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saturno7777 · 6 days ago

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Birthday Wish Gone Right-Wing

Eric paced in tight, uneven loops around his small apartment, bare feet thudding against the scuffed hardwood. The blinds were only half-drawn, letting in a strip of dying golden light that painted the floor like a stage he didn’t want to be on. His shirt clung to his back—he hadn’t turned on the A/C—and there were stacks of student essays on his table, still ungraded, still full of the same half-hearted takes on The Crucible or Beloved. He could barely look at them. School was over, finally. The end of the year, and not a second too soon.

He was done. Done with chasing disengaged eyes across rows of desks. Done with trying to sneak empathy into Shakespeare or social justice into grammar lessons. These kids didn’t want it. Couldn’t care. They stared through him, all lit by the blue glow of their phones. They rolled their eyes, called everything “cringe,” parroted Fox News talking points like gospel. Eric had once imagined the next generation as curious, compassionate, queer-friendly. What he got was apathy and algorithm-fed certainty.

Earlier that morning, he had slipped a resignation letter under his principal’s door. Nothing poetic. Just two lines, polite and distant. He had no job lined up. No backup plan. Just an ache in his chest and an empty calendar.

Now he was trying to pull himself together.

He stepped into the bathroom and frowned at his reflection. His curls were limp with humidity. A soft crease had taken up permanent residence between his brows. He peeled off his sweat-stuck T-shirt and stood for a long moment, stomach slack, chest unshaven. He had gained weight—nothing dramatic, but enough to feel it in the way his favorite jeans resisted.

Still, it was his birthday. Thirty. The big one. He had to look cute.

In the background, he played Robyn’s Dancing On My Own—a bit on the nose, maybe, but cathartic. As the beat kicked in, he tried to match the energy, shimmying as he pulled on a mesh tank top under an oversized blazer. He ran a comb through his hair, spritzed himself with something citrusy, and stood in front of the mirror. "Not bad," he whispered, then quickly added, "Ugh, whatever," before turning away.

His apartment door slammed shut behind him, and he stepped out into the cooling night air. The city buzzed, but Eric felt detached from it all, like he was underwater. He took a rideshare to The Golden Fig, a familiar little gay bar with peeling rainbow stickers and a staff that knew him by name. He was late—but fashionably so. His friends would be waiting.

Only, they weren’t.

The place was nearly empty. A lone bartender polished glasses under soft blue lights. No Abby. No Alan. No one.

Eric stood frozen for a second before dragging himself to the bar, forcing a smile. “Hey. I’m supposed to meet some people? Birthday thing?”

The bartender—a skinny guy with kind eyes and glitter on his cheeks—gave him a look of sympathy. “Some chick named Abby called, said work ran late. And Alan? Said he double-booked. Sorry, man.”

Eric’s breath left his body like a deflated balloon. He slid onto a barstool, eyes darting toward the door as if someone—anyone—might still show. “Of course,” he muttered. “Of fucking course they bailed. Why not. Why should tonight be any different?”

The bartender hesitated, then reached under the bar and pulled out a small cake—store-bought, the frosting slightly smudged. Number 30, in pink-striped candles stood at the center.

“Make a wish, son,” he said, setting it in front of him.

Eric stared at the flame. It flickered, uncertain, like it might burn out at any moment.

He closed his eyes.

“I wish I could stop caring so much and just speak my mind like those kids do.”

And then he blew it out.

As the bartender’s face twisted into a knowing smile, something in the air shifted. The lights overhead began to flicker, a subtle, unsettling dance of bright and dark, as if the bar itself was caught between two realities. Eric felt it immediately—a strange tingling up his spine. His skin prickled, and sweat began to bead along his hairline. His stomach dropped, uneasy and uncertain.

But nothing happened.

For a moment, the world held its breath, and Eric thought, It’s fine. I’m just tired. I’m overthinking things. It’s just a weird coincidence. But as the seconds stretched on, his anxiety only grew. The flickering lights cast long shadows on the walls, the air growing dense, and he wiped his brow, trying to steady his racing heart.

In a moment of distraction, he poked his finger into the cake. The frosting, sweet and soft, clung to his skin, and instinctively, he brought his finger to his mouth. The moment it touched his lips, his stomach churned, and he pulled back, staring at the small smear of pink frosting.

But something was wrong. The sweetness on his tongue became almost too rich, too overpowering. His lips... they were swelling. A strange pressure was building in his mouth, like his own skin was stretching, expanding.

A slight frown tugged at his face, but it didn’t stay. Instead, his lips twitched—no, not a frown—a smile. A slow, cocky grin began to creep across his face, and he watched, horrified, as his lips puffed out, fuller and fuller. The shape of them was all wrong, suddenly plump and defined in ways they’d never been before.

"What the hell—" Eric muttered under his breath, his voice suddenly dropping an octave. A tremor ran through his throat, and his Adam’s apple twitched. He felt his whole body heat up, a surge of panic and confusion.

And then it started.

The years began to peel away like the layers of a rotting fruit, but instead of decay, they were reborn into something unfamiliar, something... new.

