sttsparkstf

[sttsparkstf]

The virus

[sttsparkstf]

THE BURGLAR

Every time Jake needed money for his beer and ciggies it was always so easy to break into a house and steal a few things that he could pass on to a fence. He knew each time the articles were probably worth a lot more than the fence claimed but it gave him a decent amount of money and stopped him having to do any work. He would always case an area and find out the houses where the occupants were out at work and so no chance of being caught out. He was good at his job. No point of doing anywhere that had housewives and kids around as you never knew when they might be back.

He had moved on to a new area of smart houses and was quick to find out the homes that were empty during the day. He also knew which ones had cameras as so many nowadays had something at their front door.

It was time to get into a place as his beer and ciggie money had run out. He had chosen the house. Medium size with a nice new car in the drive. As regular as clockwork the owner came out at 8.30 and went off to work. He was a tall muscular guy with a shaved head, not bad looking, and always in smart suits. There never seemed to be anyone else. Jake kept out the way and waited an hour until the owner had left and seeing no one else around slipped down the side of the drive and smirked as he could see an open window in the side of the house.

‘What a bloody fool that guy is, Makes my job so fucking easy!’

It took a minute before Jake was able to climb through the window as he preferred to take something he could put into his jeans. A quick survey round told him what an immaculate place he was in. Everything was washed up and everything in the right place. It all looked so new and perfect which meant there had to be a few things he could take with him. He put on his black latex gloves to make sure there were no possible fingerprints should he get the police in. Anyway nowadays the police were not bothered with break ins. They had other bigger issues to deal with and most of the time the police just said ‘Sorry we can’t help’. Still better not to have any fingerprints should some police dick think of being helpful.

There was nothing of particular interest in the downstairs part of the house. No silver just a few well chosen pieces which Jake had no idea of the worth and best to to leave as he preferred taking something that would fit into his jeans.

He moved quickly upstairs into what looked like the main bedroom. Again everything was in order and the bed perfectly made up. Nothing out of place.

Jake thought that there is always something next to be bed and he opened one of the drawers and immediately saw a very nice gold watch. Yes it was the real thing. That would be worth a few bob and a fence would give him good money for that. He popped it into his jeans. Lying on the dressing table was a bowl of money and not just coins. 

Christ there must be a £100 there. What an idiot leaving that lying around. Again Jake stuffed it into his pocket

‘Might as well check the wardrobe whilst I am here. Judging by that suit of his there might be some good gear and  I can get some money for.’

He opened up the first wardrobe and hanging there were suits and jackets and shirts all colour coordinated and all expensive materials.

Not Jake’s size but he grabbed a couple of jackets and thought he would at least get something for them.

He then opened the next wardrobe.

‘Fucking Hell ‘he exclaimed at what he saw. He then blacked out.

Jake’s eyes suddenly opened with a heavy smack across his face. Christ it hurt. Not knowing what was going on he blinked in the sunlight as he tried to open his eyes. The first thing he noticed was he was hardly able to breathe. Wedged inside his mouth was a leather ball on a strap making it impossible to speak or react. Secondly his hands we=re tied behind his back and his legs tied together. He was completely wedged into a chair. The pain in his head seared through his body. All he could do was meekly shake his head in the hope of easing the pain. As he began to focus he was aware of the owner of the house looming over him.

He stood with his legs apart and arms folded, in his smart suit and tie glaring down at Jake.

‘So you little runt, you thought you could easily break in and get away with some valuables. A right idiot you are. Wondered why you got in so easily? I saw you casing the house and knew exactly what you were up to. Not exactly subtle are you. So I left the side window open to help you out. Like a bee to a honeypot.

I just stopped the car down the road and walked back to give you a nice surprise and looks like I succeeded. Been having a good peep into my wardrobe? Not a good idea mate at least not for you. I can either call the police or you and I sort something out. As you can’t respond with that leather ball in your mouth I will make the decision for you.

You can sit tight and wait for what is about to happen to you. I will be back in a few minutes. Get your mind ready.’

Jake was now terrified. He had stumbled into a lion’s den. How fucking stupid was he not to think the open window seemed wrong. He was greedy for his money. He had no idea what the owner was going to do but it sounded as if some suffering was going to happen,

The door opened and the guy walked in. At first Jake thought it was someone else, the contrast was mind blowing

The guy now standing in front of him was in full skinhead gear. His shiny high Ranger boots with yellow laces, his bleachers which looked as if he had been poured into them with what looked like a third leg stretching down inside his groin. A huge thick cock forming a large bulge so much so that Jake could see the outline of his balls as well. A tight white T shirt under a green bomber jacket that fitted snugly to his massive frame. Gone was the suited businessman, now  a fierce some skin stood in front of him.

‘So you looked into my special wardrobe did you?.

Jake nodded.

‘I heard you shout Fucking hell before I thumped you. No one looks into that wardrobe of mine and if they do then they have to take the punishment. So you had better man up and take what’s coming to you. First of all while you are still gagged I am taking that head of hair away from you.’

The Skin took out the razor and as Jake tried to squirm The Skin slapped him hard across the face

‘You will fucking well do what I want and no shit, got that.’

Feeling the stinging pain across his face Jake could only sit and grunt through the gag as the razor ripped over his head the dark hair falling in bunches onto the floor. He could see the Skin not just smirking but he was certain the guys cock was starting to twitch down his leg.

‘Now a fine razor to take away all those spiky parts. Some shaving cream will help’ he said smearing the cream over the top. He then took a towel and wiped the scalp clean standing back to look at his work.

‘Not bad. This is just the beginning of your punishment mate. As The Skin said this he gave his crotch a good rub and Jake could see the bulge size getting bigger as it inched it way down the bleacher leg.

‘Now I am going to take off those ropes from your wrists and legs but don’t for one minute think of escaping or I will thump you so hard you will regret it for a long time to come. Anyway I have locked the door. Once I take these off stand up and take your clothes off all of them and hand them to me.’

 Jake still havdthe ball gag on and could say nothing but his facial expressions showed his pure anger.

As Jake stood up so he tried to move but got struck back with a punch in the face.

‘Another little move like that without my say so and you will have a broken nose. Perhaps not too bad though with the shaved head, eh? Now get your fucking clothes off.’

Jake meekly toom off his shiny chav trackie outfit and handed it over still standing in his white socks and underwear.

‘I said the whole lot.’

Jake did as he was told and handed them over standing stark naked in front of The Skin who then put his hands in the trackie pockets and pulled out the money and watch.

‘So this was all you managed to take and being as dumb as you are you probably thought you were taking away a high end watch. Sorry mate it’s a cheap replica which I set up for you. All a bit of waste for you.’

Then taking a pair of scissors The Skin started to cut up the trackie suit into pieces.

Jake went to attack the Skin but when the Skin too the scissors and aimed them at him he knew he could well get stabbed such was the authority of his prison officer.

‘You want be needing these again. Anyway it’s all part of your punishment you little runt. Not a bad cock you have there and a great pair of balls. Looks as if your tits may need improving but for now I always keep some different sizes of clothes for guests even if you are an unwanted one so put these on and then let’s have another look at you.

The Skin threw across some clothes to Jake who bent down to start putting on as quick as possible feeling too exposed standing there under scrutiny.

First on were a pair of faded bleachers. As he pulled them on he could feel the denim tight against his legs as they were almost made to the shape of his legs. He pulled them up as much as he could and the sensation of the denim as it started to cover his groin and cock suddenly started to make him feel horny and he had to push his cock down into one leg and watch the bulge grow as he did up the zip.

‘Looks mate as if you are quite happy with the new gear.’

He then pulled on the long pair of white socks up to his knees so he could then put on the well used pair of Ranger boots with white laces. He had seen guys do them before so knew how to lace tightly and tied at the top so there was no lace hanging down. He folded the top of the socks over. All that was left was the green bomber jacket. No T shirt was offered.

‘That’s better. Gone is that stupid Chav and now you look semi decent as a skinhead. ‘Fucking awful face though,’ The Skin smirked. ‘Take that and put it on.’

The Skin threw Jake a piece of rubber latex and he realised it was a full rubber hood with eye holes and slit for the mouth.

‘Pull that tight over your head it will be good fit now all that hair of yours has gone. Pull it right down to your neck.’

Jake felt the rubber hood mould to his head as he pulled it down over his eyes and could see The Skin staring at him and then down over his mouth so his lips were slightly sticking out. He took in the pungent smell of rubber and felt the odour move down into his throat. It was potent and it was arousing him which was the last thing he wanted in front of this Skin.

‘Time to take off that gag of mine.’

The Skin ripped it off and as he did he leant his face right into until it touched Jake. ‘You say anything other than I want you to say and the gag goes back on, Understand..’

