#lib to con tf

[spartanmuscle]

He is the Spartan Program's prime beef example.

Formerly a police officer with views that needed to be eradicated incompatible with what the Program deems most important, and a lifestyle which is degenerate not suited for a law enforcement officer.

A police officer who worked in a department which closely cooperated with the Program.

The Program ordered suggested the officer be brainwashed take part in Program's activities.

The officer was forced to decided to join the Program and become a Spartan Guard.

Spartan Guard SG447P now leads all Guards stationed in rural New York.

His muscles are big, well developed and always on display.

His biceps now the symbol of the Program's presence.

His cock now seeking only what is compatible with spartan conservatism.

[mrrharper]

Neighborhood Association

Cale put down the last box and sighed. He could now officially state that he has moved. He looked around the living room and felt proud of himself, after working tirelessly for almost a week to turn this space into a home. The same couldn’t be said about his feeling towards the place his new home was located in.

He was forced to move after the rent in his last apartment was hiked by 25%. This was more than he could handle, so he decided right then and there that the would find a cheaper place to live. He went on Zillow and it didn’t take long before he found the place he was now living in. Gorgeous building, well-kept outside, spacious inside, with a stupidly low rent. He called the landlord first thing the following day. He signed the lease a week after that.

It was only then that his friends came up to him and made him realize what was the place he was about to move into. Pinewood, an outer suburb and the only Republican stronghold in the entire metro area. This was bad news for the young gay software engineer basically addicted to the queer city life. But he had already signed all the paperwork and he decided he would make this work. Each time he felt like this might not have been the best decision he reminded himself that even with the longer commute he was saving a lot of many. Yeah, maybe the town screamed “All-American conservative suburb”, but this was the price for financial stability, Cale told himself.

Cale heard a knock on the door. He walked up to the entrance and opened it. He was surprised to see no one in front of his house, not even a single person walking along the street. Then he looked down and saw a leaflet. Oh, that’s what this was about. He picked up the piece of paper and started reading as he went back inside. “The Pinewood East Neighborhood Association welcomes you in our area. We are glad you’ve decided to find your special place within our prosperous community and invite you to become an active member. Just scan the QR code and fill the form. FIND YOUR ROLE IN PINEWOOD.” Well, that’s nice, Cale thought to himself. He sat down on the couch and scanned the code on the leaflet. The form was pretty standard, for the most part. The only unusual part was the part where he was asked about hobbies. It was not an open question and Cale was forced to choose for only a couple of options. He rolled his eyes, who designed this form? He picked “morning runs and fitness”. He did try to get into he habit of running a year ago. And a year before running it was working out. So he guessed this was the option closest to the truth. He quickly finished filling up the whole form and sent it, quickly forgetting about the whole thing.

Two days later when he came back from work and walked up to his door he saw a package. He was surprised, he didn’t remember ordering anything. But as he looked closer he confirmed that the box was addressed to him. There was just one small typo, Caleb instead of Cale, but he was used to it. He picked the package up and took it inside to his living room. He then opened the box and saw a letter on top. It turned out it was a welcome package from the neighborhood association. Cale thought it was a nice gift, but didn’t care to see what was inside the package itself. The only thing he took out was the baseball cap with the association’s logo on it. When later that day he went out to run a few errands he put it on, because it was the closest to his hand as he was leaving the house. He came back late and after getting out of his clothes he went back to bed. He forgot to take the cap off.

Caleb slowly woke up. He stood up and stretched his arms. He felt a weird ache throughout his whole body, and he didn’t know why— damn, that sesh at the gym yesterday was rough. But that ache was the sign that it was working. He turned his head and watched his arm as he flexed his biceps.

He came up to his closet for something to wear. But he only saw a few faggy shirts and some tight pants. What the fuck, he thought. But then his mind was instantly covered by a weird fog and he walked into the living room and picked up a big box standing on the floor. He opened it and took out a black compression shirt and a pair of gym shorts. He quickly put them on and immediately felt better, his muscles filling up the clothes perfectly.

Right after, Caleb looked up to see a pride flag hanging from one of the walls and a feeling of disgust filled his fog-covered head. He jumped up to the wall and grabbed the piece of fabric, then threw it on the ground. Then he came back to the box and took out a ‘thin blue line’ flag. That fit him way better and he quickly put it on the wall.

