, but Amir is you in this reality. Look how you effortlessly move that thing around. Your muscles so big and defined, your skin tanned from the sun, and your eyes sparkling with confidence. Oh yeah, you look good. Want to see more? Let's follow him.

Now we're at the gym. Amir is a local personal trainer, you know, the kind that makes you sweat and scream in pleasure. Look at him, casually chatting with his clients, flexing his biceps, and showing off that chiselled jawline of his. The way he moves, the way he talks, it's like he's in control of everything around him. You can feel it yourself, can't you? The power, the confidence, the allure. In this reality, you're a man that knows what he wants, and I think you know pretty well what happens to those that disobey you.

Come on, let's not linger here too long. I want to show you something else.

Pretty sweet, huh? I found this exact moment in the timeline. Look at those hot furry pecs of yours, and the size of those arms! I think I'm getting wet just looking at you. You think he knows how sexy he is? I bet he does. Maybe I could convince him to give me a private show later. But knowing this reality, I don't think that would be a good idea. I don't want to end up in a harem of slaves, even if it sounds like a fun idea.

I'm getting a bit carried away here, sorry. Let's move on to the next reality.

You step through another shimmering portal, the world shifting around you. The air is thick with neon lights and pulsing music. You find yourself in the heart of Seoul, surrounded by the electric energy of a nightclub.

A familiar face catches your eye - it's you, but not quite. This version of you is taller and broader than you, with a glint in your eye that speaks of confidence and charisma. You're dressed like you're in a rave, wearing a revealing mesh crop top that shows off your toned sizeable chest and abs, paired with slutty shorts that highlight your muscular legs.

But enough of that, come with me again.

Stepping through the portal again, the world shifts around you. This time, you find yourself in a bustling gym. Look, there you are. Right after finishing a heavy set, huh. Well, did I mention you're a powerlifter in this reality? You've got the usual Asian young-looking facial features, but the size of your body is truly something else.

Just a sexy, hunky powerlifter. The gym regulars can't help but sneak glances as you rack the weights and stretch out, your physique and confidence impossible to ignore. You finish your set, take a long drink from your shaker, and lean back with a relaxed, satisfied grin, soaking in the admiration.

Ready to see the next version of yourself? Let's do one last trip. Step through this portal again.

You step through the portal and find yourself in a vibrant Mumbai café, the air buzzing with conversation and the aroma of spices. Across the room, you spot yourself - this time as Rohan, a charismatic Indian influencer with a magnetic presence.

Here, come with me - let's introduce ourselves to Rohan. See him over there? That's you in this reality: a charismatic Indian influencer with a magnetic presence.

Oh, you're shy? No worries, I got this.

some time later

That wasn't so hard, was it? Your alternate self, Rohan, is thrilled to meet you, and even invited us to join him on a walk through the city. Stick close to me though, don't want you to get lost in time.

On our walk, Rohan shares stories of his rise to fame, his passion for fitness, and his love for fashion. He's a social media sensation, with millions of followers who adore his lifestyle and physique. As we walk, fans spot him and rush over for selfies - he flashes a charming grin, flexes his biceps, and shares a laugh, always gracious and confident. His style is impeccable: a crisp linen shirt, tailored trousers, and designer sunglasses perched on his head.

As evening falls, Rohan leads us to an exclusive rooftop party overlooking the city. Bollywood stars mingle with business moguls, and we're right at the centre of it all. Rohan introduces us as his closest friends, and soon we're swept up in conversations about fashion, fitness, and the latest social media trends.

As the night deepens, you find yourself reflecting on the incredible versions of yourself you've met. Each reality offered a glimpse into a different life - one shaped by culture, ambition, and circumstance, but all sharing the same spark that makes you, well, you.

Rohan raises a glass in your honour, and the group cheers. Now, I don't want to ruin the moment, but we need to get back to our own reality. I'm running low on energy, and I don't want to risk getting stuck here. So, let's say our goodbyes to Rohan and step back through the portal.

Did your farewell? Alright, let's go...

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

That wasn't so bad, was it? I've got to say, those alternate versions of you were quite hot. I hope you enjoyed coming on this small trip with me. Don't think I'll be able to do this again anytime soon, though. I'm afraid the physical strain of jumping through so many realities at once is taking its toll on me. I might need to rest for a while before I can do this again. But hey, thanks for joining me on this journey through the multiverse. Who knows? Maybe next time, we'll find even more surprising versions of you.

[newyoutf]

I found a rubber singlet in my mail. Do you have any idea who sent it? It looks way too big to even fit me.... I am kinda tempted to put it on though....

You found a package in the mail. No return address. Just a small box, plain and unassuming. Inside: a sleek, black rubber singlet. Thin, shiny, and definitely too big for your skinny frame.

But... it does look kind of hot. Weirdly inviting.

Curiosity wins. You step into it, the rubber clinging coolly to your legs. As you pull it up your torso, a strange warmth spreads through your skin. Huh. It’s not as loose as it looked. Actually... it fits better than expected.

Tighter. Filled out. Your fingers pause at the straps, suddenly feeling your chest pushing against the rubber.