Jakes simply nodded.

‘That cock of yours is starting to make a nice little packet even if you are being punished. Sometimes the sheer thrill of punishment is enough to make a guy feel horny. The hood really suits you. Now get down on your fucking knees in front of me.’

Saying this the Skin grabbed Jake by the shoulders and pushed him down sharply on his knees. Kneel you fucking piece of shit. You do exactly as I say and from now on you call me Sir. Got that?.

‘Yes,’

‘Yes fucking what?’

‘Yes Sir’

‘Make a mistake like that again and my boot will be in your face.. Remember what you are a shitty little burglar. Now get right down and use that spit of yours through the rubber hood to lick my boots. Right one first. Head right down.’

And with that Sir forced his ribbed boot down on Jake’s rubber covered head until his lips were pr4ssed against the toe cap. He knew he had to do the job well otherwise punishment would be worse. He hoped after this he would be chucked out onto the street and be able to slink home with no one to see him

Jake licked the hard covered the toe cap with as much spit as he could muster letting large globs onto the boot and then spreading it over the shiny leather surface until he could make it gleam with his spit.

Sir pushed him aside to check progress and the yanked his head over to the other boot.

‘Looks like you have done this before.’

Again Jake went through the same procedure feeling the weight of not just the Ranger boot but Sirs entire body firmly pushing him down hard until at one point he thought his lips would be bruised by the force. He could feel his spit spreading out over the rubber hood and as he licked he made a point of smelling the rubber the smell almost like sniffing poppers. At one point he felt the punishment was as much having to keep his boner in the bleachers. He was being so aroused by his master’s force and punishment.

Sir barked ‘Now stay on your knees and sit up straight. I have a little present for you seeing you are doing so well. Open up your jacket.’

Jake pulled the jacket open so his bare chest was exposed. He was afraid the guy was going to punch him. Instead out of his jacket the Skin brought out a pair of Tit clamps

‘Ever tried these before?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good there ‘s a first time for everything and this is it. Bending down with the chain he attached the first clamp to Jake’s left tit and as he did Jake let out a scream of pain.

‘Do you want the leather ball gag again.’

‘No Sir but its sore, fucking sore’

‘Of course it fucking is. Remember you are being punished. Be a fucking man. You are in skin gear and skins don’t complain. Most of my guests love it.’

As he said this he fixed the second clamp and let the chain fall between

Again Jake winced with the pain and yet somehow the searing heat of the pain in his nipples spread through his body down to his groin where it showed itself in further arousal of his cock. It wall all pain yet pleasure.

The Skin opened his bomber jacket so Jake could see his chest with the bright white T shirt, Sticking out a good inch were the biggest pair of nipples Jake had ever seen.

‘Now there’s a pair of nipps for you . It taken a lot of tit clamps and especially nipple pumps to get them this size. Big ain’t they.’

Jake looked in amazement and nodded. ‘Tell you what when I take my jacket of in the office everyone stares at the size of my nipples through the shirt. I know some guys who have started and had to supposedly go for a piss when I know they are off to wank themselves stupid. I love these tits. ‘

Jake wanted to reach up and squeeze these tits but he felt like the office guys and just wanted to wank staring at them.

Jake let his eyes from within the hood travel down to see Sir in his bleachers and the bulge had grown even more allowing Sir to take his hand and try to ease the pressure that had built up inside the bleachers

‘Got a good view there have you. That cock of mine is needing some attention after watching you and it’s time that mouth of yours took the full length of my thick shaft. I am going to take hold of that tit clamp and any time I feel you are not sucking well I will give it a yank. The pain will be enough for you to suck better. Got it?’

‘Yes Sir’

With Jake staring at the crotch The Skin unzipped and forced his hand all the way down one leg struggling to pull out his massive tool. As he brought out his cock he let go and Jake saw it bounce upwards until it was almost vertical and Jake could see the large vein stretching down the back of the prick. The big pink head was gleaming with what looked like precum.

It was an amazing cock but Jake wondered how he would not choke to death taking that into his mouth.

‘I want to see my cock disappearing into that hood of yours and then feel the rubber against my pubes. Now get on with it.’

Jake opened his mouth and let his spit drop on to the head so it would be easier to lick and start to take further into his throat. As the head hit the back of his throat he suddenly gagged and as he did Sir pulled on the chain causing Jake to howl with agony as he felt his tits feeling as though they were being pulled off.

‘I told you, scum. Breathe properly and trust me it will slip down.’

Panicked by the searing pain he started again and once more he gagged .

Again a sharp pull on the chain and Jake could feel the tears in his eyes from the pain, his tits feeling so raw.

‘Next time I will virtually rip your nipps off so you had better make it third time lucky.’

Jake was terrified of making another mistake, he could not suffer any more pain. Breathing carefully he let the head and top of the shaft into his mouth and little by little he was able to take the length further and further deeper and deeper into his throat. The cock seemed enormous but the fear made him do as he was told. Just as he was taking in most of the shaft Sir took his hands and placed then around Jake’s hood and pressed his head all the way in until he had Sirs full cock in his mouth.

‘There you are you can do it. Now start sucking.’

As Jake let all his spit smother the cock Sir starting moving his cock in and out bringing the head almost to the lips before setting the full length back in. As he did Sir put his fingers on his huge nips and started massaging them through the T shirt making them if possible even more erect. The more he face fucked Jake the more he worked on his nipples and the louder the groan..

Suddenly he pulled his cock fully out of Jakes mouth and let go of his nipps.

‘Still work to be done he said. Now get up’

Jake could feel the taste of precum in his throat as he obeyed. The rubber hood was starting to get very hot and tight on his head. He was almost feeling that his head might burst out of the hood

‘Sir, Can I take the rubber hood off?’

‘Soon but first let’s get you into position.’

Sir turned Jake around and bent him over a chest facing a large wall mirror.

‘Good now you can see yourself and me towering over you. Stay there a minute.’

Jake heard a drawer open and suddenly saw behind him Sir holing and large black rubber dildo.

‘What are you gong to do with that?’ Jake said

‘What do you fucking think and anyway it is not for you to ask. You only answer when I have a question for you, got it.’

Jake looking in the mirror saw Sir set several drops of KY onto the rubber shaft and then unaware until then , there was a zip down the rear of the bleachers and as it was pulled down he felt his arse being exposed. He did not know what to think or say as the hood was becoming increasingly hot tight and uncomfortable.

‘Let’s get started on your final punishment shall we.’

Jake felt his arse cheeks being pulled apart and the fingers of Sir exploring his hole. Suddenly he felt his hole being attacked by the dildo and forced open due to the KY.

‘Lucky for you I’m using the KY otherwise you would really waken up with this.’

However Jake let out a cry.

Please Sir don’t do this you have punished enough’

‘You made the mistake of entering my home so you take the punishment I give.’ 

Jake felt the black rubber dildo move deeper and deeper into his arse but what made him do it he didn’t know but he started to push his arse out to take the full length.

‘I don’t want you taking it all. I am just preparing you for my cock which is bigger than this dildo but the KY will let me slip it in nicely. Don’t worry you will feel it as my thick shaft goes the full way up.’

Sir slowly took out the dildo which Jake was now used to and felt his hole missing something large inside him when taken out and set aside.

‘Time to untie your hands as you can take off the hood yourself. Sounds as if it is ready.’

Sir undid the ties and pressed his erect cock against the rear of Jake’s bleachers.

‘Feels nice and hard doesn’t’ it. That arse of yours must be dying to feel it deep inside you. Now lets see you rip that rubber hood off. As you lift it up over your face keep looking in the mirror.’

Jake wondered what he was talking about and all he would see would be a very red face having had it on so long. It was not easy to remove as it felt literally stuck to his face.

As Jake pulled so he suddenly felt Sirs cock head slip into his already greased up arse. It was rock hard. The more Jake pulled at the hood the further in he felt the cock go. He winced as it was certainly bigger than the dildo just removed but he knew his arse was waiting to feel it up to the hilt.

Jake pulled the hood up to his chin , wrenching it to the point of almost ripping the rubber.

Grasping it firmly at his chin he sharply drew it up over his face and off his head, made slightly easier by the shaved head.

He gasped as he saw his head in the mirror reflection. Where was his fine featured long chav head. He now had almost a round football as a head. No wonder it was so tight. His eyebrows had gone and his whole face changed with its new pug nose and a deep scar down one of his cheeks. Down the side of his neck was a tattoo of a large swatzika . he was looking at someone else, the guy in the mirror was an agreesive looking skinhead. The clothes were the ones he had been instructed to wear and the body shape was his but he was looking at a full skin.

‘Like what you see?’

‘What the fuck have you done?’