He heard his phone ring. He took his phone and answered.

“Yeah?”

“Good morning, this is Cathy form the Pinewood East Neighborhood Association. Is this Cale?”

“Ugh” Caleb grunted. Stupid woman. “It’s Caleb.”

“Oh, of course, my apologies” Cathy answered, but she didn’t sound like she was really sorry. “I’m calling to ask a few questions before we accept you as a full member”

“Sure, whatever” Caleb’s interest in the phone call was dwindling fast and he started flexing once again, watching his biceps go up and down.

“What’s your profession?” Caleb’s mind, completely covered by fog, didn’t know what to say.

“Ughhhh, soft…ware… was it… wait a minute—”

“Is it security guard, Caleb?”

“What?” He did not expect the woman to be such a psychic. “Yeah, yeah, security guard, duh.”

“Great, thank you Caleb, and one more question. There’s a group that wants to organize a Pride event in out beautiful city. How would you respond to such a proposal?”

“Hell no, we don’t want no queer near our place, isn’t that right? Bunch of degenerates” Caleb barked at the phone.

“I understand Caleb, and we agree, you’re absolutely right” The woman on the other side sounded almost… proud? “I won’t hold you any further, you have a job to go to. I’m glad you are fulfilling your role within our community. See you soon.” And then Cathy ended the call. Caleb shrugged, he wasn’t sure what was the deal with all this neighborhood shit, but why should he care? He was here for the low rent and the job that allowed him to spend half the day at the gym.

As he walked from the living room to the kitchen Caleb stopped in front of the mirror and started flexing. Damn, these guns of his looked impressive. And fuck, his chest was like a damn pillow, so sick. He watched his pecs flex in the mirror, moving under his compression shirt. These muscles were ready to smash degenerates and grab any pussy he wanted. When he was ready to leave the house, driven by instinct he went back to the box and picked up a pair of sunglasses he then immediately put on. Yeah, now he was ready to go to work and fulfill the role he was assigned in Pinewood. And brah, it felt fuckin’ great.

[manlysun]

Empty Head, Happy Bro.

When the red cap goes on, the ignorant toxic douche bro comes out. All thought and liberalism melt into his massive nuts, leaving him with nothing but brain-dead conservatism. Letting go and sinking deep down into the red echo chamber of cocky self-indulgence feels so good, so hard to resist. It feels so good to show off and gloat like a massive tool, making his fat cock throb. He only wants to go deeper and get stupider. The red cap feels so fucking good, bro.

[fratttymatty]

A few shorts

1

The second David put on the grey sweatpants his bulge significantly grew as well as his muscles. Shit he smelt like musk too. He was now Davis, the dumbest guy in college, the guy who only thought with his dick. He was also a massive dick, and he knew it. Oh and the girls loved it!

2

Flick was a 79 year old man going on holiday to Ibiza. He booked into his hotel called "La Joven Transformación" not knowing that anything would happen. 4 boys, Alejandro, Harry, Nicholas and Josh dragged Flick to their room and injected him with something. Flick began to decrease in age by 60 years until he was 19. It also made him extremely hot. His muscles grew and his shirt disappeared. His mind changed and remembered he was in Ibiza to party with the boys. He forgot his name was ever Flick and he believed it was Clint since forever.

"Bros! I'm so pumped for this vacay man! Gonna get some hot Spanish chicas!" He said cockily.

3

The second Craig stepped into the gym, he was sprayed with some sort of liquid which made him look like an absolute gym bro. His biceps were now huge and so was basically everything else about him, especially his ego. He was now Kyle and he took a picture of himself and uploaded it onto Instagram.

4

Thanks to Jake's help, Greg had become yet another baseball bro in the school. He ditched the name Greg and became Grayson. He turned the blue baseball hat backwards and put on the white shorts. It made his muscles grow and his sport ability increase. It also made him grow to 6 foot 4. He took a picture and sent it to his girlfriend Libby.

5

Joel was a nerdy guy in school. That was until one of the school's bad boy heartthrobs, Freddy, stuck a cigarette into Joel's mouth. Joel inhaled the smoke by accident, the smoke from the magical cigarette ran through his body. It pumped up his muscles, deepened his voice, made his hair more messy and disheveled, made him taller, made him gain a more bad boy brain. Before he knew it, he believed his name was Cole. Cole was the definition of a Tiktok bad boy. He picked up his phone and pulled out a cigarette before taking a picture and sending it to his girlfriend, Julia, captioning it with.