His eyes widened in disbelief. Thirty years old. And yet... he felt younger.

29… his mind whispered.

28… another soft pulse of change.

25... His body was already altering, expanding, transforming at an alarming rate.

Then, at last—21. His skin, taut and smooth, felt different, as if every line he’d ever known, every wrinkle beneath his eyes had been scrubbed away. It wasn’t just his face; his whole body seemed to have become ageless, reversing years of wear and tear in a matter of seconds. His muscles—once soft and unremarkable—began to tighten, compacting in a way he’d never experienced. He could feel his ribs subtly shifting, his chest expanding, the slow formation of thick, sculpted pecs pushing against his shirt.

He gasped, his breath coming out in jagged bursts, as his legs thickened and swelled with muscle. His quads bulged, calves becoming hard and defined as veins snaked over the surface of his skin. His frame grew, inch by inch, and the weight of his new form sent shockwaves through his spine.

"What the hell, bro…" he muttered, unable to keep the words from tumbling out, his voice deep and gravelly, the words echoing in the heavy air. His chest, now a solid wall of muscle, rose and fell with each breath. His arms, veins twitching, seemed to grow with every heartbeat, swelling with biceps that could rival a bodybuilder’s. Each movement was accompanied by the creak of strained fabric as his shirt became tighter and tighter, every inch of his new frame demanding attention. His pecs, impossibly defined, shifted like boulders beneath his skin, drawing every eye in the room—even though there was no one but the bartender to witness it.

His face—sharp, chiseled now—was like a living sculpture. His jawline had sharpened, the softness of his former face replaced with angles that screamed power. The smile that tugged at his lips was no longer innocent. It was confident, cocky, even arrogant.

But then something else—something darker—sank in.

The stench. A thick, overpowering odor that hit him like a slap across the face. The air in the bar grew rancid—like Axe body spray and used gym socks, and... oh god, protein shakes, the kind that had been left sitting in a locker for far too long.

And then it happened.

A loud, wet RPPPPPPPPFFFT filled the space. Eric froze, his newly defined body tense, as the fart—a thick, disgusting sound—echoed through the empty room. The foul smell that followed was enough to make him gag, but what made it worse was the way his own body betrayed him, his mind already swirling, his thoughts struggling to stay grounded as the air grew thick with the stench. The fog of his new life began to creep in, his thoughts burning away with every passing second.

As the fog pressed in on him, memories—his past life—began to slip away, one by one, as if his old self was dissolving, being torn apart and replaced by someone else.

I was a teacher, he thought briefly. Wasn’t I?

The faces of his students, his friends, even the warmth of his childhood home began to blur, disappearing into the fog. The milestones of his life—campaigning for Obama, the joy of gay marriage becoming legal, his love for Gaga, the pride he felt at every Pride parade—all gone.

He struggled to hold onto something, anything. But it was slipping through his fingers, faster than he could stop it.

And just as everything faded to black, his body—his new body—began to move, standing tall, around six feet, every inch of muscle and power flowing seamlessly together. His movements were fluid, confident, like a man who knew his body, knew his strength, and knew the effect it had on the world.

The fear in his eyes—barely there now—was replaced with a cocky, smug sense of superiority, and his whole presence commanded the space.

But somewhere, deep inside, something was missing.

Eric could feel the stench slowly creeping up on him, leeching into his skin, dragging everything that once mattered into the abyss. It began faintly at first—just a whisper of sourness in the air—but with each passing second, it thickened, curling around him like a toxic fog, suffocating his thoughts. He felt his memories slip away as though they were being erased by a hand, strong and unyielding, pulling them out of his mind. His once-cherished recollections of being a teacher, of helping students find their potential, of sharing tender moments with cute twinks or kind bears, began to wither. The stench grew more pungent, invasive, and brutal.

The voice started as a murmur in the back of his mind, but it grew louder, harsher, until it drowned out everything else. It was crude and relentless, filling his head with aggressive, narrow-minded thoughts that he’d never had before.

“What the hell is wrong with you, bro? You’re weak. All that caring shit? It’s for losers. You’re a man. Real men don’t care about feelings, they take what they want, when they want it. Forget about those cute guys you used to date. They don’t matter. You’re better than that.”

Each word felt like a punch to the gut. The empathy, the kindness he once held close, was replaced with an overpowering arrogance. His old self—who'd fought for equality and embraced kindness—was fading fast, torn away by this new persona that was pushing itself into his mind with every second.

“What the hell are you even doing, Eric? You think you’re still some kind of teacher, a smart guy with ideas? Ha. That’s for weaklings. You don’t need that. You need strength. Real strength. Big muscles. Everyone needs to see that you’re a fucking powerhouse.”

Eric clenched his fists. No, I don’t want this, he thought, but the words felt so distant now, like his own thoughts were sluggish, too slow to fight back.

“Oh, come on, man. Don’t kid yourself. You don’t care about helping people. You care about flexing. About being something. You don’t need to be smart. You don’t need to be kind. All that matters is what you can show off. Look at those muscles! Look at how strong you are! You’re an alpha, baby. That's the real world. Everything else is just for the weak.”