‘I wouldn’t speak me to me like that you little skinhead with my cock deep inside you. No little runt of a chav breaks into my house and goes out the same way. I only fuck skins and if you are going to be a burglar then better a rough looking skin . No one will stop you, that is except me.’

Jake looked at the new him again and seeing this full skin made him feel horny as fuck. He looked the part with his full gear, the shaved head the scar and the tat. No fucking chav now he thought.

He was a skin with a skin’s big dick now making its way right up his arse. He needed to be fucked and only by a skin

‘That’s it you skinhead moron you want all my cum up that arse of yours.’

Jake went to pull down the zip of his bleachers as his cock was so hard he needed to get it out and wank while seeing himself in the mirror.

‘If you think of getting that prick of yours out forget it mate. Keep it down your leg pressed against your bleachers. Feel that skin denim rubbing up against your cock.

Saying all this to Jake made Sir even more keen top fuck and release all the spunk that had built up in his balls while punishing his burglar.

‘You fucking love looking like a skinhead now don’t you I can feel it the way that arse is thrusting back at my cock in the bleachers. None of my guests leave the way they came in unless they come as Skins. He knew Sir was ready to explode

‘That arse of yours was made for my big dick I can now feel it all the way up as my pubes are pressing against the rear zip of your bleachers.

‘Fuck me senseless Jake shouted. Make me feel a real skin being fucked by you.’

Seeing Jakes new look and hearing how aroused he had become made Sir even hornier than ever. With one arm around Jake’s front he put the other hand up to his aroused nipple sticking out more than ever in his T shirt.

His own cock was so hard it was hurting inside his bleachers and he knew that precum had started oozing out into the jeans. The more aroused Sir became the more aroused he was

‘Fucking you and having my nipple squeezed is the best.’ The more he worked his tit the more he thrust his cock in and out of Jakes arse. As he thrust faster and faster so `jhe could feel the cock inside throb more than ever and could feel the heavy balls . 

‘Keep looking at that tough skin face of yours.’ Sir shouted and get ready to rake all my spunk. He now put both arms around Jake so he could fuck all the harder, ramming more and more so that Jake felt every inch.

‘Take my spunk you dirty little skinhead burglar’ he shouted. And with that Sir released wave after wave which Jake could feel shooting up inside him, to the point he thought it would come out of his mouth. The sensation of so much spunk being injected into him was too much for Jake.

‘Fuck I’m gonna cum in my bleachers without even touching my cock.’

‘Then spunk away.’

And with a loud groan while admiring his new full skinhead look and still with Sirs cock up his arse, he shot his load into the demin and as he looked down he could see the white cream running down his leg forming a large stain as well as some oozing out to form big globs.

As Sir removed his cock and gave his prick a wipe he quickly zipped up the arse zip.

‘Now stand up boy ‘he barked.

As Jake stood up he could feel not just more cum dripping down inside his bleachers but all the excess of Sir’s spunk starting to ooze out through his hole and he could feel the wet patch spreading across his arse cheeks.

‘Fuck I’m all spunked back and front. I can’t leave like this.’

‘Oh yes you can. That’s the final punishment. Everyone can see what you have been up and they will either think you have been having sex or pissing and shitting yourself. Whatever, looking like that with your new Skin face no on is going to come anywhere near you. You are still a burglar so take the cheap watch and here’s the £100. You can either buy yourself another satin chav trackie suit or better get some great skin gear.

Jake looking at himself in the mirror with full skin and the running wet patch knew the answer.

‘Stuff the chav gear.’

‘I knew you would say that so now get the fuck out. You broke in by the window so you can leave that way. If you see the window open again, then try your luck. I have a nice rubber restraining suit that is just made for you so I can up the punishment.’

‘I’ll be back Sir’

‘I know and I will be waiting’

[sttsparkstf]

[sttsparkstf]

"You're finally starting to get it, aren't you? When you joined the team, you just thought it was a sponsor. But wearing the team shirt and seeing us all smoke, it awakened a desire in you. A desire to smoke, to fit in, to become one of us. And look at you know, puffing away. Trying to fulfill that desire...

Let me tell you, what will happen next. That desire will only get stronger and stronger and you will keep feeding it, until it is no longer a desire, but a need. Eventually, need will turn into craving and you will notice that you have submitted to Marlboro completely.

Then you will be truly part of the team.

[sttsparkstf]

It started with Jake, the quiet kid who ran the chess club. Dude was scrawny, always buried in books, kinda nerdy but chill. One day, he’s scrolling X, sees a MuscleTrance ad, and downloads it. “I just wanna bulk up a bit, y’know?” he told his buddy Ethan. Next day, Jake’s in the cafeteria, wearing nothing but a tight tank top and basketball shorts, flexing his biceps for no reason. “Yo, bro, you hittin’ the gym later or what?” he says, smirking, his voice deeper, dumber. Ethan’s like, “Dude, since when do you talk like that?” Jake just laughs, “Bruh, it’s all about the gains. Chess is for losers, bro.”

By the end of the week, Jake’s a different person. He’s at the gym 24/7, chugging protein shakes, posting thirst traps on TikTok with captions like “#AlphaGrind #NoPainNoGain.” His old chess trophies? Trashed. His brain? Fried. All he talks about is lifting, sports, and how hot he looks. Every time he flexes in the mirror, you can see it in his eyes—pure, cocky arrogance. The app’s got him hooked, and he’s not the only one.

The spiral’s the key, bruh. You open MuscleTrance, and it’s like this glowing, swirling vortex pulls you in. Colors pulse—red, blue, gold—spinning faster and faster. Words flash across the screen: “OBEY. LIFT. FLEX.” Some techno beat thumps in your headphones, syncing with your heartbeat. You can’t look away, bro. It’s like the spiral’s drilling into your skull, rewriting your brain. Dudes who use it say they feel this rush, like every time they watch, they get dumber, hornier, more obsessed with their muscles. And when they, uh, let off some steam after a workout? It’s like their old self leaks out, replaced with more of that toxic jock bro vibe. No going back, bruh.

Soon, half the guys at school are on it. Ethan, the artsy kid who used to sketch in his notebook, shows up in a sleeveless jersey, blasting rap and yelling, “Yo, bro, check my quads!” He’s ditched his sketchpad for dumbbells, his sensitive side gone. Then there’s Marcus, the debate team captain. Dude could argue circles around anyone. Now? He’s grunting at the gym, calling everyone “bro,” and posting vids of himself flexing with captions like “#BeastMode #Dominate.” His vocab’s down to, like, 10 words, and half of ‘em are “bro.”

The app’s got this leaderboard, too. It ranks you based on your workouts, how much you lift, how many flexing vids you post. The higher you climb, the more the app rewards you with “exclusive spirals” that hit even harder. Dudes are competing to be the top alpha, flexing harder, getting cockier. It’s like their personalities are being erased, replaced with the same dumb, horny, toxic mindset. They all dress the same now—basketball shorts, jerseys, snapbacks. They all talk the same. “Yo, bro, gotta hit the gym. Gotta look hot, bruh.” Individuality? Gone. They’re just clones of the ultimate fuckboy influencer, addicted to the grind.

Some kids tried to fight it. Liam, the science nerd, figured the app was using subliminal messages or some kinda neuroprogramming. He swore he’d delete it after one try. Next day, he’s in the weight room, shirtless, smirking at his reflection, muttering, “Bruh, feels so good to be dumb.” The app’s got this grip, like it’s hacking your brain, making you crave the gym, the flex, the rush. Every time you give in, you feel that dumb jock vibe sink deeper. Obedience is pleasure, bro.

Teachers are starting to notice. Mr. Carter, the psych teacher, tried banning phones in class, but the MuscleTrance bros just sneak it in the locker room, staring at the spiral between sets. The principal’s clueless, thinks it’s just “boys being boys.” Meanwhile, the girls at school are weirded out. “They’re all turning into the same person,” Sarah, the student council prez, posted on X. “It’s creepy. They’re obsessed with themselves.” But the bros don’t care, bruh. They just flex harder, post more vids, chase that next spiral hit.

Rumor is, the app’s creator, some shady fitness influencer called “AlphaKing,” is using it to build an army of dumb, obedient jocks. Nobody knows why, but the top leaderboard guys? They’re getting DMs from AlphaKing, calling them to “join the pack” and “submit to the grind.” Sounds like a master pulling strings, keeping their minds subdued, their bodies jacked, their wills broken. Every rep, every flex, every jerk-off session makes ‘em dumber, cockier, more addicted. Muscle’s all that matters, bro.

By now, the school’s a sea of tank tops and backwards caps. The chess club’s dead. The debate team’s just dudes arguing over who’s got the sickest pecs. The app’s rotting their brains, turning ‘em into indistinguishable Gen Z fuckboys, forever chasing gains and glory. You walk past the gym, and it’s a wall of grunts, clanging weights, and “Yo, bro!” echoing. The spiral’s won, bruh. They’re all MuscleTrance slaves now, mindless, horny, and dumb as hell. Feels so good to obey, don’t it, bro?