"You know youre rly cute right"

6

Ian was a gay guy who was also a twink. He was walking around his university until a clearly conservative guy came up to him with another man who was recording him. The conservative gay was a gay called Jackson. Jackson was an "interviewer" on Tiktok, and Ian was his next victim.

"Trump or Kamala?" Jackson asked.

"Kamala duh." Ian replied which Jackson wasn't happy about and the cameraman stopped recording.

The phone flashed in Ian's face and changed him. Ian's muscles grew, his hair grew into a mullet-ish hairstyle, his voice deepened, he grew to well over 6 foot. As well as the physical changes his mind changed too.

He gained a very VERY conservative mindset, he straightened out, and he gained lots of new opinions that his old self would find offensive and controversial. He forgot his name was Ian and now his name was Evan. Jackson looked at him and re-recorded his part.

"Trump or Kamala bro?" Jackson asked again.

"Trump dude. I ain't no sissy!" Evan replied.

7

Lila was a nerdy girl with one boy best friend, Martin, who was gay. She was at school and was studying alone in the library, then the cheerleaders came in. Polly, Viola, Hayley and Roxana were the most popular girls in school. They approached Lila and stuck a hairband on her head causing her transformation to begin. Her hair got long and blonder causing her to become ditzier. She gained an hourglass figure and developed a valley girl accent. Her face got more pretty and her lips plumped up. Her makeup became extremely sexy, as well as other parts of her body. Once it was over the cheerleaders took off the headband and then Lila gained a new name, Mia. She threw her books away and ran to the field with the other girls. She couldn't wait for Martin to change.

"Eeeekk! I'm like, totes excited to be a cheerleader. Can we like, change Martin too hehe?!" Mia says in a valley accent using her newly gained valley slang.

8

Martin and Lila were best friends, until one day. That day was the day Lila, or Mia as she was now called, became a cheerleader. Martin was confused what happened. He was sitting in the art classroom and then Mia came up to him and placed a football helmet on his head. He instantly started to transform. His hair shortened and darkened to a dark brown and it gained a messy Tiktok boy style. He got more muscular and taller, and developed a deep voice. His face got more rugged and angular and his eyes darkened in colour. His personality got more confident and popular boy-like. He became straight and started to mainly think with his dick. Once it was over Mia took off the helmet and then Martin gained a new name, Matt. He threw away the art supplied and kissed Mia passionately. He was glad he was now a football player and that Mia was his cheerleader girlfriend.

"Yo babe. I love you, you're so sexy huhu!" He said in his new dumb voice

(Decided to do a few of these for being gone for so long. Also short 7 and 8 are connected. And as always, all characters are 18 or over.)

[derekhighwaytf]

Welcome to the Team, Bro

TW: Misogyny, Homophobia

Your twenty-first birthday had been going absolutely perfect. Of course, you’d surrounded yourself with all your closest friends, all girls, obvi.  Drunk off cheap grocery store champagne being sipped out of red solo cups, you all continued laughing and enjoying your annual birthday roast, regardless of how uncomfortable everyone was stuffed onto your small college apartment couch. It was all in the name of light-hearted fun—typical jokes about how you wear the tightest of clothes, how you seem to have retained more Sex and the City quotes than anyone else alive, and of course, your nonexistent love life with guys. The usual, nothing that cut too deep. You laughed along, leaning back in your chair, feeling comfortable and safe being with your gal pals.

But then the door swung open, and Levi, Jessica’s ultra jock boyfriend, walks in. The room goes completely silent for just a second, the atmosphere shifting rapidly. Levi, an absolute douchebro, is the kind of frat guy who dominated a space just by existing. Tall, muscular, and that same cocky grin permanently plastered on his face. He saunters into your living room like it was his own frat house.

"Hey, birthday boy!" Jessica teases, giving you a nudge. "Levi asked me if he could take a turn roasting you. He says it’s good practice for his stand-up career.  Can you please let him go up?  I promise he won’t say anything too horrible."

