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[owneddrone]

"Coach? Aren't those my shorts?"

[owneddrone]

I would love to be forced to carry some heavy weight. You know. Like some really heavy shit. Be forced to have some real pressure on me. I’m willing to be cursed for anything. Do what you will. I’m yours. 😈

Ya wanna be strong? carry some heavy weight? some extremely heavy weight? be forced under some extreme pressure? well I think I have the perfect situation for you my friend just be warned there is no going back from this one.

I think I should introduce you to my friend Max, he's your average jock, likes to run, lift, play sports, but he has a little bit of a dark streak. Ya see Max asked me a few days ago to permanently be the boss of a guy, to control his every move, to make him his, for it to be impossible for him to be disobeyed and I think I might give you to him. But not in the way You think.

You wake up only your view is different, its like an out of body experience, like you are astral projecting only you can't move around and you seem to be stuck at the bottom of a bed staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly you are lifted up and moved. The feeling of warm scratchy carpet touches the bottom of you and you feel warm and tingly. You hear a man's voice groan and yawn and suddenly three fingers are down scratching the side of you.

You still can't figure out what's going on and it seems neither can your new owner. You feel weight suddenly press down on you as half of you is lifted up and then pressed back into the ground against the scratchy carpet. Each step is strange, you feel your skin glisten with sweat and you feel whatever you are carrying get ever so slightly heavier. You hear the muttering of a young man checking off his morning to do list and out of curiosity you look up to see not much more than an ankle and the realisation hits. You've been turned into a pair of feet for a young athlete. You can't move on your own and you are forced to follow his command and he walks and moves completely in control, but you feel something strange with each step something he doesn't notice.

After a few hours of him getting ready the scratchy sensation of the carpet changes to cold pressed tile as you were now in his bathroom.

"Fuck why are my feet so sweaty" you hear the man say as he goes to pull on a pair of socks over the top of you.

The course fabric pulled over you cuts off your vision, all you have is feeling now, it feels course and rough but, slowly it becomes wet and slimy as the sweat coming off of you seeps into the fabric and clings to you. You feel yourself tightly squeezed into runners and hear a comment about the shoes being too small. It wasn't long before the sweat you were produced completely tainted the shoes too.

You heard a door close and a sudden bouncing as Max started out his morning job. You felt the weight of his entire body press down on you over and over, but that strange feeling continued, he felt heavier and heavier the more you moved. About half an hour later you could hear Max desperately gasping for air and some worried muttering about what was happening to him. The Jogging turned into casual walking but it wasn't long before you heard a loud rip and the sense of pressure release as you had busted out of the front of his shoes.

"ah fuck" Max said picking up the pace of his walking. A loud welt slapping sound rang out from his every move as the slimy wet shoes slapped against the pavement, a few minutes later and another loud rip, you could see out of a small hole now as his big toe had burst through the front of Max's sock.

You could hear him desperately try and pick up the pace, taking as wide as steps as possible, almost like he was doing the splits with each step on his way home. The weight pressing down on you was almost unbearable, if you weren't specifically built for this purpose you would have been crushed by now but you still ached as you moved the weight with each step.

You heard the jingling of keys and a door open, lifted up on a step and placed straight on the itchy carpet once more, by now the shoes and socks were nothing but ripped pieces of fabric left behind on the street. You felt as the carpet sucked some of the sweat off of you and you could see the cream colour turn a sour yellow as it drank up the sweat. Slowly Max moved his body and you made a loud echoing thud each time you connected with the floor, the weight increasing and getting worse. By now Max was almost swaying side to side with each step and you could hear him out of breath simply walking from the front door to his bedroom.

Max slowly wobbled in front of the mirror and you could finally see the weight you had been carrying around all day.

A giant beast, thick with muscle and covered in hair. He dripped with sweat and the fog of B.O was almost visible and stench radiated off his body. Max sat how on his bed lifting the weight off you and giving you a small break but sweat till poured off you like a waterfall, the sweatiest place on his body.

