stheman

[stheman]

Finally free

[stheman]

THE ATTIC CLEAR OUT: HAIR GROWTH CREAM

It started with a late-night scroll through one of those local free stuff sites where people get rid of old VHS tapes, mismatched dinnerware, and “vintage” electronics that were probably just stolen, broken, or both. But as @stay-at-homedadblunders browses, one post caught his eye:

“Clearing out my attic, free stuff, come take it!”

The attached photo showed a dusty cardboard box filled with mostly junk, things like mason jars, old books, a... a small, unlabeled tube. The description was vague, but something about that tube made his fingers hover over the keyboard. Maybe it was the way it gleamed under the dim attic lighting in the photo, or the fact that the guy hadn’t even bothered to mention it. It was basically haphazardly chucked in with the rest, carelessly strewn atop some articles of clothing, as if chucked on last minute.

Probably just some expired ointment, he thought. But he messaged anyway.

The tube was smaller than it looked in the photo - about the size of a travel toothpaste, with a plain white label that had long since faded. The cream inside was thick, off-white, and smelled of cedar and something muskier, like aged leather. It honestly made him feel a little off smelling it, almost a bit high off the fumes. The thought it could be some kind of popper briefly popped in his mind, but he'd never heard of cream poppers before.

“Hair growth formula,” the guy had said with a shrug. “Never bothered to getting round to try it honestly, and eh, look at me now! Don't really need it” he chuckled.

He wasn’t exactly balding, but his hair had been thinning a little at the temples, and his "beard" (if you could even call it that) was patchy at best. So that night, after a shower, he rubbed a dab into my scalp and along his jawline, again feeling a little high at the strong overbearing scent.

The cream was oddly warm - almost alive - and it soaked into his skin with a tingling sensation that wasn’t quite unpleasant. Just... weird. Like his hair follicles were waking up after a long sleep, and writhing in a weird type of dance. He fell asleep without thinking much of it.

He woke up itchy, not just a little tingle but a deep, crawling itch across his scalp and face. He scratched at my jaw and felt stubble. Thicker than usual. Coarser. He stumbled into the bathroom and froze. His reflection stared back at me, but different. His hair, normally fine and straight, was darker and had a slight wave to it. And as for his beard, well, he ran a hand over his chin. What had the previous night been patchy scruff, was no a dense shadow of hair. And not just on his jaw, but crawling up his cheeks, thickening down his neck, and connecting roughly to his sideburns and hair in an almost mane of hair.

“Holy shit,” He muttered.

He ran a hand through his scalp, feeling the now much fuller hair, smooth and luscious like he'd just stepped out a salon. And as he flexed his arms absentmindedly, he didn't notice that it was all that little bit firmer, more defined. He told himself it was just the morning light, that he was hallucinating from the slightly high, addicting feeling the cream had given him when he used it. But that night, he applied it again, so excited and hooked on the feeling that it might be real, and craving that high it gave him, that he didn't even bother cleaning off the big blob he dropped on his chest as he did, instead just rubbing it into his skin till it soaked in like the rest.

The next day, the changes were impossible to ignore. His beard had filled in completely, now a thick dark carpet over his jaw, with a beautiful moustache crowning it. His chest, the previous day smooth, was now dotted with coarse curls. And his arms? Ohhh, his arms. He flexed in the mirror, watching the muscles shift under a new layer of hair. His forearms were covered - a dense pelt of dark fur thickening as it got closer to his wrists. His shoulders were broader, his chest stronger.

He caught a whiff of himself - musky, earthy, an intoxicating scent not unlike the cream, making his head spin again. He liked it, no. He loved it.

In a mad daze, he started applying the cream everywhere. His chest. His arms. His stomach. Back. Armpits. Legs. Crotch. Heck, even his feet weren't spared. With each application, each rub, the tingling spread deeper and deeper, rewriting him from the inside out, forcing out more and more hair, more and more beast, more and more MAN.

By the end of the week, he was a completely different man, unrecognisable. His beard an untamed mane, his chest a wall of fur, thick enough to bury his fingers in. His muscles were huge, especially his arms and legs, not just hairy, but practically furry, biceps almost as large as his head. He spent the fourth day simply rubbing himself, moaning and losing himself in the pleasure of feeling his hands run through that hair, the feeling of hard firm skin on hard coarse hair, letting himself swim in the high of his own scent, and that of the cream. When he wasn't doing that, he was eating, wolfing down everything, meat, eggs, whole blocks of cheese. By day five, the fridge was empty, everything in consumed by him. And when he wasn't eating, he was sleeping, his snoring rumbling and shaking the house.