You blink. ‘What on earth could Levi even say?  He doesn’t even know me?!’ you think to yourself. The other girls exchanged worried glances. The guy’s not exactly known for being subtle or sensitive, but before you can protest, Levi stepped towards the middle of the room, cracking his knuckles as he sized you up.

"So this is our little birthday bitch, huh?" His voice booms, loud and commanding. He stands in front of you, creepily grinning as he looks you up and down your skinny, twinkish frame. "Man, look at you. You’re such a fucking stick. Bet you couldn’t lift up a five pound weight, even if your life depended on it. What, a gust of wind gonna blow you over, fag?"

The girls laugh sporadically, forcing a chuckle just to try and relieve the tension. But as the words leave Levi’s mouth, a hot, uncomfortable sensation ripples through your body, and out of nowhere, you feel a tightness push itself against your pale skin. You glance down and your eyes widen—your biceps are swelling, your pecs thickening themselves into two smooth mounds of man meat. Muscles you’ve never even fathomed having in your life start to form, bulging out of your once-slender frame. Your shirt strains at the seams as your chest broadens to it’s sides, your chest pushing forward until they’re massive, rock-hard slabs, rivaling the tits of your girlfriends.

"Whoa, dude... what the hell are you saying, man?" you mutter, your voice suddenly much, much deeper, almost as deep as Levi’s.

The girls gasp, their eyes widening in shock, but Levi just keeps going, pretending to be unaware of what’s happening to the poor boy.

"But you know what?" Levi grins, his tone dripping with smugness. "I bet you’re the kinda guy who’s so obsessed with looking good that you wouldn’t even know what it means to get truly dirty, huh? Probably shower three times a day, all prim and proper. Nah, man. A real dude doesn’t give a shit about smelling fresh.  Real men smell like bulls.”

As soon as he says it, a wave of heat rolls through you again. This time, it’s not just gonna stay inside yourself, no. It’s... in your gut. A thick, rumbling pressure builds up more and more inside you, and before you can stop it, a loud, wet burp escapes your mouth. 

BRRRRRRRP!!

The girls squeal in disgust, but it doesn’t stop there. A loud, long fart rips through the air, and the smell is rank—sweaty, cheese, and 100% pure man odor.

PFFFFFFFFFFTTTTT!

Your armpits start to sweat profusely, staining your rapidly shrinking tank top shirt, and the once-fresh Polo cologne you had on is completely overpowered by the raw, animal scent of your dick stink. You can feel your skin getting greasy, and when you scratch your balls—without even thinking about it—they itch more, like you haven’t showered in days and you can’t help but touch it more and more.

"Ugh, gross!" one of the girls groans, wrinkling her nose. But as she pulls away, her eyes, they…change. Like she can’t stop glancing at your new Adonis body, completely disregarding, maybe even enjoying the smell. And she’s not the only one. All your former “gal pals” are starting to shake and whisper amongst themselves, their giggles turning into flirtatious murmurs, their shirts opening up as if he thermostat had been turned up to a hundred.

Levi leans in closer, his grin growing wider. "But hey, it’s not just about the looks, right? I bet this little fucker still can’t get laid to save his life. Probably jerks off to Tumblr stories every night instead of actually getting some pussy. Pfft. Bet he couldn’t handle a real girl if he tried."

Something snaps in your formerly gold star brain. You’ve always been gay, but now, that feels... weird. Incorrect.  Immoral.  Suddenly, the thought of even just hugging another guy seems wrong, as if you were worried you could catch gayness. Your eyes flicker over to Jessica and the others, and a new heat ignites inside your groin. Your mouth waters at the sight of your friend’s curves, their massive cleavage, their clean shaven legs. You want to be inside them. You need to be.

Memories shift. Nights spent dreaming about guys and writing fanfictions about male celebrities blur and twist into hazy recollections of fucking girls—lots of girls. So many, you couldn’t even remember one of their names.  You can taste their pussies, hear their moans. Your cock twitches in your pants, straining against the fabric of your newly materialized gym shorts as you stare at the girls who used to be just your friends. Now, they’re more than that. They’re... opportunities.  Sluts, ready for the taking.

"Fuck you asshole, I get laid all the fuckin’ time," you hear yourself shout, your voice deeper, more arrogant, your words rolling out in laughter like they’ve always been true. The girls giggle, blushing and shooting you lingering glances, clearly wanting your dick in their mouths. All of them. And in the pit of your stomach, you know they’ll all be yours by the end of the night.