Max sniffed under his pits and his face turned sour as he turned his head away from the awful smell. You felt yourself lifted up off the ground as Max lifted one of his feet up to rest on his knee. You watched as he learnt forward towards you and he took a sniff, he gagged at the ungodly stench produced by you and stood up. Once again you felt the crushing pressure of this giant pressing down on you. You heard the floorboards under the carpet rumble with every step as he made his way to the bathroom, you heard the loud wet slap as he took steps on the tiling. You ran you under nice warm water which was soothing but you could still feel the sweat pumping out of you. Max tried you off with a nice fluffy towel but you were already wet before you could even reach the ground again, a loud wet slap rang out as you collided with the tile and a few moments later you were half submerged in a pool of salty sweat as a puddle had formed under you.

Max sighed walking out of the bathroom not sure what to do, and with each step you felt the weight on top of you increase slightly more and more.

It seems you both got what you wanted, Max wanted to be the boss of a guy forever and now he has you, unable to deny what he commands you to do, nothing more than an extension of his body.

You wanted to carry a weight and feel the pressure, well every step Max takes will make your wish come more true as each step will cause him to gain 1/4 pound of muscle, constantly getting bigger and bigger to pin you underneath more and more weight. You'll get bigger too, currently size 17 but the bigger he gets the more support he'll need so expect to grow longer and wider as your days as his disgustingly rank feet continue.

I hope you are both very happy together.

[owneddrone]

[owneddrone]

Hi! I got a crush on my coach, Alex. I really wanna have a surprise for him. Can Cronivac make us grow together at locker rooms after a good workout?

Today is a good opportunity. The other lads have all disappeared already…. You're alone in the locker room when Coach Alex walks in the door. "So, Michael? Are you happy with today's training?" "Coach, there's always room for improvement. But I'll do my best!" "Good boy." Damn, can't you do better than a bit of small talk? Then I'll have to intervene.

Alex stands in front of the mirror and does a double bicep pose. "What do you say, Muchael? Not bad for an old man, is it?" You grin and say that he's hardly older than you. He laughs. "Brother, I could be your father!" "Well, you don't have much more beard growth than me, Aled." You follow Aled's example and post in front of the mirror. You can literally see your biceps growing. Aled reaches under your arms and corrects your pose. "Brother, more body tension. People can't see your hot body like that." He presses on your stomach. "And tighten your six-pack more, Muchaed!" "Coach, shall we go back to the training area? I could do with a few tips." Almed scratches his beard. "Don't call me coach, bro! And now let's get those muscles burning!"

Fuck, when did Coach get inked like that? Your family would kill you if you came up with that idea… But it looks cool on him… You look in the mirror. You two could be related. At least you look like you have the same hairdresser. The dark hair radically short. And a bushy, godly full beard. Ahmed asks you to show your thighs. You pull up your trouser legs.

"Damn Muchamed! You're an beast!" Is Ahmed getting a hard-on? That wouldn't be bad, your cut cock is already half hard. A wet spot forms in his pants. He gets down on his knees and massages your huge thighs. Your hard-on is almost painful. But Ahmad has mercy. "Fuck, Muhammed, is everything so huge with you?" You laugh. "Then start sucking the balls, brother. They're a bit smaller than what you'll have to swallow."

I'd say you've grown together, brother!

Great pic found @malesbros

[owneddrone]

Tensions are high at a protest against a far right march (2023)

inta: andy_warlord

 #161 #inkedgirls #queercouplegoals

[owneddrone]

Genie: Marcus’s Wishes

Click here to see the genie’s first master.

Marcus wasn’t your average jockboy. In school, he had been the class queer, marked for bullying because of his femme interests and gay voice. Worse, because he was one of the only Black kids. At university, he’d caught the iron bug and gotten huge, but kept the femininity, too. Nowadays, even with his powerful bod and handsome face, he still got dirty looks for his paisley shirts, peppy attitude, and swishy walk.