He stopped questioning the cream, stopped wondering if this was all normal and if he was sane. By day six, he stopped thinking alltogether about anything from before the cream.

Why would he? It had always been this way, hadn't it? He'd never been different, he'd always been this beautiful, hairy bear of a man. The tube ran out by day seven, not that it mattered.

He stood in front of the mirror, running thick fingers through the dense fur covering his chest. His beard was a wild thing now, merging seamlessly with the pelt covering his shoulders, his pecs, his gut. His arms were tree trunks, every inch of them coated in hair. He smelled like a feral beast - sweat, musk, raw masculinity. And he fucking loved it. He flexed, watching the muscles ripple under the fur. "This is me." He growled, "Really me." The man in the mirror grinned, teeth sharp, eyes dark with satisfaction.

And for the first time in his life, he felt complete.

[stheman]

College Muscle-these guys show up on your door step. What do you do?

[stheman]

[stheman]

Gotta love 'Grey Sweatpants Season'

[stheman]

Vintage 1970s Grey Sweatpants Illustration

[stheman]

A Birthday Wish

"Why are you so surprised that you cannot read this, you're not Arab, you're a pale white American," Hashim said so casually with a knowing smirk

Hamad's eyes went wide as he realized that his complexion started to get lighter. Is this really happening???

"You're such a unique finding, Matt. It's not everyday you spotted a gay, muscular 245 lbs American frat bros in the wild, you know? But thankfully I grabbed that fat bouncy ass of yours in the club and made you mine ever since," Hashim said as he freely explored his world-building to create his boyfriend next perfect form in accordance to his fantasy

And just like that, Hamad found his body swell to match the description mentioned by Hashim. His muscle grown, his ass turned rounder and he felt this ghostly feeling of the tight hole getting looser by the second as muscle memories of receiving cocks in various shape entered his mind. He even started to lose his connection to the Hamad's name as it became a foreign entity that will be gone from his system soon with more information provided by Hashim

"Not only that, a gay, muscular 245 lbs American frat bros with domination kink by Arab men. That shit is the only thing that makes you really hard. Not other football bros tight ass that you pounced a couple times in the past. Not those expert cocksucking twink that didn't even manage to make you squirt one out. Only Arabs. What's up with that, huh? Guilt from your father and uncles tour of Iraq? Or are you just a big brute bottom after all, desiring to be handled by real men and since your first sight was a giant Arab cock of your dorm-mate in your freshman year, that's the only thing that filled your mind, am I right?"

All Hashim statement treated as the truth by the tranced Matt, his body and psyche conformed to all the statement Hashim said. As Matt found himself eventually cornered to the bed and fall on his back to the mattress, Hashim blown the candle to eventually finalize his wish and smirked

"Now, open up that mouth and make me the happiest man in my birth day. It's only right after all that I have a brand new toy to play with until my next's birthday. Say aaaa---"

[stheman]

Big Soles, Bigger Gains

[stheman]

Tuxedos 🤵💪

[stheman]

Keep combing again and again until all hair strands are tamed into compliance and until those comb lines are flawless

[stheman]

Gateway Drug: Luxury

You frowned at the little box of cigars your boyfriend had given you. “Try them, I promise they’ll change your whole perspective!” he’d said, nearly forcing them into your grasp.

He had decided to take you on a date to the opera for your six month anniversary. Sure, it was perfect for him, he came from a wealthy family and had the right clothes and the right etiquette for all of that. It had been a nightmare for you, showing up in your nicest business casual to sit through four hours of torturous high-pitched screaming. Fuck Wagner.

And then he had had the gall to give you cigars as your gift. You didn’t even smoke! But he had absolutely insisted, and now here you were. With a box of cigars on your dining room table, imported from some Latin American country where the workers were probably paid slave wages.

Well, at least they were free. You could just… keep them for a few days and then surreptitiously throw them away.

The next morning, there was a strange smell hanging in the air when you came out of your room. It was sharp and enticing, and just a little bit bitter. You found yourself craving to taste it as you explored the house, trying to find where it was coming from. Finally, you found yourself looking at the package of cigars on your dining room table. That must be where the scent was coming from.

It couldn’t hurt to try one, right? Your boyfriend did give them to you as a gift. Even though he could be a bit of a snob, you loved him dearly and he usually had your best interests at heart.

You dug up a lighter from the kitchen drawers and looked up a Wikihow article for lighting a cigar. It took a few tries, but you eventually got one trimmed, releasing even more of that rich, sensual smell. Chubbing up a bit in your loose pyjama shorts, you lit the cigar and took a drag on it.