Levi laughs, clapping you on the back. "Now that’s more like it, stud!" He steps back, crossing his arms, admiring his work "But let’s be real, this guy just thinks far too much, huh? He’s always overanalyzing shit, worrying about dumb stuff. A real bro doesn’t waste his time thinking. Just acts. Bet this guy’s head is still full of that nerdy fag crap."

You feel a sharp, dull shot of pain go through your head like a bullet, as if half of it is being yanked out. Your vision swims around the transforming frat room of breasts, and suddenly, it’s hard to think—like there’s a deep fog settling over your brain, clouding everything, mushing it into a few simple desires. The things you once knew—your studies, your hobbies, your passions—fade away, replaced by simpler, more immediate thoughts. Working out. Fucking. Drinking beer. All the things that matter to a real man.

The last thing to go is the memory of who you used to be. That skinny, smart, gay kid? Gone. Replaced by the image of you as a dumb, horny jock, the kind of guy who lives for the gym and pussy. The kind of guy who doesn’t need to think—because he already knows he’s the shit.

You blink, grinning stupidly at Levi, feeling the last vestiges of your old self disappear. "Yo, bro, I ain’t no faggot. Hey, where the fuck’s the beer at? We gotta get shwasted, man."

The girls are all over you now, practically throwing themselves at you. And why wouldn’t they? You’re hot as fuck, and you need to dump your cum in their needy holes.  You’re gonna make these formally open-minded liberal intellectuals into perfect American mothers.

"That’s my boy," Levi laughs, handing you a beer. "Welcome to the team, bro."

[stonedstr8]

TOKE 'N STROKE

"Ads are getting so damn invasive." Lucas thought to himself, clicking skip on yet another pointless car commercial interrupting the video essay he was watching. "You think the algorithm would know its audience by now, I'm too gay to drive!"

He laughed a little bit at the joke, running a hand through his soft, bleached blonde hair. He was the epitome of a high-maintenance twink, with his smooth, hairless body and perfect sense of style. He was smart too and liked to boast about it, with a scholarship for his English Lit degree and being made President of his university's LGBT Chapter, which he was hoping to use as a stepping stone to become Student Body President next year.

Leaning back again in his chair he reached for his cellphone, seeing a text from his boyfriend Alex.

Alex: "Hey cutie, still busy with finals this weekend, but have time for a dinner date Sunday night?"

He smiled to himself, giving an eager text back to set it up, and to wish him well on his upcoming exams. "Ugh, I need to start studying too, Monday's going to be one hell of a final... I'll focus on it and head to the library after this video and-"

Just like that, his train of thought was interrupted again by a stupid ad, this time some obnoxious psychedelic visuals and a bad electric guitar riff blared out of his monitor. It startled him so badly that he seized up for a second, accidentally clicking the ad and being brought to their store page. "Broski's Bud's, one stop ship and shop for weed strains to fix your brain..." He rolled his eyes at the cringe marketing, getting ready to close the tab when a pop-up opened trying to tell him all about a deal he 'wouldn't want to miss out on'. "No thanks, stupid site, you can keep your Bro Buds or whatever to yourself." but every time he hit X on the popup another would open, being more and more insistent each time about new deals, until finally a desperate '90% OFF AND SPECIAL STARTER KIT AS A BONUS WITH YOUR FIRST PURCHASE' filled his screen. "FINE," he scoffed at his computer, "I'll take a look at the stupid site. My therapist suggested I try out weed to help lessen my anxiety anyways, so might as well get a good deal on it..."

Clicking the pop-up added the 'starter kit' to his cart, it was a pack of pre-rolled blunts and some sort of mystery box, but the description didn't help him understand it much either. "Get ready to step into the zone and open ur mind with this one bros, Broski's Buds bestselling strain, Toke 'n Stroke, is sure to change your life by stimulating a high never felt before! This isn't your sissy uncle's strain, this shit puts hair on your chest like a real man!"

"God this is so cringe, I bet they get all kinds of business marketing to the dumb jocks in town, no wonder their brains are mush. Still, it's just weed and for $20 I might as well give it a try, I probably won't find it cheaper anywhere else..." sitting in thought about it for a few seconds, Lucas finally filled in his payment info and placed his order, getting a free upgrade to same-day delivery since they seem to have a storefront a few miles from his apartment.