You blink. How long have you been standing here? You glance down and almost moan - your pecs are solid now, bulging under the singlet, your abs tight and carved. Your arms have veins. And your face in the mirror… fuck. You're a college jock now. A thick-necked, cocky-looking wrestler type. Your cock twitches in the rubber, the singlet pressing tight against your growing bulge. You flex, just to feel it more. God, you look hot.

But something shifts. You weren’t paying attention. Time's… fuzzy. Your skin itches. Heat blooms across your chest, arms, even your face. You blink, confused, then gasp - coarse hairs sprout from your pecs, crawl up your belly, bloom across your cheeks and jaw.

You claw at the singlet. You try to pull it off, but it clings tighter - like a second skin, glued down over every muscle. What the fuck?

Your voice is deeper now. You sound like a man. A grown man.

Your fingers dig under the straps- it’s fused, like vacuum-sealed. Your biceps strain as you try again. No use. The rubber isn’t just on you. It’s part of you.

You pant. You’re huge now. Thicker. Older. A full-grown, sweaty man with a heavy beard and a dense forest of chest hair poking out above the singlet’s neckline.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours? You lose track. You’re panting, covered in sweat - and hair. Chest, shoulders, forearms, legs - all thick with it. And you’re huge now. Your reflection shows a bearded, bald brute of a man. Probably in your 40s. Muscles like a strongman, veiny and pumped, stretching the rubber thin.

You stare in disbelief. Who is that staring back at you?

Finally… it stops. You breathe heavily, chest rising like a goddamn gorilla’s. The singlet makes soft creaking sounds as you move, your mountainous thighs threatening to tear the seams. It’s not glued anymore. But still skintight.

You tug at it again, groaning at the sheer size of your body. You flex in the mirror, cocky grin forming under your thick beard.

Looks like you’re keeping it.

Besides… it’s the only thing from your wardrabe that fits.

[newyoutf]

I got a strange package today. It was a box with a single thing inside, a big button labeled "Surprise!". Should I press it? I am kinda curious what this is all about

Hey. You. Yeah, Mr. Fancy-Pants. What the hell were you thinkin’, pressin’ that weird-ass button, huh? I mean, seriously—thing looked like it came outta a spaceship or somethin’. But nah, you just had to poke it. And boom—next thing we know, world goes full blender mode. Everything starts spinnin’, flashin’—like the damn universe just coughed you outta your little glass tower.

Your shiny-ass office? Gone. That chair that looked like a robot made it? Toast. Now you're sittin' on a pile of bricks, sweatin’ bullets, sun burnin’ the back of your neck, and someone’s jackhammerin’ your soul into the pavement. Welcome to the real world, buddy.

And look at you. That tailored suit? History. Now you’re rockin’ some beat-up jeans, boots that smell like wet dog, and a hi-vis vest covered in god-knows-what. And your arms? Dude, those ain’t office arms. That’s rebar-tossin’, beer-can-crushin’ muscle you got now. Lookin’ like you been deadliftin’ bulldozers since birth.

And that box? Oh man, that shiny little box you brought in like it held the meaning of life? That thing’s a freakin’ lunchbox now. Rusty hinges, dented lid, smellin’ like salami. And you—you—you’re sittin’ there rippin' into sandwiches like a damn caveman on cheat day. No napkins, no talkin’—just straight grrr munch slop. Got mustard on your chin and bread in your hair, and you don’t even care.

But here’s the wild part, man… you look happy. Like deep-down, stupid-grin, don’t-give-a-damn kinda happy. Like that button didn’t ruin your life—it fixed it. Maybe you ain’t some big-shot boss anymore. But you? You look free, man.

[newyoutf]

A guy at the gym gave you these sunglasses as a gift, next thing you know you're getting TANKED. It feel great, you should share these sunglasses with your friends!

Want your own muscle morph? Go ahead and send and ask! Be sure to include a pic with your photo of choice (shirtless works best)

[newyoutf]

Tank me tf up bro

Meet the new and improved you! You love to get TANKED bro!

Want your own muscle morph? Send me an ask with a picture (shirtless works best)!

[newyoutf]

Tank me tf up bro

Meet the new and improved you! You love to get TANKED bro!

Want your own muscle morph? Send me an ask with a picture (shirtless works best)!

[newyoutf]

Jack was a guy with rich parents that would get him anything he wanted, he just had to ask. He acted entitled and only really cared about studying. His dad wanted him to become more independent and more of a man so he signed him up for a month long bodybuilder camp behind his back.

Jack protested but in the end was sent there. When he arrived he was greeted by a huge beefy man. He patted Jack on the back and said "We'll make a beefcake out of you!" in a loud and authoritative voice.

When Jack arrived to his room he was terrified, the room smelled of sweat and musk, and the worst part? He realized his luggage wasn't there, all the clothes he packed were gone. He opened the closet and all he could find were tank tops and shorts that looked way too big for him and smelled like a locker room.

The next week went by painfully slow for Jack, he had to endure hours of training and his dinners consisted of protein shakes and chicken with rice. He also felt as if he started forgetting some stuff, he felt dumber.

What he didn't realize was how big his muscles were getting. The once huge tanktops now fit him perfectly and he was getting used to the musky smell he was surrounded with, after all that's how he smelled like too, like a real man

The next few weeks went by and Jack became even more huge. He ditches his nerdy glasses and stopped wearing the tanktop and shorts in favour of poser briefs. Once he returned home he threw out all his books and put gym equipment in their place. He started attending bodybuilding competitions and even won a couple of them. His dad was proud that Jack became a real man.