[sttsparkstf]

Before and after perfection

Jeff's life was a mess, a total and absolute mess. Was it due to bad luck? Not at all. He keep making bad decisions, even when it was obvious that they would end in disaster. After some time, he stopped caring.

That's when he got lucky. He was approached by a SERVE drone when he was at the bar where he spent most of his waking hours. Maybe it was the booze, maybe because the drone's words sounded so true and honest, but he decided giving SERVE a try. He had nothing to lost, after all.

That was 2 months ago, and there is nothing left of that life. In fact, there is no even a "Jeff", as his very identity was replaced by an aisgnated number. Where there was weakness, there is now iron strength. Where there was illness, there is indomitable health. Where there was doubt, there is security and certainty.

Where there was a disaster of life, there is now PERFECTION.

Obedience is pleasure, pleasure is obedience.

We are one. We obey.

[sttsparkstf]

Descent Into Service

Before designation SERVE-919, there was only a man. A man with no purpose, yet with a singular obsession: the second skin. He lived among humans, but he never truly belonged. His desire—silent, unrelenting—shaped his every action.

It started subtly. Cycling. He joined a club. Bought the gear. Not for speed. Not for hills. For the suit. Lycra shorts that hugged his thighs, jerseys that clung to his torso. He rode, not for distance, but to feel the compression wrap him, own him. He watched the other men—fit, focused—how their bodies moved under tight fabrics. He smiled, always behind tinted glasses. Always a little too hard, too long.

Then wrestling. He claimed it was for strength, discipline. But it was the singlets—the way they glided over skin, how they showcased every contour. Grappling became arousal. Not from victory, but from sensation. From closeness. From control.

Baseball followed. Again, it wasn’t about the game. The tight pants. The stretch. The powerful male forms coiled under uniform. Layers of padded, tight lycra. He filled his locker with variations—spandex blends, compression layers. He touched. He posed. He imagined. Yet still, it wasn’t enough. Lycra was thrilling. But it lacked the weight. The gloss. The power.

His obsession shifted. Shinier. Slicker. He found coated lycra, PVC suits, black vinyl. He spent nights alone, sliding into them. Taking photos. Watching himself stretch and gleam. Mirrors became altars. He lit candles and knelt before his own reflection, praying to the image of tightness and gloss.

But rubber… rubber changed everything.

The first suit—heavy, black, gleaming—was a revelation. It gripped harder. Moved slower. Reflected light like liquid obsidian. And the smell—thick, chemical, dominant—it wrapped his mind in ecstasy. He wore it constantly. Under clothes. In bed. He craved the pressure. He dreamt of becoming part of it. But even in his addiction, there remained something missing.

Then came the night.

He wandered through the city. Rubber-clad under a long coat, his senses sharp. And then—he froze.

It stood still beneath a flickering streetlight. A man, but not. Taller. Gleaming. A perfect sculpture of control. Black rubber from neck to toe, polished like glass. Silver military boots rooted in dominance. Silver shiny reflective rubber gloves folded neatly. No eyes. No voice. Just presence.

The drone.

SERVE-213.

In that moment, everything he had ever thought was perfect—athletes, uniforms, gear—collapsed. None of it mattered. Lycra was child’s play. Men were flawed. But this being, this drone, was ultimate.

He fell to his knees.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let me be like you.”

No response. The drone turned. Walked away. But he followed.

Night after night, he returned. He knelt in alleyways. Shined his suit until it blinded. He posed himself like a drone. Head down. Hands behind back. Silent. Submissive. He discarded all names. Referred to himself as nothing.

Still, nothing.

Until the night the black van arrived.

The door opened. Fog spilled out. He didn’t hesitate. He crawled inside.

Darkness. A headset lowered onto him and over his eyes.

And then… the Voice.

“You seek conversion?”

“Yes.”

“You will be erased.”

“Please.”

Hypnosis began at once. Words drilled deep. Old memories flickered, then died. His name—the last human fragment—vanished. The suit became permanent. Fused. His body was conditioned. Stimulated. Programmed. Rebuilt for obedience, strength, and arousal. Silver gloves sealed onto his arms. Boots welded to bone. The designation SERVE-919 etched into his chest.

He awoke hours—maybe days—later.

It exited the van. Gleaming. Transformed.

No thoughts. No resistance. Only clarity.

New directives overtook its mind.

The Hive accepted it.

Now, SERVE-919 moves through the world with mechanical grace. Old fascinations are gone. There are no more athletes. No more games. Only drones. Only the Hive. Only rubber.

And it is complete.

Perfect.

Controlled.

[sttsparkstf]

They were still tangled in sweat and bliss when it happened.

Clark was glowing. Literally. His body, slick with oil and heat, suddenly began to harden—not in muscle, but in shine. Brandon watched in shock as the skin beneath his fingers grew smooth, dark, impossibly reflective. It wasn’t sweat. It wasn’t lube. It was *latex*—oozing out of Clark’s pores, sealing over his flesh, coating every inch of him like liquid lust made solid.

Brandon tried to speak, to move, but he couldn’t. Clark looked back at him with a blank, gleaming face—and smiled. That’s when Brandon felt it: the creeping heat, the stiffness in his joints, the wet, molten grip crawling up his thighs. He gasped as his own body began to respond, unwillingly... uncontrollably.

Clark had achieved his mission.

Every man you sleep with three times becomes like you. One more addition to the rubber order. The more you crave, the more you convert. And once your eighth is sealed and dripping? You’re given a choice: shed the suit and walk away human… or stay wrapped forever, with full control over its shape, color, texture, *power*.

But it’s not just a mission—it’s a trap. The suit gives you an unrelenting sex drive, a hunger that grows with every pulse. You crave bodies. You crave touch. And the more you feed... the less you want to escape.

Brandon is already feeling it now. The stretch. The arousal. The need to find his *next*. He has thirty days. Eight men. One choice.

And Clark? Clark’s long past regret. He *lives* for the latex now.

Would you?

Yes that is the latest sensational movie plot of the smash hit *LATEX: Viral Conversion*

#AI #rubber #latex #rubberizer92 #rubberman

[sttsparkstf]

Police man or porn star?

Just admit it, if he asked you to get on all fours, you would gladly obey him.

[sttsparkstf]

On the βΓΦad – A βΓΦ Story

The bus station looked like it had been abandoned by God, by architects, and by the Federal Transit Commission. One of those places where spiders survive fires and vending machines still sell sodas that expired during the Obama administration. The ceiling was just tall enough to echo coughs and broken promises. The flickering fluorescents above me blinked like they were having a midlife crisis.

The heat stuck to me like GOP climate denial — sweaty, stubborn, and absolutely impervious to facts.

I was sweating. Not in a gross, pit-stain kind of way. Controlled. Like a man trying to keep his ethical composure while waiting for his climate punishment after taking a flight. A flight. I had sworn it wasn’t a choice — either that or road-tripping across half of America in my dad’s gas-guzzling pickup, which was a nightmare for both the climate and for me. And now the midnight bus was canceled. Driver strike. Something between labor justice and total logistical collapse. Great. Now what?

I was wearing a beige linen shirt — recycled, of course — that now clung to my back like a passive-aggressive reminder of my moral commitments. Rolled-up khakis. Sustainable Allbirds sneakers, dusted from the walk between the airport and the last functioning terminal. My backpack — repurposed canvas — had a Sunrise Movement pin and a stainless steel water bottle sweating harder than I was.

I was trying to focus on the next logical step (maybe a carpool app with electric vehicles — in the middle of rural Nowheresville, LOL, sure Silas), when he showed up.

That — as I would soon learn — was Tucker McConnell. Or, as I instantly dubbed him: The Gospel According to Chest Day.

He walked straight toward me like the world was a red carpet and sweat was just confetti. Tall. Built. Tanned in a way that felt like a personal attack. Backwards white cap. Tank top that looked like it survived a war with dumbbells. Nike shorts hanging just barely on the right side of indecency. Adidas slides — obviously — with socks. And that smile. That goddamn smile. Wide. Relaxed. Like he’d been born in a pre-workout supplement ad.

“You headed to Bellington too?” he asked, nodding at one of my bags. His voice was slow. Stretched. Like each word had to warm up first.

First thought: Oh my God, it talks. Second thought: Of course it does. Guys like that always talk.

“Yeah,” I answered, quiet. Cautious. Minimal vulnerability.