"Well, there goes my library plans I guess, I'll have to wait around for delivery since my package will probably get swiped otherwise..." Lucas sighed, turning off his computer and plopping down onto the couch, picking up his Switch to play Animal Crossing and kill time.

A few hours passed and the sky got dark before finally a long buzz came from his intercom. "Took them long enough, it's nearly 9pm!" he complained, putting his jacket on to head downstairs. When he got down there the delivery guy had already gotten into his car again, driving away and leaving Lucas to carry the package back upstairs all on his own. It was bigger than he expected, taking both hands to lift it and keep it stable. "Jesus, this thing must weight like 40 pounds! What did they put in here?"

After a bit of struggling and the occasional break to catch his breath, Lucas pushed his package into the living room, collapsing on the floor next to it for a while. "After that workout I'm surprised I don't look like the douchebags around campus." he laughed to himself, bouncing up to get a box cutter and pry his package open. After taking the carton of pre-rolled blunts out, he started into the box with a bit of confusion and disgust, pulling things out one after the other.

"A sleeveless tank top that says 'Toke 'n Stroke Bro'... A pair of douchey sunglasses... Some red gym shorts, socks and slides... Ew, a snapback saying 'Who ate all the pussy?', why the fuck would anyone wear this!... And 2 dumbbells, no wonder this thing was so heavy! All of this is useless shit that's gonna end up in a donation bin now, I'll have to drop this trashy stuff off tomorrow on my way to the library... But hey, at least the weed seems fine, smells... potent." He said, tossing everything back into the box and taking a whiff of one of the blunts.

Kicking back on the couch again, he played with the blunt in his hand for a while before finally having the courage to light it up, taking a hit. Immediately he started coughing, not used to the sensation, but it did make his brain start to feel... fuzzy. "Damn, okay I need to push past it and get used to it." he said, lighting up for another hit of the blunt, this time barely a cough escaping his throat, feeling suspiciously more used to it. Then another, and another, until finally the whole blunt was gone. Sitting in his daze for a while, he enjoyed the sensation of his mind drifting around experiencing the high, his anxiety melting away as if he didn't have a care in the world. Eventually he decided to try and get up, but his body slumped over off the couch and hitting the floor, the room fading to black...

...

When Lucas finally came to again, the first thing that hit him was the strong smell of weed floating around in the air. "Damn bro, did I smoke the whole set or what..." he laughed groggily, getting ready to stretch out and get back to laying on the couch before he was startled by the sound of moaning blasting from his TV, eyes shooting open in confusion. On the screen, two busty lesbians were making out, them taking turns groping each others boobs and fingering each other. "What the fuck bro, how long has this been on?" he cursed, nervous that the neighbors nextdoor might have heard it playing as he started desperately looking for the remote.

When he couldn't find it in the cushions, he got up from the couch only to be met with his feet kicking a bunch of empty beer cans. "Dude, there's gotta be 2 dozen thrown all over the floor, did I have a party or something? I don't even know anyone who drinks beer..." he mumbled, going to scratch his head in confusion, but was even more confused when instead of his hair he felt a hat on top of his head. "Huh?" he thought, as he looked down at the floor again, noticing that instead of his skinny jeans and converse he was now wearing the socks and slides from the box, along with the sleeveless tank top and the shorts too. He stumbled his way to the bathroom door still baked out of his mind, mouth dropping open at his reflection in the full-length mirror in front of him.

"Broooo, am I dreaming or what the fuckkkk is going on" he said in disbelief. No more was the cute, pale twink he used to be staring back at him. Instead, a douchey bro he didn't recognize was standing face to face with him. Tanned skin, pillowy muscles, his once blonde hair turned into a brown buzz cut and with that stupid "Who ate all the pussy?" hat slapped over it. He touched his face, feeling along his chin where his once smooth skin now had a rougher texture, and a trashy chinstrap sprouted from his jawline. He slapped his face a few times in his daze, trying to wake up from the dream and growing more confused each time nothing changed.