[newyoutf]

Is photo good enough?

How do you like being TANKED? I bet it feels nice flexing those muscles and having your IQ drop by the second 😈

Want to be TANKED as well? Send me an ask with your pic! (Shirtless works best)

[newyoutf]

Want a muscle morph like this? Send an ask with a picture and i'll TANK you up 😉

(works best with shirtless pics)

[newyoutf]

One flex is all it takes. Get TANKED!

Thanks for the prompt @kodairold

[newyoutf]

@beachedkiwi wished for balance after my last transformation request so thats what he'll get. Once a stocky white guy now becomes the nerdy asian guy that became a lumberjack.

He'll lose all memories of his old life. He won't mind that though, he'll be too busy jerking off all day in his room. He might be a nerd but he's one hell of a gooner!

Want a transformation? Send me an ask!

[newyoutf]

I've always admired the confidence Chav guys have. Could you make me into a rubber scally chav?

You feel it, don’t you, mate? That restless ache inside you, that weariness of the dull, ordinary life you've been dragging along. The suit-and-tie world, the stiff routines, the forgettable face in the crowd—none of that was ever meant for you. Nah, deep down, there's a fire in you. A craving for something louder, something bolder.

Your body stiffens, locking in place as if caught in a moment of frozen time. A shiver runs through your core, not from cold, but from something deeper—an unraveling of everything you were. Your shoulders shrink, your form tightens, the years peeling away like dead weight. That slightly tired, middle-aged bulk? Gone. Your body leans out, trims down, your frame becoming wiry and compact. Your beard? Vanished. Even your dark hair becomes lighter.

And those default clothes? They don’t fall away. No, mate—they evaporate, dissolving into nothing, one by one leaving you bare for what’s coming next.

Your face reshapes itself, losing that weary, forgettable mask. Sharpens. Youth floods back into your features.

And suddenly something tightens, stretches over you — your whole body sheathing itself in something slick, something perfect. Rubber. Jet black, slick, shiny suit. This ain’t just clothing, lad—this is you now. Your base layer. Always. No matter what you wear, this rubberized core stays beneath, hugging you, defining you.

And now? Now we add the swagger.

From nothing, your legs are wrapped in Nike nylon trackies, blue as midnight, rustling as f***. You shift, and they crinkle, the sound as crisp as fresh attitude. Silver kicks rise up around your feet, laced tight, made for bouncing through the city like you own it. Over that rubber base, a matching blue Nike puffer emerges — thick, heavy, proper scally style, shiny and reflective as f***, catching every flicker of streetlight.

A cheeky smirk tugs at your lips—yeah, that's right.

Your posture shifts. Gone is the nervous slump, the hesitant steps. You stand proper now—chest out, shoulders back. The old world, the old routine? Irrelevant. You ain’t some invisible nobody anymore. Nah, you’re the one who turns heads now. The one who steps onto the streets with a strut that says, Yeah, I’m here. What you lookin’ at?

The confidence is instant. Natural. You don’t second-guess yourself. You don’t shrink away. You’re proud, you’re loud, you’re proper f*in’ scally.** You walk with that undeniable bounce, hands tucked in your pockets, knowing exactly what you are. And you ain’t afraid to show it.

Because this? This is you now, lad.

[newyoutf]

So I'm a chubby gay White guy, any chance you could turn me into a muscular gay East Asian guy that's a jock that still likes stuff like anime? Or biracial, as long as the more dominant heritage is something like Chinese, Japanese, Korean or Taiwanese.

I'd prefer a build anywhere between a like swimmer/tennis players build, a baseball players build, or a football/rugby players build, I'm not really that picky as long as I have decent abs.

How can a package smell like that?

That's the first thing you think when you pull it from outside. Jesus it's like an armpit in your place just that quickly.

You ordered a bath bomb from that weird website, just out of curiosity and half expecting it to be some kind of scam. You were watching Chainsaw Man when you got a knock on your door. It's one of those soft packages that Amazon sometimes uses but with YourNewBody stamped on it. And at the bottom, rolling around, is the bath bomb.

You open it and get a gamey wallop of pure musk to your face. Images flash through your skull: used jockstraps and cups, sweaty hairy armpits just inches from your face, locker rooms.

You've never even had those thoughts before so why do they feel so....familiar. Like memories almost.

Oh.

You're hard. Your cock pitching a serious tent in your boxers. The muscles flex involuntarily and you groan.

You take the bath bomb out of the package. It's see through and kind of murky from the fluid inside? You've never seen one like this. Hell you've never smelled one like this. You bring it to your nose, take a big whiff.....

And nearly cream your boxers right then and there. Another image: this time of you bent over in a dugout while your teammate - wait teammate - fucks you from behind, your smells - smells? - mixing together despite the open air space. Stranger still, you can't even imagine your body in this memory - fantasy, not a memory, a fantasy - which adds to the artificial feeling of it. You want to see what it'll smell like when you drop it in water.

So you go to your bathtub and fill it. Not even fully comprehending you walking to the tub and plugging in the stopper, and turning on the water. There's a distinctly quieter voice telling you that something is very, very wrong. It's drowned out by this increasing fuzziness, like TV static is filling your head. You should be thinking about your D&D session tomorrow. You should be thinking about trying to get some sleep.