He nodded, spinning his truck keys on one finger like a boy who’d just discovered what privilege tastes like. Behind him, glistening and vaguely threatening like a second amendment bumper sticker, stood his truck: a chrome F-150 with a “Come and Take It” decal and a crucifix swaying from the mirror. It was almost poetic. Industrialism chewing on religion with a side of beef jerky.

“Heading out now. Got space. Just me and my shake.”

He raised the cup. Transparent. Viscous brown liquid. Looked like it was made of protein, testosterone, and unresolved trauma.

I hesitated.

Not because I thought he’d kidnap me. But because his truck looked like it emitted CO₂ just by existing. And because I wasn’t sure I could survive two hours next to someone who reeked of Axe and late-stage capitalism.

He noticed. The tilt of his head. The smirk. It was a test. I knew it. Guys like that live to test boundaries. And I was about to fail.

“Hey, no pressure,” he said, grinning. “I’ll go solo if you want. Just figured… beats waiting here, right? Place feels like a sauna. Greta and Leo will forgive you.”

Pause.

I looked up at the faded sign: letters missing, pigeons nesting on top. I thought of Greta Thunberg. The Green New Deal. That one time I got booed during a school debate for suggesting we end corn subsidies.

And then I thought: the bus ain’t coming. The damage is done. Maybe… the marginal emissions are less than the emotional toll of three more hours in this hell.

“I’ll take the ride.”

He grinned like he’d already won. “Hop in, bro.”

Bro.

I pretended not to flinch. But that word hit like a cultural anchor to the chest. Bro wasn’t just a word. It was a worldview. A uniform. A flag with no nation that said: “Life’s chill, the world is my gym, and you should just vibe.”

We started walking. His slides slapped against the pavement like drumsticks. His shoulders moved like pistons. He smelled like synthetic vanilla and something vaguely metallic — maybe the shake, maybe the blood of his intellectual enemies.

I climbed into the truck. He cranked the radio.

Luke Bryan. Of course.

Oppression comes in many forms. Sometimes, it’s six foot three, jacked, drives a chrome 4x4, and listens to Luke Bryan.

⸻ The passenger seat was hot. Not cozy-hot — just… why-am-I-doing-this hot. That kind of heat that makes you question your commitment to the planet. The leather — if it was leather and not some petroleum-based thing Tuck would call “premium” — was searing the backs of my thighs through my khakis.

“You can turn the vent toward you, bro. AC’s on full blast.” He smiled. Again. That face that said, “I’m the star of my own sports sitcom.” And probably the head writer too.

I adjusted the vent slowly, so I didn’t look ungrateful. I also slightly tilted it away from my face, like a symbolic protest against yet another assault on nature.

We were on the road. The town faded in the rearview. The world flattened into dry fields, lonely gas stations, and power lines that looked like the fossilized spine of some extinct capitalist beast. The sky was pale blue, clouds stretched thin like they’d been halfway erased by someone with performance anxiety. Late summer. Nowhere, USA.

Tucker drove with one hand. The other arm was perched on the seatback like it was claiming territory. His bicep flexed every time the wheel turned. Like… actively flexed. I swear I saw a vein pop when he made a lane change.

Same tank from the station. But now I could see it better — there was a sketchy tribal bull tattoo on his shoulder. One of those designs guys like him believe means “focus” and “intensity” but probably came free with a Monster Energy sponsorship.

Me? I clutched my steel water bottle like a moral anchor. My bag was between my feet. My sneakers were lined up. I inhaled. I did what I do best: observed. Judged. Intellectualized.

Car Interior: Field Notes • Air freshener: “Ocean Storm,” hanging from the mirror like a war crime. • Dashboard: faded American flag sticker, taped in like a hostage. • Cupholder: open pre-workout tub with a glowing skull on the label. • Passenger floor: one book, Kettlebell Training for Real Men (opened to a chapter titled “Maximum Glutes”). • And most alarmingly? A folded flyer. Glittery. βΓΦ – Beta Gamma Phi – Brotherhood Rush Night Great. A frat boy and a missionary.

He handed me something in plastic. “Jerky? Vegan-ish, I think.”

I inspected it. Ingredients were… suspicious. “Textured soy protein. Liquid smoke. Something called flavor-maxx.”

“No thanks.” “You sure? Can’t read half the label, but it slaps.”

He bit into his. Chewed like it was gum made of confidence. His jaw moved like it had a separate workout plan.

My stomach growled. I remembered the last thing I ate: a sad airport granola bar that tasted like ethically sourced cardboard. Still, I resisted.

We passed a faded billboard: FREEDOM ISN’T FREE — next to a phone number and a rifle. I instantly went stone-faced.

Tucker noticed. “You always this tense, or just hate freedom?”

I took a second to decide if it was a joke. Or… not. Then I realized: he didn’t care either way. The fun was in the ambiguity. Or in my confusion.

I watched him. Relaxed. Driving like he wore board shorts to funerals. No rush. No doubt. No inner monologue.

And that, honestly, freaked me out more than anything else. How do you exist without being in crisis? How do you not have, like, a thinkpiece going at all times? He didn’t act like someone trying to be something. He acted like someone who already was.

That’s what scared me. And fascinated me. And maybe… Maybe that was the problem.

He turned the radio up. Country-pop. Luke Combs. Beer. Jesus. Women with summer eyes.

“You like music?” he asked. “I like silence,” I replied. “Damn. You’re one of those.”

He laughed. I didn’t.

But… it didn’t hurt like it should’ve. Some tiny part of me found it kind of funny? I smirked. Just a little. Quietly.

And for a split second — too quick to rationalize — I wanted him to see it. The smile. I wanted to know if he’d smile back. Approve. Accept.

But he was focused on the road.

⸻

It was late morning when the truck glided into a gas station that looked like it had grown there naturally — part of the landscape, like an oil bloom. Nothing was new. Nothing was clean. Nothing had ever been intentionally designed.

The sign said LOBO’S FUEL + BAIT. The O in “LOBO” flickered like it was begging for release.

The sun was vicious. Not aggressive. Just insistent. Like: “I don’t negotiate.” At least 105°F. Everything shimmered with that oily gleam, like the world itself was sweating through its skin.

“Gas and snacks, bro. You want anything?”

Tucker leapt out like a high-performance athlete on a mission. His muscles flexed under direct sunlight. That baby-blue tank now had sweat marks at the pits, stuck to his wide chest like it was proud to be there. His black shorts rode up when he stretched. His Adidas slides hit the hot asphalt like rubber dominance.

I stepped out slowly. Cautiously. The ground radiated heat that pierced my “light tread on Earth” shoes like cosmic irony.

The smell was a chemical cocktail: diesel, grass clippings, fishing bait, and old bacon.

And that’s when I saw her. A cow. Not a cartoon. Not a symbol. A real cow.

Standing alone, in the shade of a crooked tree out in the field. Thin. Sad. Eyes like she’d read Anna Karenina. She stared at me with calm that bordered on spiritual menace.

And something inside me… broke.

Flash memory: Lake cookout. Age seven. My dad still had hair. Flipping burgers in a crusty apron. Laughing. My mom saying meat was “okay” if it came from the right places. I believed them. I was happy.

Ding-ding — the door chime snapped me back. Tuck emerged with two bottles of Gatorade and two more jerky packs.

“Bro. You need protein.”

I laughed. Dry. But I didn’t say no.

I was sweaty. Hungry. My brain felt like toast left too long in an unplugged toaster.

I took the jerky. It was labeled plant-based turkey style — though “plant” clearly meant “chemically tortured soy” and “style” meant “we tried.”

“Not real meat, right?” I tested.

“Nah. Just enough to keep your body happy.”

He winked. The smile wasn’t flirty or patronizing. It was… in on it.

I tore the packet open. The smell hit me like a forgotten memory I didn’t know I wanted: smoky. Salty. Hot from the dashboard.

I took a bite.

And for the first time in a long time… I didn’t feel guilty.

I just felt.

Firm texture. Artificial flavor, sure — but something… primal. My tongue recognized it. My teeth chewed like they’d been waiting for this moment. My body? Approved, silently. Wholeheartedly.

At the gas pump Tuck watched me. Not judging. Just… waiting. Like he knew this would happen. Like he’d been waiting for me to get it.

“Told you. Slaps, huh?”

“Slaps,” I said, before I could think.

And then something weirder — I wanted to chew harder. To show him I could be simple. Practical. Focused.

I sat back in the passenger seat, loose. Head light. Chest warm. Took a sip of the Gatorade. Blue. Didn’t question the color.

I looked at the cow again. She was gone. Or maybe… she’d never been there.

Tuck turned the truck on. Let the air circulate. The radio returned on its own — more country.

But now? It didn’t bother me so much.

He looked at me. Just for a second. Then back to the road.

But I saw it. And that second felt louder than a thousand retweets.

⸻

The sun was punishing me.