It was somewhere around 3 AM, and Marcus was feeling well and truly used. He hadn’t been topped like Mr. Peters had topped him in… he didn’t know how long. The Daddy dom’s husband, Lars, had told Marcus that the couple never double dipped on a guy, which sucked, but Marcus had more than enough wank material from this night alone to get him through.

Lars, still naked, followed the half-dressed Marcus to the living room. Mr. Peters was lounging on the balcony upstairs, smoking. Lars was giving Marcus the instructions for getting to the main street in his thick German accent. The other boys had left a few hours ago to catch the last busses home.

Something caught Marcus’s eye in the dimly lit room. A glint of light off of brass, an old, traditional lamp sitting next to Mr. Peters’ humidor. “What’s that?” Marcus asked.

Lars looked at the lamp like he’d never seen it before. “Some object of Daddy’s,” he grunted. “You like it?”

“It’s beautiful.” Marcus was living in his own place for the first time, and he was starting to decorate. He drifted over and lifted up the lamp. He could base a whole room off of its aesthetics.

“Take it.” Lars waved away Marcus’s half-made protestation. “If Daddy thought it was important he would tell me,” said the German model. “It clashes with our decor.” He moved closer, and growled in Marcus’s ear, “You deserve a present for being such a good slut.”

An hour later, Marcus crashed into bed, not bothering to undress or unpack his bag, leaving the lamp in his gym duffel.

The next morning, he woke up late and made a protein shake for breakfast. As he chugged it, he pulled the lamp out of his bag. Held it up against different spaces in his apartment. It would clash with the Britney poster in the bedroom. Ditto for the Barbie display in his office. He settled on the entryway. He could get a pedestal for it and make an Arabian nook or something.

There was some kind of stain on the side of the lamp. Grabbing a hanky, Marcus started to rub it, but was interrupted as the lamp slid from his grasp and released a cloud of rainbow smoke. When it cleared, a burly Arabian man in a thong and a slutty stringer tank stood in Marcus’s apartment.

“Hey cutie,” said the genie. “Make me some wishes and I’ll get you hot.”

Marcus’s eyes caught on the genie’s ample bulge, and then he processed what he was being offered. In the second before he made his first wish, all he could think was masculinity. There was a corner near his apartment where Hispanic men gathered to shoot the shit in their jeans and tank tops. Their manliness was effortless, totally unstudied, what Marcus had dreamed of being in his childhood.

“I wish I was more manly, like a Latino guy.”

“Got it,” said the genie, with a snap of his fingers. “One Latino meatlover, coming right up.”

Marcus found himself surrounded by a cloud of orange smoke. It smelled like sweat and spices, and Marcus found himself inhaling it deeply. The scent blazed a trail through his mind, and Marcus started to think in Spanish rather than English. His university education vanished, replaced by the foundation of his own landscaping company at 18, and all the hard, manual labour involved in maintaining and building yards for rich, lazy white people.

At the same time, the smoke pumped up Marcus’s big Black muscles further, and lightened them to a sun-kissed tan. His hair straightened and retracted partway into his scalp, leaving him with a simple, masculine haircut. His dick and balls expanded, and the extra testosterone threw his already ripe armpits into overdrive, filling the room with the smell of his sweat. Finally, the last of the smoke thickened into threadbare white briefs, tight jeans, and a tighter tank top, an outfit fit for the masc Latino guy Marcus was becoming.

The genie snapped his fingers once again, and Marcus’s apartment became Marco’s house, a one storey bachelor pad full of thrifted furniture, hand-me-downs, and Marco’s curated selection of Tom of Finland prints hung on the walls.

Marco looked around with satisfaction, his big, callused hands on his hips. “Buen, cabron,” he told the genie in his deep, firm voice. “I need to go work now.”

“See you tomorrow, hermoso,” said the genie, vanishing back into the lamp that sat on Marco’s living room dildo shelf.

During the day, Marco drove his pickup truck to the office, maintained the lawns for some clients, and handled everything it took to run his own business. He hadn’t done great at school—too busy working so his mami could rest—but once he’d founded the business he’d discovered a knack for accounting, so he sat in his air conditioned office to do paperwork while his college boy employees worked through the heat of the afternoon.