Eric felt the very fabric of his being stretch, warp, and harden. His body continued to transform—muscles bulging, his frame expanding. But it wasn’t just his physique that was changing. His thoughts were becoming warped. His memories of peaceful walks in the park, of teaching his students with patience, were replaced with thoughts of domination, showing off, and asserting superiority. The more the voice egged him on, the more he felt like his soul was being twisted into something unrecognizable.

“Get in the gym. Make your muscles your identity. The only thing that matters is power. It’s all about what you can lift, how you look, and how loud you can scream about it.”

Eric’s frown flickered, the corner of his mouth twitching up as his lips swelled, full and thick, the signs of his transformation becoming more apparent. "Nooo...Nooo...this isn't me" he whimpered to no one in particular. His body was no longer the soft, scrawny frame of a teacher who'd once enjoyed intellectual conversations. No, now he was someone who cared about being seen, about proving his dominance. His chest swelled with every breath, muscles straining against his clothes, veins bulging as his arms pumped with newfound strength.

He tried to push it away. He remembered teaching—I was good at it. I helped kids, he thought, but the memory felt like it was drifting away, like it was something that belonged to someone else. Instead, his mind latched onto the idea of being tough, of being loud, of being right. The more he tried to fight it, the more the fog deepened, pulling at him like quicksand.

“You’re a man, E, not some pansy ass fag” the voice coos, a deep, rasping tone vibrating through his skull. “You’ve always known it. Real men are strong. They don’t cry. They don’t care about what those ‘snowflakes’ think. They stand tall in their beliefs, especially in their faith. You’ve always been a man of God, right? You just forgot. This is the truth—what you were meant to be. A Christian man standing tall, proud, unwavering.”

Eric’s hands clench into fists. He tries to breathe, to push the voice away, but it latches onto him like a parasite, its words more insistent now. "You know what God says. Strength. Power. Protect what's yours. This is what being a Christian is all about—taking control, being the leader, not some weakling begging for forgiveness. You’re not some passive little boy asking for ‘equal rights’ or ‘fairness.’ You’re a warrior for Christ. A man who takes charge of his destiny."

But Eric, fighting to hold onto the person he once was, tries to block it out, to reject it. His memories of compassion, of kindness, of walking into a classroom and seeing the potential in his students, of dating the guys who challenged him in soft, thoughtful ways—they feel like echoes, fading and disintegrating under the weight of the voice. He grits his teeth, trying to cling to the slivers of his humanity.

"I’m not like this," he mutters to himself. "I’m not a... that guy. I care about people. I’m... I’m not like them."

The voice laughs, low and mocking, like a cruel joke Eric doesn’t get. "Oh, Eric," it sneers, the words laced with contempt. "Don’t kid yourself. You're better than them. You were never one of those weak liberals, those ‘snowflakes.’ You’re meant to stand for something. America’s greatness. The American Dream—the kind that comes with strength, power, pride. You think those little ‘woke’ liberals have any idea about what it means to be a man? To be strong? To stand up for America? Nah. You’re smarter than that. You’ve seen the truth. You know who the real enemy is, don’t you? You know it’s the soft ones, the ones who tear down everything good—those feminists, those liberals, those weak men who don’t know how to stand tall."

Eric tries to block out the voice, but the floodgates have opened. The stench gets stronger, more potent, thickening in the air. His chest tightens as he can feel it, feel himself slipping. The memories of kindness, of love, slip away, replaced with the cold, harsh reality the voice insists on.

“You’re not weak, Eric,” the voice continues, its tone growing more forceful. “You’re a man—a man of God, a man of the flag. MAGA. God, Guns, and Glory. That’s what you stand for. That’s what you will stand for. You don’t need to hide it anymore. Look at you. You’re strong. You’ve got the body, the brawn. Flex it. Show them who’s in charge. You’ve got the strength to take it all.”

Eric’s body trembles as the words hit him. His muscles, once toned from regular workouts, swell and grow. The mirror in front of him reflects a new version of himself: massive biceps, broad shoulders, a chest that’s too big for his shirt. His veins pulse with thick, hot blood. The physical transformation is undeniable, but it’s the mental one that hits hardest. The voice is relentless.

“You’re a Christian man, bro. And you know what the Bible says. Women? They’ve got their place. Behind the man. Supporting him. And you, you are meant to lead. You are meant to take control. You’re no longer the weak, kind-hearted teacher. You’re a protector, a warrior, a true man who knows what this country needs. The liberals? The ‘woke’ crowd? They don’t know anything. They’re just trying to destroy everything that makes America great. You’re the one who gets it. You’re the one who stands tall with your beliefs. Protecting your country, your values, your family. They’re all weak, Eric. They’re all wrong. But you? You’re right. You’ve got the strength. You’ve got the power.”

“No,” Eric whispers, desperate now. “This isn’t me. This isn’t what I believe.”