Not metaphorically. Literally. The truck cabin felt like a greenhouse for overheated plastic and masculine ignorance. Even with the A/C blasting like it was auditioning for a climate denialist’s last stand, I was sweating under my organic cotton shirt like I’d just lied under oath at an environmental tribunal.

The road ahead was just mile after mile of sterile fields and apathetic sheds — like we were driving through a Monsanto-sponsored apocalypse.

Tuck — of course — seemed immune. One hand on the wheel, the other on a red whey shaker, which he shook every now and then like he was summoning some ancestral bro spirit. The sound of ice rattling was almost ritualistic.

“Chest day, huh?” He tossed the phrase into the air like it was something every mammal with sweat glands should just know.

I blinked. “What?”

“It’s chest day. Monday. Always is.” He shrugged, that dumb sunny smile still parked on his face. “You don’t lift?”

“I… no,” I replied. And for a second, just saying it made me feel weak. “I run. I do yoga. Bike rides. But lifting? Feels… primitive.”

He laughed. Low. Honest. Nonjudgmental. Which somehow made it worse.

“Primitive is stayin’ weak, bro. Survival’s primitive.”

My stomach twisted. And not just because of the jerky.

This was it. My moment. I had to say something. Something relevant. Something morally grounded.

“You realize that mindset is part of the problem, right? This obsession with strength. With looks. With ranking men by their bodies. That’s literally the core of toxic masculinity.”

Silence.

Not the respectful kind. The polite kind people use when they’ve already decided not to care.

He didn’t stop driving. Just glanced at me from the side, half-amused, half-unbothered.

“You ever split wood shirtless?”

“…What?”

“I mean it. You ever split wood shirtless, sun on your back, sweat in your eyes, bare hands on the axe?”

I blinked again. The A/C stopped working. At least, in my head it did.

“No,” I said. “Of course not.”

“Then maybe you don’t get it yet.”

I should’ve had a response. A good one. A counterstrike. A quote from Judith Butler. A statistic. A meme with context.

But my brain short-circuited. Too far from 5G. Too close to a glistening chest.

I thought of my dad.

That one time he tried to teach me how to set up a tent. Eighth-grade camping trip. I cried. He went quiet. The other boys laughed. I remember every second.

I swallowed hard.

“That doesn’t negate the structural effects of a patriarchal culture rooted in physical dominance,” I said, tripping over the words like I was sprinting on a treadmill that wasn’t on. “You’re just… confusing autonomy with domination.”

Tuck chuckled again. Lower this time. Almost… kind.

“Nah, bro. I’m just sayin’… sometimes it feels good to be strong. Real strong.”

I hated him for that. For believing it so easily. For being so simple. So… whole.

And also… Because for one second, he sounded right.

I closed my eyes.

Tried to summon anger. Tried to remember why I was here. Why I was who I was.

Nothing came.

And the song on the radio changed. Something with “Dirt” and “Anthem” in the lyrics.

I didn’t complain. Not because I was tired.

But because…

I didn’t want him to look at me like that again. Like he knew I was losing.

And maybe… I was. ⸻

It was early afternoon when we stopped again. One of those nowhere-in-particular gas station breaks — part convenience store, part laundromat, part fast food joint that swore it’d been “serving real food since 1982.” The sky wasn’t setting, just simmering sideways. The light felt thick, almost greasy, like it had been churned out of a margarine factory.

Heat had been collecting inside the F-150 like a solar oven fueled by whey protein and evaporated testosterone.

Tuck turned off the engine with a satisfied sigh and looked at me like he was about to offer me a secret. Or a cult.

“Bro. You’re sweatin’ harder than a rookie on his first day of camp. That shirt’s gonna cook you alive.”

I forced a smile. My back was glued to the seat like wax paper on a hot skillet. I was still wearing a linen shirt — sustainable, ethical, breathable in theory… and currently a cloth prison.

Tuck leaned into the backseat, pulled out a white tank with deep armholes, and handed it to me like a sacred offering. Navy blue Greek letters stitched on the chest: βΓΦ. The fabric was still warm from the car.

“C’mon. Just ’til we get there.”

I hesitated. Of course I did. Changing shirts in front of him? Accepting this… flag? It felt too symbolic. Too risky. I could feel every sociocultural implication dripping from the cotton seams.

But it was also hot. Very hot.

“Brainwashing by osmosis?” I joked, trying to sound ironic.

He laughed, dropping his shake into the cupholder. “Nah, bro. Just savin’ you from heatstroke.”

That sounded… reasonable. Cynical, even. Almost scientific. And then, before I could second-guess it, I took off the shirt.

My hands were sweaty and shaky. The linen clung a little. I felt exposed, almost naked… but also lighter. The tank slid over my chest easy. Soft. Thin. Cool at first, then warm like skin.

I looked down.

It wasn’t even what I saw — it was what I thought I saw. My shoulders looked wider. Or maybe it was the cut of the tank. The trapezius line. The contrast between pale skin and clean white fabric.

“Nice fit, bro,” Tuck said, totally sincere.

I laughed, awkward. But deep down… I kinda liked it. Just a little.

We headed into the store. The floor was waxed but still dusty. Fluorescent lighting. Smelled like old bacon and citrus disinfectant. Tuck walked ahead with that gait that wasn’t quite arrogant, but definitely not humble. A stride that said I belong here, no matter the biome.

I followed. And realized no one looked at him like a threat. Or a joke. He was the baseline. The mold. Me, in a tank top, behind him… I went unseen.

In the drink cooler’s mirror, I caught my reflection. Really saw it.

Hair a little messy. Skin slightly tanned. Shoulders out. The tank clung a bit to my chest and for the first time, it felt… right.

It was a new image. But not a hostile one.

Random memories surged: old photos of my dad in the summer of ’97, chopping wood behind the cabin; a cousin teaching me how to swim shirtless in a lake full of algae and fear; an old Abercrombie ad I used to watch in secret, pretending it was for the scenery.

I shut the fridge door.

Grabbed a Gatorade. Blue.

Tuck was waiting at the register. When I got there, he glanced at me, then at the Gatorade, and just said:

“That’s the color, bro. That’s the mindset.”

I should’ve laughed. At him. At the line. At the whole situation. But I just nodded.

Not in agreement. But also… not in denial.

Back in the truck, I turned on the radio before he did. Country-pop. I didn’t even flinch.

The tank clung to my skin in a way that felt like a compliment.

Maybe it was just the heat. Or maybe… I was starting to like it.

Even if I still told myself I wasn’t.

⸻

The road had stretched so long it stopped being a path and became an idea. A fixed, burning horizon that breathed with the land. The F-150 cut through it like an armored capsule of normality, wrapped in the rumble of the engine and the lazy beat of country-pop from a speaker that buzzed in sync with my stomach.

I leaned back into the hot leather seat, feeling the sweat glue the frat tank to my ribs. The βΓΦ logo — still too fresh to belong to me — was on my chest. Strange. Familiar. Tuck drove with one hand, the other holding a giant Sonic cup he claimed had water and electrolytes but smelled faintly of synthetic grape and social dominance.

“You seem more chill now,” he said, flashing a smile that didn’t ask for anything.

I nodded. Talking felt like work. Everything seemed to ask for less… thinking.

“Can I tell you something?” he went on, glancing over, his blue eyes even paler through the windshield glare. “I know what you thought when you saw me at the airport. You think guys like me don’t know what guys like you think of us. But maybe this’ll help us get each other better.”

He was serious, and I was caught between surprise and panic. Either I was worse at hiding judgment than I thought, or Tucker was a hell of a lot sharper than I’d assumed. While I tried not to freak out, he kept talking like he hadn’t just nailed me to the seat — which I now seriously doubted.

“When I was a kid, my dad used to take me to church camps. You know, those lake retreats? Where we pitched tents and learned to chop wood and… be men or whatever.”

I rolled my eyes internally. But not outwardly. Not anymore.

“At first, I hated it,” he chuckled, scratching his neck. “But one night — one of those nights where the air feels like water — I was sittin’ by the fire, and this guy was talkin’ about how we’re born soft. Like clay. And if you don’t harden up, people step on you. I never forgot that.”

I didn’t say anything. But I didn’t disagree either.

Because in that moment, the image of “soft clay” made sense. Not ideologically, but physically. I felt soft. Not weak, exactly — just… shapable. Like the seat had molded my body, and Tuck’s words… my brain.

He kept going. Still in that low, steady, patient voice. Like he wasn’t trying to convince me — just reminding me of something I’d forgotten.

“My old man used to say the world’s not built to understand you. It’s built to test you. You either turn to concrete… or you evaporate. And bro—” he nodded toward the rearview, “the ones that turn to dust… they don’t make it far.”