But you're not thinking about that, are you?

Your swollen cockhead seems to become your actual brain. You're fondling the bath bomb like a pair of balls in your hand. What kind of balls? For a split second it's a baseball. Then it's the swinging, sagging, fat, sweaty, hairy, musky balls of one of your teammates, pent up and swollen after a long, hard game. He's fucking your throat while his balls slap your chin. "Good boy." His voice is deep and rough.

That fantasy memory is particularly powerful and compelling.

"UHHHHH."

You open your eyes, both of them bugging out. Both at the loud, whimpering moan you just unleashed and at the involuntary word switch. The static in your head clears just long enough for you to accidentally drop the bath bomb in your bathtub, and it starts dissolving the moment it contacts the water.

The murky liquid spills out and turns your bathwater into pure jock sweat.

The smell it unleashes is intoxicating. Your bathroom is becoming a steamy sauna. The mirror fogs. Your glasses fog and you take them off. Dampness appears on the walls, smelling just like your sweaty bathwater.

You stagger and collapse on the toilet, squirming as you roll your underwater down and kick them off. Tossing them in a pile on the corner. You take your socks off and toss them on top of your boxers. You grip onto the sink as your cock becomes steel. You've never been this hard in your life.

I need to - I need to cum! Holy shit I need to CUM!

You flex your cock - voluntarily this time - and that's all it takes to start cumming. Your orgasm is mind numbingly intense. All you can do is curl your toes and clench your fists, throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut as you shoot a fountain of cum, it splattering loudly on the tile floor.

After about a minute, it's over.

You open your eyes.

Your cock shouldn't still be hard.

You should be in your - in your - in your...

You should probably be a little scared at the fact that you cannot think of the term refractory period. In fact, it feels like 90% of higher thinking is just shut off for right now. The other 10% is frantically trying to claw back to the surface of this dense, but pleasant fog that's settled in your head. The 90% of you that's in command gets off the toilet and steps towards the alluring smell of your bathwater. You stare at the musky steam rising off it. Your dazed face looking back at you in the water.

You put one foot in. Then the other. You start hyperventilating like you're getting into a cold pool, but the water is so warm. So cozy and inviting. You hold onto the bathtub as you sink into the water. First your ass, then your legs, then your balls and twitching cock.

Then the rest of your body falls as you lose your balance, feet scrambling on the slippery floor as the water envelops your cock. The sensation is so intense you just spasm and let yourself fall. As the entirety of your body falls into the water, droplets landing into your open, panting mouth and on your flushed face, your body sinks a little into the water. You're more compact now. 5'5". Pocket sized really. That shedded mass lands squarely in your balls and they become swollen with your lost height. They touch the bottom of the tub as your legs kick and writhe, splashing water onto the floor. They grow into the huge baseballs you like squeezing when there's downtime, just to feel balls in your hands.

Bigger balls mean more hormones.

The flush of them causes your cock to stretch. And while it's stretching, your pubes grow into the perfect, tangled mess of a landing pad for the syrupy pre-cum that's leaking into the water. You surpass your average length of 4 and a half inches with ease and cruise steadily into 5 and a half. You're moaning with wanton abandon now. That 10% that was concerned about such silly things such as "modesty" has evaporated to like 5% now, and it's a losing battle, because you're leaking with no end in sight as your cock crests to 6 and a half inches. You pump an even larger amount of pre as your beard falls out and lands in the water. With each gush of thicker pre, your body hair just melts away and floats like flotsam in the water. Your armpit hair is still as thick - if not thicker. Your cock finally stops growing at 7 and a half, pulsing, throbbing, inches.

You try your damnedest to steady your breathing. Your cock sticks up proudly in the water, the swollen, purple-ish head nearly breaching the surface. You use all of your might to look down and see that bigger cock. The thicker pubes. Your legs are spread wide to make room for your balls. You place your hands on your lower stomach, your fingers caught in your pubes. It's trembling, quaking. As you look down, huffing and puffing, your chubby stomach suddenly collapses.

The fat doesn't disappear, no, it just makes its presence known behind your nipples which pop out like a distressed belly button. The skin stretches and the nubs pop out and into the water. You're practically screaming with pleasure as the fat in your stomach melts away and slides to your pecs, your abs popping out one by one into a tight six pack, cum gutters sprouting in your thicker waist and pointing to that unbelievably hard cock of yours.

Your pecs inflate with fat and muscle, like big floaties strapped to your chest. You can feel the weight of them as they blow up with muscle and fat, all of the underdeveloped muscles breaking and tearing, strengthening and becoming so much stronger, so much more powerful. You're squirming like a caught rattlesnake right now, water just going everywhere. The crease between your pecs is mouthwatering. Your pink nipples are so suckable. Your abs finally finish growing and settling in. Your pecs heave one final time and crest over them, your underboob just as sensitive as the massive flesh sacs above themselves. You're flooded with memories of your teammates tugging and playing with your tits. Some of them sucking on the fat nipples. Coach massaging oil onto them after a good workout.

Your cock is leaking a steady stream of actual cum but it's not a true orgasm, just a mini one because your body cannot handle this constant edging. Something has to give, right? There's less water in the tub since your body is absorbing the sweaty, thick water.