The voice scoffs, growing nastier, more mocking. "Oh please. You think you’re better than this? You think your ‘compassion’ and ‘equality’ matter? It’s all a lie, Eric. They’ve been feeding you this garbage your whole life. You were raised soft. You were told you should feel for everyone. But that’s not what the world needs. The world needs power, it needs strength, it needs men like you to lead it back to what it was meant to be."

Eric fights back, his chest heaving with frustration. The pull of the voice is strong, but the last bits of him try to hold onto what he knows deep inside—what he used to believe. He’s not this. He’s not the arrogant, conservative brute the voice wants him to be. But the voice only grows louder, more insistent, drowning out his resistance.

“You think the liberals care about you?” the voice snarls. “They want to destroy you, dEn. They want to take everything from you. Your country, your faith, your rights. They want you to be weak, to bend to their will. But you? You’re stronger than that. You’re a MAGA man. A Christian man. You’ve got the strength, the power, the conviction. You’re a warrior for your faith, your beliefs, your America.”

Eric’s mind is a battlefield now. The voice claws at him from all sides, feeding him lies, twisting truths, turning every ounce of goodness in him into something ugly. He wants to scream, to push back, but every time he does, the voice gets louder, the grip tighter, its words venomous, cruel.

“You know the truth, dEn,” it sneers. “You’ve been too nice for too long. Now it’s time to take back what’s yours. You stand tall, you stand proud, and you never back down. You are the real man. You are America’s future.”

The scent grows thicker, and Eric feels it—he’s slipping. The person he used to be, the kind-hearted man who cared about others, who believed in compassion and understanding, is slipping away. The weight of the voice presses down on him like a mountain. He tries to fight, but each moment that passes makes it harder to breathe, harder to think.

And then, all at once, the voice erupts in a triumphant roar:

“You are the alpha, CaydEn. You are the future. The world bends to those who are strong, who believe in the real truth. The Christian truth. The MAGA truth. Power, strength, and no apologies.”

In that moment, Eric Cayden knows—he’s losing. The person he was is slipping away, replaced by a man who lives for power, who screams America First at the top of his lungs, who looks at everyone else as weak, as inferior. And no matter how much he fights, he’s trapped. The voice has won.

“That’s it, bro. Let ‘em all know you’re here. Show them how powerful you are. You don’t have to be polite or kind. Fuck all that. You’re strong. You’re the loudest, the biggest, the best. And you’re not going anywhere but up.”

Eric’s Cayden's thoughts began to fade into a blur of aggression and arrogance. The memories of his Gridnr dates, his kind-hearted moments, slipped away like they were never his to begin with. He now owned the space around him. He owned this new body. He owned his ego, his strength, his loud opinions. The person he once was—the one who cared about others, who worked hard not for glory but because he believed in something better—was gone. In its place was this man who existed for the sole purpose of being the loudest voice, the strongest presence.

He saw himself now as the ultimate authority—a MAGA-loving, flexing, gym-obsessed alpha. A man whose only interests were dominating the conversation, showing off his body, and feeding into the endless cycle of shallow validation. His brain became consumed with the idea of being seen, being heard, being the biggest, the best, the loudest.

“You think they care about your old self? Fuck no. You’re a goddamn force now. You’re going to make everyone listen to you. They’ll all respect you because you’re the strongest, the most powerful.”

The stench of sweat and arrogance clung to him now, becoming inseparable from his very being. His old life, the one full of care, connection, and genuine emotion, was obliterated, replaced by this new, toxic version of himself. The voice in his head didn't stop. It would never stop. It told him again and again, “You’re not weak. You’re better than everyone. You deserve everything.”

The smell hit him again—acrid, rank, like a mix of gym socks, expired Axe, and cheap protein powder left too long in the sun. Eric—no, Cayden now—grinned without realizing it, his lips parting into a dumb, cocky smirk. He didn’t even mean to laugh, but when that foul, rumbling RPPPFFFFFT tore out of him, echoing off the walls of the empty bar, he doubled over giggling like a drunk frat boy.

The bartender wrinkled his nose but didn’t flinch. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and asked dryly, “You got ID, son?”

Cayden—still half-confused, still vaguely aware something wasn’t right—dug into his skin-tight joggers. The wallet he pulled out wasn’t his. The ID inside wasn’t his. It read: Cayden J. Ryle, Age 18. The photo? A perfectly tanned, square-jawed meathead flashing a smug look, backwards cap on his buzzed head. Eric’s heart sank, but Cayden’s brain lit up.

“Oh, this one?” Cayden said with a chuckle, not even caring that it was obviously fake. “Bro, I use this everywhere. Works like, 90 percent of the time.”

The bartender shook his head. “Not tonight, kid. Go on.”

Cayden stepped outside into the humid night, ID still in hand. For a brief moment, he looked at it—and something clicked. A rush of thoughts and feelings that didn’t belong to Eric at all spilled into him like a glitchy download:

Youth pastor retreats. Gym selfies with American flags in the background. Sunday morning protein shakes with verses from Corinthians as captions. "Libtard owned" comments under TikToks. Reposts of shirtless flexing videos with ironic Bible quotes. Screaming “let’s go Brandon” at rallies.