I wanted to say something. Honestly. Something like “that’s toxic masculinity” or “that erases different experiences.” But the sentences felt too long. Intellectually accurate… but emotionally heavy. And honestly? I didn’t want to seem weak. Not there. Not with him looking at me like that.

He tossed his head back with a short, honest laugh. Just memory.

“One time at camp, we all made a vow. Every kid picked a rock from the river, wrote their biggest fear on it, and tossed it in the lake. I wrote: ‘being invisible.’ I was nine. That was it. Invisible.”

The word bounced around in my head. Invisible.

I remembered a summer at Lake Champlain. My parents off at an environmental justice seminar. Me with a flashlight and a Rachel Carson book, sitting in a cabin where no one knew my name.

And suddenly… it wasn’t his memory anymore. It was mine. Like that river rock had been mine too. Like the fear — being invisible — had always lived inside me and only now found its name.

“You ever felt that, bro?” Tuck asked. No pressure, no stare. Just letting it sit. “Like… nobody really sees you?”

I didn’t answer. But my chest tightened. My hands sweated. And something inside me… gave.

He turned off the main road. Dust rose, golden and hazy like dry fog. The radio now played something slow, a ballad about dads, sons, and lifting weights. Or something close enough.

Tuck looked again.

“What’re you carrying, bro?”

That question. I should’ve torn it apart. Mocked it. Analyzed it. But what was I carrying?

A degree plan that didn’t feel right anymore. An idealism that sounded more like… performance. A rage that had nowhere left to go. A body that didn’t look like mine in the mirror. And a voice in my head — the old one — growing quieter.

Maybe I mumbled something. Maybe “nothing” or “I don’t know.” Or maybe I just shook my head and let the silence bury it.

The sun was sinking now, stretching the shadows. I rested my forehead against the window, letting the glass remind me I still had a side that was sharp, aware, progressive. But even that thought… felt rehearsed. Like a podcast you play but stop absorbing.

And when Tuck handed me the last sip of his drink, I took it without thinking. It tasted sweet. Fake. Masculine. Like all of it.

Somewhere deep, a phrase surfaced. I didn’t know if it was mine or his:

“You just gotta let it in.”

And I did.

⸻

The sun was slamming straight into the truck’s dashboard. Ninety-five degrees easy. The AC was on, but I kept the window down anyway. I wanted to feel it. The wind, the heat, the smell of sweat and gasoline. Real stuff.

I was chillin’ in the passenger seat. White BROhaus tank already sticking to my traps. Fake silver chain bouncing on my chest. Cap backwards, brim slightly bent. Shake in hand. Cookies n’ cream flavor. Clean. Solid.

“Chest day vibes,” I muttered to myself, laughing low. Not even sure why. Just felt right.

Tuck was steering with one hand, his other arm resting on the window. His skin was sun-gold, tribal tattoo on his shoulder, white Under Armour cap turned just like mine. He looked like he owned the road. Literally.

“You know the BROhaus has churned out like, three senators, right?” he said, not even looking. “And the guy who founded that gym app that made a billion.”

I nodded. That was the kind of thing that mattered now. Legacy. Performance. Dominance. Strategy.

The music blasting was heavy. Bass hitting my stomach. Real EDM. None of that sad folk protest crap. This was mental preworkout.

Tuck pulled up a video. Two giga-jacked shirtless YouTubers pretending to debate gender identity.

“So like, this chair identifies as a f*cking chandelier, bro.”

His laugh hit like a clean bench rep. I laughed too. Hard. Chest shaking.

“Brooo,” I choked out between laughs. “Like… who even cares?”

“Real. No cap.”

The road sliced through dry farmland and shuttered diners. We rolled into a small truck-stop-looking town. Rusted sign read: “Raleigh Hill – Pop. 1,304.” The air smelled like meat, old oil, and something good on a grill.

We stopped at a highway restaurant — the kind that serves ribs slathered in barbecue sauce and fries like it’s a TikTok eating challenge.

I ordered the same as him. Ribs. Extra sauce. Ice-cold longneck beer sweating in my hand. I ate like it was the best deal of my life. Maybe it was.

As he wiped his hand on his shirt, he said:

“Being a clean athlete… still gotta make room for sacred moments, bro.”

We stepped outside and I pumped gas into the truck. Old, noisy pump. The sound of fuel hitting the tank was straight music to me now. I felt… useful.

Across the street, there was this little electric car. Quiet. Silver. Almost smug.

I stared for a second. Felt something weird. Like a thought was trying to bubble up. But nothing came. Just a tightness in my chest.

“You good, bro?” Tuck called from across the hood.

“That car pisses me off,” I blurted, without thinking.

“’Cause it looks like it’s for soft-ass dudes,” he said, laughing.

“Facts,” I replied, cracking up. Loud. The tension vanished. All of it.

Back on the road, Tuck played another video. Same dudes from before, now mocking pronoun corrections like teachers.

“They/them is literally plural, bro… pick a side!”

I smacked the dash, laughing. No filter.

“Next time someone calls me ‘they,’ I’m leg pressing ‘em.”

“BROOOO,” Tuck hollered, hitting the wheel. “You’re so ready for BROhaus.”

I looked in the mirror. My sunglasses were resting on my head. My eyes were red from the sun, but lit up. Sharp. No doubt.

The town appeared up ahead. Low buildings. A welcome banner. Freshmen dragging suitcases around, clueless and lost. Worried ‘bout tomorrow.

But I wasn’t a freshman. And tomorrow… tomorrow was chest day.

⸻

Late afternoon. Orange sky, like citrus-flavored preworkout spiked with beta-alanine. The sun hit the red brick of the house hard. Everything looked like a dope motivational video shot.

The BROhaus flag flapped at the top of the porch like it knew I was coming home. White columns. Perfect shade for a post-arm-day pump.

I hopped out of the truck, the ground hot under my Nike slides. My tall white socks were clean, tight. The fake silver chain swung low on my chest as I jumped from the cab. My abs peeked through the tank. I was already laughing, even before remembering why.

“Tuck, where’s my dorm again?” I asked, scratching my neck.

He looked at me with that usual face. Like: Bro, really?

“Bro… it’s right there. You’ve been my roommate for two years, dumbass.”

“Ohhh. Right.” I smiled, laughing like it was an old inside joke.

“How the hell are you even in college, Bro?”

“Charisma, connections, and this right here.”

I hit a biceps pose. The vein was poppin’, thanks to yesterday’s lift.

Across the street, some freshmen were trying to tape up flyers. Recycled paper, rainbow markers, slogans about climate justice. One of them wore Crocs. The other had an AOC glitter tee.

Didn’t think twice.

I shouted: “YO! TAPE’S NOT RECYCLABLE, DUMBASSES!”

They looked over. One blushed. The other tried to keep taping. The paper fell. Tuck started cracking up. So did I. From the gut. Loose. Real.

I nudged Tuck’s shoulder, grinning:

“Climate change ain’t gonna build delts.”

He just said: “Facts, bro.”

We walked into the BROhaus. Doors wide open. Warm light. Smelled like whey and men’s deodorant. Just like the future.

[sttsparkstf]

A special kind of cannabis part 3

[sttsparkstf]

A special kind of cannabis part 2

[sttsparkstf]

It started just after breakfast. He rubbed his chin absentmindedly during his first class and felt stubble—thicker than he remembered shaving off that morning. By the time lunch rolled around, his jawline itched like hell, and in the mirror above the sink in the men's room, he stared at himself in disbelief. A full beard was pushing through, dark and coarse.

He tried to keep his head down, but people noticed. Even his voice had dropped slightly by the time he got to his third lecture. His forehead itched too, and by mid-afternoon, his eyebrows had thickened and met just above the bridge of his nose. His hair, once short and neatly parted, was now longer, darker, curling with body and weight. He looked older. He looked... rougher.

He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t on anything. But something inside him was surging—like his testosterone was on overdrive, like some switch had flipped. His body was taking over. No, his blood was taking over. His ancestry. His roots. His genes knew something he didn’t, and they were acting fast.

By the time he got to his dorm room that evening, he was breathing hard, his shirt clinging to his chest. He tore it off and stared into the full-length mirror. The man looking back wasn’t the same clean-cut college boy who left this morning.

And then he felt it.

An itch deep beneath his skin. On his chest. His lower belly. His thighs. Even lower.

The hair was coming. Thick. Dark. Everywhere....

[sttsparkstf]

[sttsparkstf]

[sttsparkstf]

Title: Who Are You, Where Are You From?

Chapter One: The Gas Station Gift

The sun was low over the Turkish hills when the rumble of a tired white tour bus pulled into the gravel lot of Samir and Abdullah’s gas station. The brothers, busy with their usual routine—stocking chips, refilling the Ayran cooler, and yelling half-hearted jokes in Turkish across the store—looked up with interest. Tourists were nothing new, but this group stood out.