Well, he finished the work in an hour and spent another two sniffing his spicy pits while he tugged his thick cock.

After work, Marco drove home, checked his immaculate front and back yards for anything that needed maintenance, and fired up the barbecue. He didn’t realise he had cooked for four until he sat down at the table with a mountain of meat and no one to feed.

The next morning, Marco summoned the genie bright and early with his second wish. “I wish I had some amigos to share the evenings with.”

“Aww, you could have just asked,” the genie cooed, and blew Marco a kiss as he vanished, sending a heart-shaped orange smoke ring to hit Marco in the face with the scent of musk and spice. When nothing seemed to change, Marco shrugged and loaded up his truck for work.

At the first client’s house, Marco dealt with the usual white housewife cooing over his big muscles and blue-collar masculinity with a roll of his eyes. But then the woman’s son, a lean twunk home for the summer, stumbled down the stairs for coffee. He glanced at Marco, who was setting up the lawnmower, and saw a flash of orange light as his nostrils filled with the scent of the Latino’s musk, and his mouth with the flavour of unwashed Latin cock.

As Marco packed his truck back up, the twunk stepped shyly up next to him. At first, he asked the usual questions about Marco’s gym routine, but then Marco raised his arms, showing his hairy pits and releasing a cloud of fresh, sweaty musk, and the white boy seemed to swallow his tongue. He handed Marco a paper with his number on it and fled.

It was the same with every client that day. At some point while he worked at each house, a cute young white boy would walk up and hand Marco his number. Some were little femme twinks, others buff jocks, and a couple were cute hairy cubs. All were shy, pretty, and lived in the rich neighbourhoods Marco worked in. While he was in the office that afternoon, Marco was so busy talking to all his new boys that he fell behind on the accounting.

That evening, Marco’s house was full of the voices of hot young guys. They filled the dining table, the couches, and the patio Marco had built with his own hands. Marco barbecued to his heart’s content and wandered among the boys with his own plate. As he greeted each new boy, Marco instinctively pulled them in for a firm kiss and grope, then said “Hola, mi chiquita.”

As the night went on, the boys got rowdier and hornier. The rich, potent smell of Marco’s musk and the genie’s magic filled the rapidly heating space, and Marco found himself on his bed in a happy pile of rich white boys desperate to sniff and lick him all over. Just at the stroke of midnight, the genie heard Marco, facefucking a little twink while some jocks and cubs worshipped him, mutter, “I wish I could see myself fuck this little gringo.”

A blast of magic suffused every corner of the house with musky orange smoke. When it cleared, Marco’s bed was surrounded by film cameras, taking different angles as he shoved his thick Latin dick into the white twink’s throat. In the spare room, two of the nerdier boys sat naked at monitors and called shots for the stream. Each room had a camera setup, including a hidden corner on the patio and a secluded bower in the garden.

Once he was done with the twink and a sweaty musk worship session with a couple of jock boys, Marco got dressed for bed in a pair of stained white briefs and turned to camera one. “That’s all for tonight, gringos,” he told his viewers in an playfully thick Spanish accent. “Come back tomorrow once I’m done working hard on your lawns.” He fondled his pouch, and the stream cut.

As Marco stood by the door, kissing his boys goodbye, one young lad caught sight of a weird lamp sitting next to Papi Marco’s dildo collection.

Idea with inspiration from a chatbot of my own creation.

Click here to see all the genie’s adventures.

[owneddrone]

                                               sex at the park

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[owneddrone]

this is why we’re better than you

[owneddrone]

Mike had been mindfucked into becoming the perfect dumb jock. Gone was his ability to speak intelligently. Gone was his ability to cum without permission. Gone was his ability to resist his Coach. Gone was the desire to be more than just a plaything for his Coach.

[owneddrone]

[owneddrone]

Bigger

Leaner

Stronger

Harder