His life wasn’t a story of passion and teaching anymore. It was a collection of gym passes, Snapchat streaks, and "based" hot takes yelled into the void.

And Cayden? He didn’t care. Not even a little.

He popped open TikTok with muscle-memory ease. The camera flipped on, and with that same idiot smirk, Cayden tilted his chin, letting his backward snapback cast a perfect shadow over his brow.

“Yo,” he said to the camera, already flexing one arm. “Just got kicked outta some bar for bein’ too jacked and too based, bro. These libs out here can’t handle real men no more. Like bro, sorry your soy latte doesn’t come with testosterone, my guy.”

He laughed—loud, obnoxious, unbothered.

The likes started rolling in. Comments from other bros hyping him up. Cayden didn’t even read them—he just let the dopamine wash over him like pre-workout.

He wandered without thinking, pulled by instinct. Neon signs faded behind him. He didn’t remember where he was going, but his feet knew.

The gym doors stood open, fluorescent lights humming like a holy beacon. Cayden swaggered inside, already stripping off his hoodie to show the world what real masculinity looked like.

Cayden bursts into the gym, his body already dripping with sweat and emanating a pungent aroma that turns heads. The stench of his unwashed clothes and unbathed skin permeates the air, a noxious blend of stale deodorant and pure body odor. He's clearly skipped a few showers, his greasy hair plastered to his forehead. As he moves to the chest press, the smell intensifies, assaulting nearby gym-goers.

His arms, beefy and veiny from years of lifting, bulge as he grunts through his reps. The veins pop out, pulsating with each lift, a roadmap of masculinity etched into his flesh. His chest, heaves with each breath, the sweat pouring off him in rivulets. Suddenly, his gaze locks onto a blonde goddess on the treadmill.

His eyes widen as he takes in the blonde bombshell on the treadmill. Her hair, a golden cascade, bounces gently with each step, framing a face that's a perfect mix of innocence and seduction. Her breasts, firm and round, strain against her tight sports bra, bouncing hypnotically with her movements. They're the kind of tits that could launch a thousand ships, or at least a thousand erections. Cayden's dick twitches in his shorts, a tent forming that he makes no effort to conceal.

He swaggers over to the treadmill, his gait a mixture of confidence and clumsiness. The smell of him precedes him, a noxious cloud that wraps around the blonde like an unwanted hug. He leans against the machine, his sweaty arm brushing against hers. "Hey there, babe" he drawls, his voice thick and grating. "You look like you could use a break.

"Those tits of yours are distracting the hell outta me," Cayden continues, his eyes glued to her chest. "I bet they're real, unlike most of these silicone bitches around here." He reaches out, as if to touch her, his grimy fingers hovering inches from her skin. "You wanna grab a protein shake with me, doll? I'll show you my… muscles," he says with a lecherous grin, flexing his arm to emphasize his point. The veins bulge grotesquely, a map of his arrogance etched into his flesh. His breath, heavy with the scent of stale coffee and bad decisions, washes over her. "Come on, sweetheart. I'm the best thing that's ever happened to this gym. You're lucky I'm even talking to you." His hand moves to his crotch, adjusting himself blatantly. "See what you do to me? "Don't be a fucking tease," Cayden growls, his patience wearing thin. "I know you want a piece of this." He grabs her arm, his grip tight and painful. "You think you're too good for me? I've fucked girls way outta your league, sweetheart." His other hand grabs her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I bet you're a virgin, ain't ya? Probably never even seen a real dick before." He presses his erection against her hip, grinding crudeley. "This is what you're missing out on. I'll fuck you so hard, you'll forget your own name." His eyes narrow, spotting a gay couple working out nearby ."Look at those fags over there," he sneers. "Probably wishing they had a real man like me. You're lucky I'm straight, babe.

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saturno7777 · 7 days ago

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Poolside Shift

Evan Reynolds had it all—ivy league education, Wall Street prestige, a swanky condo with floor-to-ceiling windows, and a body built by discipline. Every morning was a cold brew, every night a cocktail, and every weekend a new guy in his bed. But lately, the tailored suits and sterile meetings were starting to feel… dull.

That’s when he met Luca.

Luca was barely 22, a flirty twink with glittering eyes and a mischievous smile, who Evan picked up at a rooftop bar after a long day of trading. There was something irresistible about him—his youthful confidence, his teasing way of speaking. Evan thought he was in control, as always, but it turned out Luca had other plans.

They stumbled back to Evan's place, clothes hitting the floor before the door clicked shut. Luca whispered strange things into his ear as he rode Evan hard—something about shedding his skin, about becoming real, about letting go. Evan was too drunk on lust to care.

He passed out, dazed and sweaty, his chest heaving.

When he woke up, the condo was gone. He was outside, under a blazing sun. The scent of chlorine filled his nose. Birds chirped in palm trees.

He sat up, confused. His arms looked darker—deeply bronzed. His hands were laeger, rougher. He blinked at his reflection in the pool.