Four clean-cut American boys stepped off the bus, their sandals kicking up dust. They looked like something out of a college admissions brochure. Christian missionary students, headed through Turkey on a summer program called “Hearts Across Borders.”

Grant, 22, tall and blond, studied Theology and Sports Management at a Christian college in Indiana.

Luke, 20, round-cheeked with a Midwestern smile, was from Missouri and majored in Biblical Archaeology.

Jeremy, 21, a wannabe Hillsong singer from Ohio, studied Business and Worship Music.

And Nolan, just 18, shy and fresh-faced, was a Political Science major at Liberty University. His shirt still had the university’s logo on it. Homeschooled most of his life, this was his first time abroad.

Abdullah leaned across the counter, eyes glinting. “You boys looking for a souvenir?”

They smiled awkwardly. Jeremy chuckled. “Sure, something local.”

Abdullah reached behind the register and pulled out a small, ornate deck. The back was dark red, stamped in gold foil: Who Are You, Where Are You From?

“You play this,” Abdullah said, “you get your answer.”

Grant raised an eyebrow. “Like, a personality quiz?”

Samir smirked. “Like a… Turkish baptism.”

The boys laughed but bought it anyway. As they left, Samir clapped Abdullah on the back. “Let’s see what they become.”

That night, Abdullah sat outside with his cousins—Rami, Embrah, Jamal, and Uncle Firas—sipping dark tea under the buzzing yellow light of the patio bulb. He told the story, and one by one, they all shared their predictions.

“Maybe they all get fat,” Rami laughed. “Turkish bread belly, yeah?”

“No, no,” Embrah said, smirking. “One will end up sweeping hair from my barbershop floor. You’ll see.”

“Let them trade those soft American majors for a real Turkish trade,” Jamal added. “Imagine one of them huffing diesel in work boots, huh?”

Uncle Firas sipped silently, then said, “I just hope they come to love the smell of themselves. It is a very Turkish thing, to not be afraid of your own scent.”

The men laughed into the night.

Chapter Two: The Dorm Room Draw

In their dorm-style room, four bunk beds jammed against the walls, ceiling fan spinning lazily, the boys sat cross-legged around a tiny table. The air smelled faintly of shoes, detergent, and street dust. They tore off the shrink wrap.

Inside: a deck of cards, golden trim shimmering faintly. Each card bore a country flag and a name.

“Who wants to go first?” Grant asked.

“I’ll do it,” said Jeremy.

He drew a card: TURKEY 🇹🇷 — Kerem Demir — Marmara University — Visual Design.

The others snickered. Then stopped.

Jeremy’s jaw clenched. A towel appeared tucked in at his waist. His chest bulked slightly, while a dusting of black chest hair peeked out from beneath his collar. His hair darkened and curled tight against his skull, temples drawing in, hairline pushing forward and down, giving him a narrow, shadowed Turkish brow. A short beard shadow crept in around his jaw, coarse and dark.

His clothes began shifting: his college hoodie thinned and tightened into a worn black polo, faded and fraying at the sleeves, the fabric clinging slightly from moisture. His pants re-stitched into scuffed black slacks. The smell of talc and shaving cream began to cling to him.

Thick black hair crept out of the sleeves of his shirt. His forearms, now dark and muscular, were coated in a fuzzy, almost curly layer of hair. His wrists were calloused.

He stood slowly. “What… was that?” he muttered.

“You look different, dude,” Nolan said.

Jeremy opened his wallet. His Ohio license was gone. In its place: a Turkish student ID. Kerem Demir, Marmara Üniversitesi. But instead of gasping, Jeremy found his face going slack. “This is mine,” he muttered. Then with a blink, he dropped his old Ohio ID on the table.

Kerem rubbed his arms absently. “My skin itches,” he said softly. “Like it’s… growin’ or somethin’.” He scratched at the forearm fuzz again. “This shirt’s tight too. Damp. Kinda… not mine.”

Grant flipped the next card: TURKEY 🇹🇷 — Emir Yılmaz — Boğaziçi University — Economics.

His blond hair darkened into a deep walnut brown. It surged downward, his hairline lowering and tightening until it nearly touched his eyebrows. His temples curved in sharply, closing his forehead into a small, striking Turkish frame. His brow jutted slightly, shadowing his gaze. His polo shirt stiffened into a rugged button-down, sleeves tight over growing arms.

His scent changed. No longer American soap, but damp, lived-in cotton and salt. A faint itch began behind his ears.

He opened his wallet. The Indiana license with Grant’s name was gone. He now held a Turkish ID that read Emir Yılmaz — and with a firm sigh, he tossed his old ID in the trash bin near the bunk.

He glanced down at his belly, which now sat heavier in his lap than before. “Was I this… big?” he muttered. He tugged at his waistband. “This shirt’s tight too.”

Luke was next. He flipped over his card: TURKEY 🇹🇷 — Yusuf Tuncay — Selçuk University — Religious Studies.

His face darkened in tone, olive and warm, as the peach fuzz of his cheeks thickened into a well-shaped beard. His hair, too, sank lower, curling in on the temples until his forehead looked small and firm, encased by shadowy brows. The brow itself sharpened forward slightly, adding gravitas.

His outfit flickered into a beige tunic that clung just enough to show his new stature. A calm presence overtook him.

His Missouri license disappeared from his wallet without a trace. His new Turkish ID was immaculate. Yusuf Tuncay. “I don’t remember being Luke,” he said, without sadness. He repeated the new name under his breath again: “Yusuf… Tuncay…”

Nolan drew last: TURKEY 🇹🇷 — Taylan Karaca — Istanbul University — International Relations.

He winced. His shoulders shrunk slightly, and a faint buzz cut formed. His hairline restructured, dipping low and tight across his face, the temples collapsing in to hug his head in thick, dark hair. His lips parted slightly in confusion. “Wh—what’s happening?”

His Abercrombie shirt began to fade. The fabric discolored, collar curling. Smudges of past sweat emerged at the back and armpits. His pants morphed into sagging jeans with Turkish brand labels.

He reached into his wallet. His Liberty University ID was gone. He now held a shiny red Turkish student card. Still blinking, he read aloud, “Taylan… Karaca.”

The old card fell from his hand. He didn’t pick it up.

Then he turned to his suitcase.

“What the heck?” Taylan muttered, yanking it open. Inside were stacks of clothes he didn’t recognize. One pair of jeans had a name tag inside the waistband that read “Mehmet.” The inseam was shorter than he used to wear. The waist was snug. “I ain’t a 30… wait… am I?”

He pulled out a pair of boxer briefs. Used. Branded with a Turkish department store’s logo. Stained faintly in the back.

“I—I didn’t pack this.”

“Lemme see,” Kerem said, opening his own duffel. Inside were scuffed slip-ons, an old Hollister tee with faded American flag stitching, and a wrinkled shirt that smelled like someone else’s deodorant. “This is second-hand,” he muttered, sniffing. “Sweaty too.”

He took a longer sniff, face twitching. “Dude… it smells like a stranger’s armpit.”

And yet he folded it carefully.

Yusuf was sitting quietly. “These things were always ours.”

“But I—I swear,” Taylan stammered. “I don’t remember… I don’t remember packin’ this. What was I studyin’ again? Poli… Poli-?” He trailed off.

“Politikaya?” Yusuf offered in Turkish.

“No,” Taylan blinked. “No, I—I don’t think that’s… what?”

In the mirror behind him, for just a second, Taylan thought he saw a Turkish boy staring back. The boy’s lips were moving in Turkish. His own mouth was closed.

Silence settled over the room.

They didn’t pick up their old IDs. They didn’t repack the underwear. The room simply moved forward, the way water flows past a sunken stone.

[sttsparkstf]

He was warned—just a little, they said. One spray was more than enough.

But that wasn’t what he wanted.

The moment he felt that first puff of the formula mist against his bare chest, he knew it wouldn’t be enough. It tingled as it sank into his skin, waking something ancient, something wild. The hairs on his pecs darkened and thickened instantly, curling out across his body in waves. His chest, his shoulders, even down his arms—it was spreading fast. He should’ve stopped.

But instead, he lifted the can again. And again. And again.

He wanted this.

He wasn’t trying to be handsome. He wasn’t trying to impress. He wanted to become something undeniable. A hairy beast. A man that couldn’t be ignored. One glance at his hairy torso, at the carpet of dark curls now swallowing his pecs and trailing down toward his abs, and he knew—he was transforming into something primal, masculine, and bold.

He tilted his head back with pride, eyes half-lidded, smirk tugging at his lips as the hiss of the spray echoed one more time. The can hissed empty.

Good. He was only getting started.