Your traps fan out and help your shoulders thicken with powerful muscle. You can feel how strong and powerful that neck of yours is. The growth flows downwards into your biceps, arms blowing up so quickly they start rubbing against your pecs, making up come harder and yelp. Your forearms thicken up and your hands - your small little hands - blow up into meaty paws. You take your arms out of the water - god they're so heavy - and expose your rank pit to the air.

None of your teammates are around so your own pit will have to do. Your other hand worships and rubs your abs.

You lick and kiss your fat, bulging bicep. Your feet stretch bigger, wider, longer. The less than 1% of the old you left marvels at your size 7 feet bloating into massive size 14 stompers, your toes and soles crawling up the tub and breaching the water's surface.

You're fucking an invisible ass. With every thrust of your stronger, wider hips, your own ass starts growing. You've experienced a massive amount of weight loss and fat redistribution, and conservation of mass requires that shaved off mass to go somewhere. It can't go to your pecs, so it fills up your ass and stretches your hole like it's made of rubber. Your ass is going to be the talk of the town. You won't be able to hide it. Visible through your pants, chewing up boxers and briefs, absolutely stretching out any jockstrap you wear. Jiggling and so enticing, literally striking men dumb and horny. And once they get a taste of that puckering hole - or even better, fuck it - they'll be just as blank and dumb as you are.

There's nothing left of the old you. All of those old worries and thoughts flood into your ass, converted into pure, strong muscle, making that fat ass perky and sit higher on your lower body.

Your thighs expand with muscle and fat, inflating and rubbing together, squeezing your balls and making you squeal. Your calves brush up against the tub, flexing and becoming massive. Your legs have the ability to carry that dumpy of yours and then some. You can carry your teammates for miles. You can straddle and ride a dick into the sunset. Your hole is built for milking every last drop out of your teammates' - and Coach's? - balls. They're pure bulk, those legs, and strong enough to crush a watermelon.

You scream as your face collapses and rearranges. Bone structure becomes more defined as your jaw hardens and your cheekbones become softly pronounced. Your nose pops bigger into the crook of your elbow and your sense of smell actually improves. You take in all your musk, and all the musk of the bathwater all at once. You can even smell the cum boiling in your balls, so you know you're closer than ever.

Your brain shrinks even further. You're only really able to piece together basic sentences and even then, it's gonna take a while for you to construct it and speak it. And when you're horny? Forget about it. You're only thinking about your teammates and pleasing Coach. The next game. You don't really play all that much, but you're a good distraction for the opposing team. No matter how good of a pitcher, they'll make easy mistakes because they'll be too busy staring at your bountiful ass squeezed into your uniform. And if you remember to wear a shirt, your nipples poking against the fabric and those swaying tits when you don't remember to wear a shirt. The latter option happens more often.

You grab your cock with both hands - yes it's a two-hander now - and you start fucking your fist. As you fuck your fist, your body goes through the last change. Your white skin begins darkening, well beyond a normal tan. You're changing race. You open your eyes, for just a second, as you watch your face rearrange one final time and you become Korean. You shut your eyes again as the tan spreads to your tits, beefs them up further, the color spreading to your pink nipples and making them dark and even more sensitive. It spreads down to your abs and arms. Wherever it touches, that area of your body beefs up.

Bigger biceps, bigger shoulders, stronger abs.

Thicker pubes.

Stronger thighs and bigger calves.

Then it hits your cock.

And you explode.

Your cock darkens and your balls become even bigger. You gain that half inch and become a full, mighty, 8 inches hard. Your cum is so thick. Musky. You hug yourself as you cum hands free, hips bucking, balls swinging. You don't see the water absorb your cum, keeping it clear but even smellier.

You finally stop cumming.

Open your eyes just a bit, prettier eyelashes fluttering.

You are hot shit.

You slowly rise out of the water. Muscles exhausted. Cumming is its own workout. You step out of the tub and onto the tiles with your bigger feet. Your cock softens yes but it's gonna exist at a permanent, dripping semi 99% of the time. The 1% reserved for sleeping really.

"Oh, I should probably let the water out huhuh."

You reach into the water. Moaning as the smell hits you in the face. You let it drain, along with your cum and lost body hair.

You see your boxers and socks on the floor but even from here they look too small. You don't think anything of it - mostly because you can't really think anymore. You must've bought the wrong size by accident. You're not totally helpless - hey you've made it this far in life with that dull brain of yours, you've got your own apartment and everything - but sometimes you let easy things slip by you.

You stumble out of the bathroom. Holding onto the walls for support. You're not used to this weight. This sensitivity. The way everything feels so heavy. You let slip a dumb laugh as you creep into your bedroom.

Your laptop's on the bed. The screen open. It's buzzing with notifications. You don't recognize the names. You try your hardest to force a connection in your cotton candy brain but nothing comes up.

"What's a D&D?"

Your meaty chest rises and falls. You close out the text messaging app. People are asking for some guy whose name you don't even know, asking if you're ready for tomorrow's session. Probably the wrong number. The only thing you've got going on tomorrow is practice. Which lets be honest - the only thing getting "practiced" is that insatiable hole of yours, and your throat.