Gone were his pale, clean-cut features. In their place: tanned skin that shimmered with sweat, a square jaw lined with the perfect stubble, dark curls tucked under a navy cap. His shoulders were broader, his chest thicker, his abs popping like he lived at the gym. His cock—oh god—it was huge, uncut, and hungry. He felt the weight of it, thick and heavy in his tight blue shorts.

He stumbled to his feet.

“Morning, Diego,” Luca’s voice purred behind him.

Evan spun around—his mind reeled, yet his cock twitched.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” he growled—but the words came out with a rich Latin accent.

“I made you mine,” Luca said with a wicked smile. “No more suits. No more spreadsheets. You’re exactly what the world needs now. A sweaty, sexy, horny pool boy with a thick cock and no inhibitions.”

Luca tossed him a skimmer pole.

“You’ve got three houses today. And the husbands? They tip very well.”

Something inside Diego—Evan—burned with resistance. But as the sun kissed his brown skin and his cock swelled with morning wood, the memory of Wall Street began to fade…

…and all he could think about was which husband he’d fuck first.

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saturno7777 · 7 days ago

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Poolside Shift

That’s when he met Luca.

He passed out, dazed and sweaty, his chest heaving.

When he woke up, the condo was gone. He was outside, under a blazing sun. The scent of chlorine filled his nose. Birds chirped in palm trees.

He sat up, confused. His arms looked darker—deeply bronzed. His hands were laeger, rougher. He blinked at his reflection in the pool.

He stumbled to his feet.

“Morning, Diego,” Luca’s voice purred behind him.

Evan spun around—his mind reeled, yet his cock twitched.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” he growled—but the words came out with a rich Latin accent.

Luca tossed him a skimmer pole.

“You’ve got three houses today. And the husbands? They tip very well.”

Something inside Diego—Evan—burned with resistance. But as the sun kissed his brown skin and his cock swelled with morning wood, the memory of Wall Street began to fade…

…and all he could think about was which husband he’d fuck first.

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saturno7777 · 7 days ago

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Pec worship💪

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saturno7777 · 8 days ago

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Waking

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saturno7777 · 8 days ago

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RP Wanted

Hey there! I'm looking for brave guys to rp as the hunk, the jock, the bodybuilder or the alpha they have always wanted to be.

So this is the deal: just go to my DMs and be the guy you have always wanted! Let's have some fun! 😏

#musclegrowth #reality change #body swap

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saturno7777 · 9 days ago

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saturno7777 · 15 days ago

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Hey! My gay bestie and I got invited to a frat halloween party by some dumb straight jock and he sent us some costumes to "be more confortable in the party" but in the box he gave us theres just some caps and some shorts. Should we go? And I think this is a trick.

You’re right. You’re certain of it. This whole thing, you are your best friend being invited to a party by a bunch of stereotypical jocks, is definitely a trick. Specifically, those caps and shorts are a trick. Or they're at least a part of one. You can tell by the barely hidden mischievous grin on the face of the frat boy handing these costumes to the both of you that it’s definitely some sort of prank. Maybe itching powder or something? Still, if you or your bestie Jamie turn down the costumes, you can bet that they’ll probably do something worse. The two off you head to the bathroom, whispering to each other as you do

“I’m not putting on this hat. Baseball caps are so tacky! Only douchebags wear backwards caps like that. Plus they probably put glue in it or something.” You said, scowling slightly as you looked at the unassuming but somehow threatening hat. Jamie giggled slightly next to you “Personally I’m not worried about the cap as much as I am about the shorts. What if they put itching powder or something in there? Or what if they’ve worn them before! So grody!” Jamie said, wincing at the thought of wearing someones used, sweaty shorts. You laughed slightly at the look on his face. Then, like lightning, a thought occurred to you. You grinned at Jamie as you explained.

“You know what? How about we see whose right. You only put on the hat, and I only put on the shorts. We know it's a prank so we might as well have some fun with it. Whoever suffers less, gets a favor from the other. Deal?” You asked. Jamie considered this for a moment, looking uncertain… before grinning

“Okay hun. Let's do this.” He said. With the bet in place, Jamie handed you one of the pairs of shorts he had been carrying and you headed into the bathroom while he stayed outside to put on one of the caps. You felt a little embarrassed as you stripped off your pants (and shirt because the jocks had insisted every guy be shirtless), and tried not to look at your lithe body in the mirror. You slid the shorts up onto your body… and felt something like lightning shoot through your body. While, not your body. Your legs. Like magic, they began to inflate with a mix of muscle and fat. Your calves looked incredible, your thighs were thick with muscle, your cock grew to obscene proportions, thick and meaty, and best of all was your ass. It could only be described as a bubble butt. Thick and juicy and delicious. From the ass down, you were a Greek god. You’d be incredibly turned on… if you weren’t freaking out. What the heck had just happened? Was this some kind of allergic reaction? You were going to scream for help… when a dull knocking was at the door. Numbly, you opened it up… and found something shocking.