Instantly, you were in love. You would need to thank your boyfriend for putting you onto this. You breathed out a cloud of thick smoke, enjoying the sensation as it filled your nostrils. The smell permeated your skin, and a tan rushed over your face, which slowly reshaped into a rougher, more masculine look. You ran a hand over your bleached buzz cut as you took another drag off the cigar. Yeah, it cost a few hundred dollars a month to maintain, but it was worth it to have that hard-edged look you were going for.

The clouds of smoke you breathed out rushed down your body, enriching your natural smell with the tang of cigar smoke as your muscles bulked up a bit. Nothing too extreme, just enough to show that you paid a good personal trainer and nutritionist to take care of your body. Tattoos also swirled over your darkening skin, beginning just below your jaw—why would you mess with such a perfect face?—and continuing on every inch of your body.

You grinned to yourself as you finished the first half of the cigar. Your boyfriend knew you so well. Sure, you bought yourself these cigars all the time, but it was nice to get something for free once in a while. Trust fund babies like you and your boyfriend were supposed to live it up while making other people pay for it as much as possible.

The thick clouds of smoke you were breathing out nearly obscured your body, they became so thick around your torso and legs. They thickened and transformed your flannel shorts and threadbare shirt into distressed designer jeans and a tailored T-shirt, both so heavily impregnated with the stench of cigar smoke that no amount of washing would get rid of the smell. Not that you washed your clothes that much, enjoying the rich scent of smoke, semen, and BO that you could build up on your body.

You finished off the first cigar and looked around. You knew this was your apartment, but suddenly it looked so… dingy and worthless. Was this how your boyfriend had felt every time he stayed over? There wasn’t even a pool table. It definitely wasn’t up to your standard. You looked longingly at the second cigar, but your bladder needed emptying first.

As you pissed, you looked disparagingly around the little bathroom you’d loved for years. All the thrifted or homemade decor was so tacky, old, and worthless. You deserved all new custom made items. And who needed deodorant or cologne? Between your body and your cigars, you had all the cologne you would ever need. You couldn’t wait to replace this whole place. It would be a pleasure to trash all of it.

The thought had your big Latino cock chubbing up. You decided not to tuck it back into your jeans, and just let it hang out as you headed back to the kitchen. You knew your old self would have been mortified to be showing off his hard on like this with the curtains open, but why not give the neighbours a show? It wasn’t like they could even afford the chain on your belt.

You grabbed your gold-plated phone off the counter. Your previous texts to your boyfriend were a servile, limp-dicked good night exchange full of emoticons. God, you had been such a little bitch. You texted your boyfriend: “Tried your cigars. Come get bred.”

He replied an instant later: “Yes, sir ;)”

You gave your phone a feral grin. So he’d known what the cigars would do, then? Or maybe his memories were changing too. It didn’t matter, you’d thank him all the same. Your dick jumped at the thought.

Idly stroking your hard-on, you grabbed the second cigar. You trimmed it with a confident hand and held it in your mouth to light it. This time, you prowled your apartment, blowing smoke at furniture and fixtures you couldn’t wait to get rid of.

It seemed to work. The smoke cloud obscured your cheap TV surrounded by old game consoles, and when it dissipated there was a state of the art entertainment theatre with a pristine PlayStation in its place. Of course, all a guy like you played was FIFA and Need for Speed. Your threadbare lounging chair was replaced with a premium leather armchair, the smell of smoke and sweat billowing off of it.

The apartment seemed to become bigger, though your memories of whatever shitty little shoebox it had been got hazier as you roamed. You found yourself in the expansive master bedroom, and laid down on the silk sheets to finish your cigar. You kicked off your loafers and sniffed your sweaty unwashed socks. There was a crystal ashtray next to the bed, but you grinned as you tapped ashes onto the bedspread. Cleaning was what you paid the staff to do, after all.

You were just finishing your cigar and contemplating practicing some pool shots in the adjoining entertainment room when the doorman sent you a notification. Your boyfriend was standing in the foyer, looking nervously around at the sleek, masculine decor of your mansion. As you watched the video feed, he wrinkled his nose at the smell of cigars and unwashed Latino musk that you made sure permeated the whole building. What a little bitch, you thought. He’d made you like this, so he could at least show some appreciation.

You buzzed the doorman to let your boyfriend up to your rooms. You fondled your big dick and balls hanging out of your pants as you thought about what you would do to him. There was still one cigar left, after all, and you could do with a rich, cigar-smoking bitch boy to dominate.

[stheman]

Two girls in the park part 1

[stheman]

[stheman]