You search around but can't find anything to put in your twitching asshole. You shrug and stick two fingers in your ass and start fingering yourself. Your just used cock rising to attention, as you look at your computer screen.

Holy shit you forgot you were watching Chainsaw Man! You fill with glee. You love this show! Any anime really because it's pretty easy for you to follow and you don't get bored.

Now, if only you could just remember what episode you were on .....

[newyoutf]

Are there any white briefs in the garage sale? I've been needing a pair of new underwear.

The White Briefs

You approach the garage sale with a hopeful glint in your eye. You've been searching for the perfect pair of white briefs to replace your holey, overstretched ones. You've had enough of the baggy waistbands and the constant wedgies. So when you spot the muscular man, you just have to ask, "Are there any white briefs in the garage sale? I've been needing a pair of new underwear." The muscular man looks you over with a knowing smile and says, "Of course, I have a ton of those." His smirk suggests that he might have more than just briefs to offer.

He leads you to a table, piled high with an assortment of white briefs. Some have matching designs, others are a wild cacophony of patterns. "Does this have my size though?" you inquire, feeling a bit self-conscious about your flabby belly. He looks you up and down, then nods confidently. "Well, to check it out, why don’t you try it on one by one in my dressing room?" His smirk widens, hinting at something more than just a simple shopping trip.

You take the briefs in your hand, feeling their softness. The muscular man's then said, "These will be perfect for you." You enter the makeshift dressing room, which is just a curtain draped over a clothes rack. It smells faintly of fabric softener and something else – something that makes your heart race a little faster. You don't know why, but you trust him. You trust the way he says 'perfect' as if you were hypnotized ny him.

You peel off your old underwear and pants, exposing your pale, soft body to the cool garage air. Your cock can be seen there refelcted in the mirror, flaccid and seemingly innocent at 4 inches. But you know it's not the size that matters – it's the growth. You've heard the whispers, the jokes, but you've seen the looks of amazement when it stretches to 7 inches. It's always been your secret weapon, your little miracle. You smile to yourself, feeling a bit cocky.

The first brief you pull on is tight. Too tight. "Auuurgh," you groan, tugging at the elastic. The fabric digs into your gut, making you feel like a sausage in a casing. But the muscular man said these would be perfect, so you bear with it. You start to sweat, droplets rolling down your body like rain on a hot day. Each brief you try is the same. The tightness is unbearable, but you're determined to find the one that fits.

With each grunt and tug, something strange begins to happen. Your body starts to feel… different. Your belly, once a soft pillow of comfort, begins to shrink. The fat that you've carried around for so long seems to be melting away. You don't notice the transformation, too focused on the struggle of fitting into these confining pieces of fabric. The pleasure is intense, but your mind translates it into the mere discomfort of trying on new underwear.

You sweat profusely, the fabric sticking to your skin as you pull on each brief. You're on a mission to find the perfect pair, unaware that they are reshaping you into something new. Each grunt and groan is accompanied by a little more of your fat disappearing revealing your bones. The mirror in the dressing room shows you a reflection of a lanky, skinny man, yet your mind insists that you've always looked this way.

The muscular man's voice outside the curtain sounds concerned, "You okay in there?"

"Yeah," you reply, your voice strained. "Just trying to find the right fit."

"Take your time," he calls back, his voice echoing in the garage.

You don't know why, but his words fill you with a strange comfort. You've always envied his confidence, his self-assuredness. Now, you're beginning to feel it too. Your cock, once your secret weapon, has grown to an impressive 12 inches, standing tall and proud. Yet, your mind doesn't acknowledge the transformation, you just thought it is your big cock that makes the brief so tight, but still you continued to try on the white briefs.

You breathe heavily, still thinking it's all normal. You reach for the next pair of white briefs. "GRRRRRRR" you grunt, slipping them over your hips. The pleasure is more intense this time. "Wow, this time it fits my cock," you murmur, your voice filled with wonder. "And yes, my waist fits just ri… AUUURGGHHH." You don't realize that your muscles are growing.

With a deep "ARGGHHH," you feel your chest swell. The mirror reflects a balloon-like expansion of your pectorals, your ribs stretching the fabric. The white lines of new muscles etch into your skin, a roadmap of power appearing before your very eyes. Yet, all you can think of is the snug fit of the underwear. "These are really something," you pant, your voice a mix of amazement and exertion.

The muscular man's shadow flits outside the dressing room. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," you reply, your voice a grunt of effort. "They're… they're just really… tight."

"Good," he says, his tone hinting at a knowing smile. "They're supposed to be."

You breathed more heavily, “AH…AH….UH!” a deeper groan escaped your mouth, you continued to try on the white briefs. Your biceps bulged, the veins popping and your triceps grew taut, your forearms thickened into tree trunks.

"GRRRRR" you growl, the sound vibrating through the walls of the small dressing room. You feel the power in your legs, like the roots of an ancient tree reaching deep into the earth. The briefs, once too tight, now struggle to contain the pillars of your new form. Your hamstrings stretch and pulse with each movement. "AHHHHH," you exhale, as if you're just trying to get a better look at the tag. But the truth is, your legs are now a sculpture of power, a testament to what you never knew you could become.