It was Jamie. Or, Jamie’s legs. From the waist down it was obvious he was the same skinny flamboyant gay guy you had gone to the party with. But from the waist up… he was exactly like one of the dumb frat boy jocks who had invited you to this party. The same beefy pecs that you almost wanted to call tits, the same huge biceps, the same thick bodybuilder neck, and the same dumb grin and dull eyes that had nothing but thoughts of muscle and sex behind them. You stuttered as you tried to take in the scene before you “J-Jamie?” You asked in shock. The dumb jock laughed dully, like you had just made a fart joke

“Nah bro, names James. J-bro if you wanna get nasty.” James said, flexing his muscles cockily.

One of the jocks who had given you guys the costumes, Brock, approached the two of you, a happy grin on his face, that quickly evaporated as he saw what was before him

“Oh fuck! What did you two do?!”

After a lot of freaking out and accusations – and some inappropriate groping of your ass by James – The three of you were finally able to figure out what happened. You and Jamie were right to think it was a prank, but it was much bigger than either of you had thought. The cap and shorts were supposed to turn you both into the perfect frat boy jocks who would join the frat, but because you two had mixed your clothing and split one set instead of using both, you had both been… half jocked. You got the bottom half, including a muscular ass, legs, and big feet, while Jamie got the top half, including beefy pecs, muscular arms, rippling abs, a chiseled face and a jock's brain. It quickly became apparent there wasn’t any way to turn you back, at least not one the jocks would give you, and they couldn’t transform you any further.

You definitely got the short end of the stick. While James, as he now called himself, didn’t get the leg muscles, muscular ass or the huge cock, he was able to fix most of that through hard work. Jocks love working out, so with his new personality becoming a frat boy completely was almost inevitable. The only thing he couldn’t change was the cock, and as it turns out James was never a slouch in that area to begin with. He wasn’t as big as some of the other jocks, but no one could say he was small. You, however, got the jock libido and a huge, fuckable ass, with none of the showy muscles or charm. Without the jock attitude and work ethic your leg muscles faded pretty quickly. Except for your ass. See, despite the jocks plan not having worked out as they thought it would, they did accept both of you into the frat to try and help you with your changes, and while you struggled with the leg workouts they showed you, you found you loved squats.

So, you ended up a horny gay twink with a bubble butt and a big cock, while your best friend Jamie turned into a complete douchebag jock named James. To your surprise, you both fit in great with the frat boys now. They are not as straight as you assumed, and now you’re basically the frat cum dump. With your libido, you basically have to be, cause when you’re not being fucked you can barely think. So you’re the frats favorite fuckable twink now, at least when you’re not busy getting fucked by your boyfriend James. Turns out he didn’t change as much as you thought, and his old crush on you blossomed into a passionate relationship. No one got what they expected, and how you got to this point was a little fucked up, but when you’re being railed by J-bros thick cock as he smacks your bubble butt and kissed you lovingly, you can’t find it in yourself to care.

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saturno7777 · 16 days ago

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saturno7777 · 16 days ago

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Drink Your Milk (Part 1)

(Part 2/Part 3)

Nothing can defeat the subconscious. Once tapped into you can become completely addicted to just about anything without even realising. These things can change you until you are unrecognisable from your old self, and you wouldn’t even know you were changing. That’s not to say these changes are always bad though…

Take milk for example. You never drank it much, especially not by itself. That was until recently. One day, advertisements for milk started appearing everywhere around you. On your social media feed, on billboards you pass by for work, and even places you wouldn’t expect like on the sides of vending machines in your local gym. You didn’t realise that these were popping up so frequently, or even that they had one specific thing in common. They were all advertised alongside very attractive, masculine men. This worked quite well on you as you not only wanted to be those men, you wanted to be with those men. You lusted for them, and by association you lusted for milk. Which brings you to today, leaving the supermarket with a gallon of milk proudly swinging by your side.

You had worked out earlier today, so you were naturally quite thirsty. Why not take a sip of that delicious milk you are carrying? You feel very odd as you uncap the bottle of milk and drink straight from it in public. It feels almost taboo. As the milk hits your lip you realise just how thirsty you are and you can’t take it away from your lips. You tip the bottle back further and further as you gulp loudly in succession. You let out a satisfied ahhh and wipe the residue milk off your moustache as you finish your big chug, oblivious you had drunk almost half of the gallon. That shame you had before now mixes with a feeling of arousal. You felt hot chugging that milk like a man, and you oddly enjoyed the stares you got.

You strut into your apartment building with a new sense of confidence. You have no clue as to why you feel so good, but you feel on top of the world. You and a few other residents get into the elevator together. The elevator is quite small so it feels crowded. It doesn’t bother you as much as usual, and instead you check yourself out in the elevator’s mirror. Wow, your chest looks much bigger than usual! Strange given it was actually leg day for you today, so you are not expecting your pecs to have a pump.

You are so excited you put the milk on the floor and shamelessly play with your pecs, not caring about what the others in the elevator think. You smile and pick the bottle of milk back up off the floor. As you do you unscrew the cap and chug the rest of the milk. The elevator arrives at your floor right as you finish off the milk. UUUURRRP! Your loud, obnoxious burp clears your pathway and you strut out the elevator ignoring the faces of disgust.