You wiggle into another pair, the fabric whispering against your skin as your calves tighten into diamond shapes. The seams of the briefs strain against the newfound size of your legs, threatening to tear. The floorboards protest under your weight. "MMPHHH…HMPHPH…" your voice is now a symphony of effort, each sound a bass note resonating in the garage.

The muscular man's shadow lingers, his footsteps heavy outside the dressing room. "Everything okay?" His voice is a drumroll to the crescendo of your transformation.

"Just… just… need… the… perfect… fit," you grunt between clenched teeth. Each word is a battle cry as you wrestle with the fabric, your body redefining itself with every inch of elastic that yields.

You slip into another pair, the sound of fabric tearing a whisper against the cacophony of your transformation. "AHHH AHHHA AHHHH," you roar, the briefs tightening around your waist as your back expands. Your spine rearranges itself, each vertebrae popping into place like a jigsaw puzzle. The mirror shows a reflection that seems almost alien, yet your mind insists it's always been this way.

The muscular man leans against the outside of the curtain, watching the tapestry of your change unfold. His eyes are filled with a mix of fascination and satisfaction. "How do they feel?" he asks, his voice a rumble of thunder.

"T-tight," you reply, your voice a grunt of effort. "But… good. Like they're… fitting."

You try on the last pair of briefs, feeling a final surge of power. "HNGGGGHHH," you groan, the fabric stretching over your now massive glutes. The mirror reflects a god of the gym, not the fat man who walked in. Yet, all you see is the same muscular guy you've always been.

You flex your biceps, a smirk playing on your lips. "Alright, these look good on me, hehe," you murmur to yourself, oblivious to the cacophony of your transformation. Your shirt is a distant memory, shredded on the floor, forgotten amidst the symphony of grunts and groans. You step out of the dressing room, feeling the confidence of a peacock.

The muscular man's eyes widen, his smirk now a full-blown grin. "You found your size, I see," he says, his voice a purr of satisfaction.

You nod, "yeah, they're just right," you reply, your voice deeper, more assured than before.

The muscular man's eyes twinkle with amusement. "So, what's it going to be?" he asks, his voice a cocktail of tease and challenge.

You step up to him, the confidence of a lion in every step. "I'll take all of 'em," you say, slapping the briefs against your palm. "How much?"

The muscular man's smirk widens, his eyes gleaming. He knows. He's seen the magic of the briefs before. "Fifty bucks for the whole lot," he says, his voice like velvet.

You hand over the crumpled bills, your heart pounding in your new, broad chest. "Here you go," you say, your voice now a deep rumble.

The muscular man's smirk turns into a full-blown smile as he takes the money. "Enjoy," he says, his eyes lingering on your transformed body.

You nod and strut out of the garage, feeling the fabric hug your new form. Each step feels like you're walking on air. You're no longer the same person who walked in, but you don't know it. To you, this is just a normal day of buying underwear.

[newyoutf]

Recently won a free coupon for the local barbershop that just opened. I thought i'd check it out but it seems it's in the more dangerous side of town. What do you think i should do? The weirdest part of the coupon is that it specified i should come to the barber shop late night after the closing hours...

I recently won a voucher for a new hair salon that has just opened. I thought I'd check it out, but it seems to be in the more dangerous part of town. What do you think I should do? The strangest thing about the voucher is that it says I should come to the hairdresser late at night after closing time….

It's 22:00. The area is really not very inviting. You're glad you got a parking space right in front of the hair salon. The store is dark. At least the blinds are down. There are a few young Latinos loitering in front of the store. Smoking, talking on the phone… But they have cool haircuts. Very short hair as a rule. But it looks rough and masculine. Still not for you. You also need a masculine and rough body for this kind of hairstyle. You get out of the car. The boys are checking you out? “What are you doing here, gringo?” asks one. You show the voucher. The boys nod approvingly at each other. One of them opens the door for you. One throws away his fag and follows you. He shows you a barber's chair without saying a word. He places a glass with a brownish-clear drink in front of you. Could be whiskey. Or rum. And an ashtray. You say that you don't smoke. He puts you a box of Marlboros without a filter and a Zippo. And then he puts the hairdresser's cape on you.

Even though the store is new, the cape smells of cigarette smoke and sweat. It's actually disgusting. But somehow also a turn-on. “As always, Hermano?” You want to say that you don't know each other at all. But you reply: "¡Como siempre, Hermano! ¿Qué otra cosa podría ser?" Raoul starts to run his hair clippers over your head. Your blonde hair falls to the floor as black hair. Raoul asks how your day was. You reach for the cigarettes, light one and think that the day is just beginning. Raoul laughs. He asks you to light him a cigarette too. Raoul is an artist. He manages to pull off a transition even with short hair. He hits the shaving soap, you lean back. You still have plenty of work to do this evening. You have to look perfect. And Raoul knows how to do it. The Old Spice burns pleasantly. Raoul pulls the cape away. You look in the mirror. Yes, that's you. Un cholo de primera, un príncipe en tu barrio. Camino de convertirte en rey.

¿Pago como siempre?, you ask? Raoul gets down on his knees in front of you and opens your pants. Your cock pops out of your pants like a jack-in-the-box.

[newyoutf]

Teacher's curse and blessing

Mr Thayer was a picture book teacher. He was a passionate teacher. He loved science and he loved spreading knowledge to young people. He didn't work for the money. He had enough money. His grandfather had been born with a golden spoon in his mouth and, with creativity, hard work and the necessary genius, had managed to make an impressive fortune. The money that had founded the school where Mr Thayer taught came from Mr Thayer's grandfather's wallet. Hardly any of his colleagues or students had any idea of his wealth. He was always immaculately dressed, but you couldn't see how many thousands of pounds one of his suits cost. He drove a 20-year-old Jaguar, which was regularly restored at horrendous expense. But most people saw an old used car. And that was also in Mr Thayer's mind.

Mr Thayer didn't really care whether someone was aristocratic or a snob, whether someone was rich or poor, whether someone was descended from William the Conqueror or had arrived in the country three months ago on a rubber dinghy. He differentiated between industrious and lazy and between disciplined and undisciplined. And those who were lazy and/or undisciplined found no favour in his eyes. He had done well with this for decades. He had moulded captains of industry and ministers out of spoilt brats. But now he was confronted with a new enemy: People dumbed down by social media, effeminate and comfortable consumers of state and other services. People who saw it as his duty to ensure that their children got good grades, even if they were stupid, lazy and effeminate. People who put the word ‘resilience’ in every other sentence without knowing what the word meant. Mr Thayer took note of this. Worried. But he didn't change his strategy. ‘After my son came home with a grade five for the fourth time this school year, I'm asking you for a detailed strategy on how to make sure he passes this school year.’ There were five or six mistakes in that one sentence. For that alone, Archibald deserved every single five. Even if his mum had made the spelling mistakes. Mr Thayer called Archibald in. Archibald was a declared enemy. An unathletic young man who was conspicuous for his disastrous academic performance and for the crazy things he spread on social media. Mr Thayer asked why Archibald hadn't explained to his mother that there were no good grades for not knowing anything and being ignorant in class. Archibald only said that he wasn't adequately motivated and encouraged. A phrase he had obviously learnt from his mother. Mr Thayer rolled his eyes. ‘Lecture on the role of the German Empire in colonialism, 45 minutes, next week Friday. If you do well, I won't fail you.’ Archibald stood up, rolling his eyes, and left the office.

The next Friday, Archibald stood at the blackboard and read out something obviously copied from Wikipedia, not even edited by ChatGPT. No use of other media, monotonous lecture, not even correct in terms of content. ‘Due to catastrophic performance in several subjects, I am unable to support your son's promotion to the next school level.’ Hardly any other email had given him so much pleasure recently. Unfortunately, he had messed with the wrong one. That very evening, Archibald's mother cursed Mr Thayer. And the curse hit him hard and immediately.

A murmur went through the class when Mr Thayer stood in front of the teacher's desk the next day and leaned casually against it. He had never shown so little body tension before. But that wasn't the reason for the murmur. Mr Thayer was wearing white tennis socks! The man who had never shown any sign of imperfection! And that was just the beginning. The more alert of his pupils counted three grammatical errors in his remarks by the end of the lesson. And had he seriously said goodbye with a ‘Have a relaxing afternoon!’? After a few days, Mr Thayer was wearing jeans and sneakers. After a week, half the school flinched when he drove into the teachers' car park a quarter of an hour late with a roaring engine in a souped-up BMW. His language became more brash and rough. His lessons seemed increasingly ill-prepared. Now the few sensible parents began to complain about him. The headmaster, who was supposed to take over from Mr Thayer next year, summoned him several times. And finally they were forced to suspend the teacher who had embodied the spirit of the school more than anyone else. ‘Fuck you!’ was Mr Thayer's reaction.

His car, which simply stood out in its neon green paintwork, was seen outside boxing clubs, shisha bars and betting shops. From time to time there were rumours that Mr Thayer had also been seen in these places. But nobody could really prove this. Shortly before the start of the new school year, the school authorities received an email in which Mr Thayer wanted to be transferred. To a comprehensive school in a problem neighbourhood. He wanted to teach technical work and PE there. The letter was full of mistakes. But his wish was granted. It had been no problem to fill his old position. And finding a teacher among the anti-social Scallies had been a challenge. Whatever had got into him, he was supposed to be preparing the half-strength children of immigrants and the unemployed for a future as a bouncer or car tuner.

‘Mr Thayer, nice to have you at our school!’ the headmistress greeted her new colleague in an uncertain voice. ‘Is your new office good enough for you!’ ‘Mr Thayer was my old man, call me Kieran!’ ‘But according to my file, your first name is…’ Kieran scrunched up his nose and snotted on the floor. ‘Bitch, what to call me is my business, got it!’

His boys went through fire and water for Kieran. He taught them everything he knew about tuning and repairing high-powered cars. And about mixed martial arts. And Kieran was damn good at both. And he was convinced that you didn't need to know more than that. Damn it, one of his students was supposed to write a paper about the Krauts and their time with the Kaffirs. Ey, he showed him how to quickly copy it together on the internet. And then they both went to smoke a shisha.

Inspiration by @sdonovan-new

Pics by @ki-kink

[newyoutf]

I am a scrawny Asian nerd of 20 wish you could beef me up into a 40 year old ginger bear. Can you help with that?

From being the top of the class to being the top in bed. I hope you enjoy your new lumberjack life in the forest 😉 You'll have to get used to all that itchy body hair