You haphazardly throw the empty bottle of milk on the ground once you get into your apartment. Without thinking you head straight for the fridge not even knowing what you are looking for. Your roommate Riley’s bottle of milk catches your eye. You go to grab it but you hesitate. Maybe I shouldn’t drink it without telling him, you think, but a rumble in your belly is enough to convince you that he wouldn’t mind if you had a sip. It was a fresh gallon of milk and you almost feel bad as you break the seal and start drinking.

Gulp, gulp, gulp. It’s so good I can’t stop. Gulp, gulp, gulp. Damn, I better stop soon. I've almost had half. Gulp, gulp, gulp. Well, I’ll leave at least a quarter and then I can just buy him another one tomorrow. Gulp, gulp, gulp! Shit, it’s almost empty. Just one last bit then I’ll stop. Gulp!

BUUUURRRP! The bottle of milk crashes onto the floor; its cap bounces a few times before rolling away. The bottle is bone dry and a milky stench lingers about the room. PFFFFFFFT. The stench grows stronger and fouler.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! The residents in the apartment below hear what sounds like a giant stomping. Up above a six foot slab of muscle, freshly thickened by an inhuman two gallon milk binge, jumps up and down in joy. Attached are two meaty shelves that bounce like jelly and have mat of dark hair that was not there earlier in the day. A chiselled jaw above is also covered with a darker and thicker fuzz. Beads of sweat rain down from the glistening figure and form a damp patch on the carpet.

BRRAAAUUUURRRP! A thunder-like roar is heard in each apartment on the floor and signals the end of the thumping that shakes the floor like an earthquake.

Two days later.

Riley returns home from work and opens the door to his shared apartment. “What the hell!” He says gagging as a wave of foul odour crashes into him, burning his nostril hairs. The floor of the apartment has been turned into a sea of empty bottles of milk. A mound of stinky, sweaty, hairy, beefy muscle sits on the now stained sofa. Riley does not recognise what he is looking at.

Two days prior, Riley returned to find that his bottle of milk had been finished off. A replacement bottle was bought for him, but that too had been demolished by the time he came home. The next day two apology bottles were bought but Riley took matters into his own hands by buying himself a bottle. All three were empty and lying on the floor alongside two more bottles when he got home yesterday. A frustrated Riley cleaned up the mess and freshened the musty apartment while the culprit snored loudly in its bedroom. Today, Riley returns with a new bottle of milk that he has no plan on sharing.

PFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTT! The fart starts out slow and airy, ramping up the loudness and intensity over a ten second period. It hits Riley’s nose before it's finished, his eyes water and he coughs uncontrollably. It’s a putrid smell that completely overwhelms his senses but the milky aftertaste in the back of his throat leaves him with some cravings. Riley takes the opportunity now to drink his milk, something he hasn’t been able to do for a few days. However, a powerful force snatches away the bottle before he can unscrew the cap. Riley ducks as the cap is thrown over him without regard.

GLUG! GLUG! GLUG! An entire gallon is consumed in just three glugs. One more bottle joins the countless others on the floor, not a single drop left amongst them. “No!” Riley whines. “Please, I need some milk. Just a little bit!”

BWWWOOOOOOOOUUUUUURRRRRP!!! Riley’s hair blows back from the blast. The sound reverberates through the whole building and a few residents suspect a small earthquake has hit the area. Riley’s body is tingling from shock and his nose so overpowered he is beyond gagging or coughing. The stench only sends one message to Riley’s brain: milk.

There is only one place left that Riley can think of to get milk. He pulls down the damp material that covers the lower half of the swollen sofa beast and reveals a long and girthy piece of meat. Desperate, Riley shoves it into his mouth. It is so salty and tangy that on a usual day Riley would gag before it even reached his mouth, but today he wants it more than anything. He slides it in and out of his mouth quickly, hoping to dispense the milk hidden inside as soon as possible. Two strong hands, each bigger than his head, help him out by slamming the meat deep into his throat and then back out again.

As Riley’s throat is being destroyed he turns his gaze upwards. UUUURRRP! Two gigantic jugs of beefy muscle slosh up and down with each thrust. Riley thinks about drinking milk from those and the thought almost makes him bust. BRRAAAAP! Above the bouncing muscles, there is a thick beard of hair that had grown from just some stubble a few days prior. Riley knew logically what he was looking at but was unable to connect it to the face and body he had known for so long. BWOOOORRRP! The thrusts get deeper, harder and faster, and his throat stretches more than he thought possible. He cannot breathe but he knows he is so close to getting what he wants.

BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRP!!!! With the ear-shattering noise an eruption of thick milk pumps into Riley. It is everything he needed and more. The stream does not stop after one pump, and Riley feels himself bloating fast. After a couple of gallons have been deposited into Riley, he crashes back into the sea of empty bottles. Passed out, he doesn’t feel his body thicken up rapidly and dark hairs sprout out from his chest and jaw.

(Part 2)

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