Turning around and staggering back to his living room to try and make sense of what's going on, it hit him that he barely recognizes the room anymore. His apartment used to be perfectly maintained and well-decorated, now there was beer cans all over the floor, along with dirty socks and cummed-in underwear, greasy pizza boxes and chip bags all over the table and counter, the decorations on his walls had been torn down and replaced with posters of chicks in bikinis and sports teams, his Switch replaced with an X-Box and a stack of COD games next to it, DVD cases of trashy bro-comedies were thrown around near the TV too... Then the smell hit him, it STUNK in here, like a sickening mixture of weed, cheap body spray, and sour BO wafting in a heat around the room. "Bro, it fucking reeks in here... Or wait..." he mumbled as he gave himself a whiff, "I fucking reek!"

After a bit of stunned silence he finally started to process things in his brain again. How the fuck did he get like this, was any of this even real, and how does he get back to normal? He plopped back onto the couch, picking up his phone to see he had a handful of missed texts and calls from his boyfriend before noticing the time... 2:00pm. On Sunday. He had somehow been blacked out for 2 whole nights, with no memory of anything that had happened. While getting ready to call his boyfriend back, Lucas felt his insides rumbling and at first he thought it was from the munchies because of all the weed, but then he realized "Oh bro, all that double-cheese pizza is really gonna fucking..."

*PHRRRBBBTTT!*

His body instinctively lifted its leg as it pushed out the loudest and most obnoxious fart he'd ever ripped in his life, as his body seemed to react on its own, letting out an immature laugh and wafting the air before muttering "Fuck yeah bro, smells like victory!" He leaned back into the couch, remembering he needed to call Alex, but the loud moaning on the TV caught him off guard again. This time he locked eyes with the screen, the cock in his shorts immediately bulging and straining at the sight of the lesbian porn before him. "I really need to turn this shit off and get whatever's going on sorted out..." he thought, but he realized he couldn't move his hand to reach for his phone, instead it reacted on its own, reaching down his waistband to pull out his cock and start stroking for the busty babes on TV.

"All I do is Toke 'n Stroke, bro..." a voice in his head seemed to say, except it didn't come from within, he spoke it directly out of his own mouth.

"Wait, I didn't say that bro, it's-" he tried to talk, realizing that his thoughts echoed around stuck in his own head, not even leaving the lips of his own body. He was just stuck there, watching in a dazed horror as he went on autopilot.

"Toke 'n Stroke bro, I'm such a loyal customer Broski's Buds will HAVE to take me as a hype boy this time haha!" his voice spoke again, continuing to stroke for the porn on TV, Lucas's eyes stuck fixed on the screen. Suddenly though, he was interrupted by his phone vibrating, a text from his boyfriend coming through.

Alex: "Hey cutie, I hope everything is alright? You haven't answered my calls or texts in a couple days, I know it's busy with all your studying but we do still have dinner planned for tonight. Still on for me to pick you up at 5?"

"Oh thank God," Lucas thought, reading the message, "I can tell him what's going on and have him come over to help me fix this shit!" Unlocking his phone, Lucas let out a sigh of relief as he got ready to reply, only for his body to still be taken over by whatever douchey daze it was stuck in.

Lucas: "dont u ever come around me u faggy creep, if me or my bros ever catch u within 100 feet of us we'll give u the beating of a lifetime! fuck around n find out if u dare to show ur face here."

Lucas screamed internally as the message was typed out and sent in front of his very eyes, before his hand moved to block his boyfriend's number and turn his phone off. "Something is seriously fucking wrong with me bro, I need to-"

*PHHRRRRBBBTTTTTT*

Another obnoxious and sickening fart blasted out of his ass, filling the room and breaking Lucas's thoughts down into a daze again, as he felt around under the couch for something before pulling a sweaty, well-used fuck toy of a girls ass and pussy up from the mess.

As Lucas once again locked eyes with the TV, he took another hit from his dwindling blunt stash, finishing up the last one. After throwing what was left onto the floor, he prepared the fuck toy and slid it right down onto his cock, starting to bounce the toy up and down as he edged himself closer to finishing.

"If I can't figure out a way to snap out of this, I'm so fucked..." he thought, as his voice spoke again. "Toke 'n Stroke bro, this chick is soooo getting fucked!" He moaned, as he shot his thick load into the toy, feeling some of his braincells permanently shoot out with it, sloppily wiping the mess on the cushion next to him as he laid back, feeling his insides start to bubble again.

Lucas had a lot of Bro Time to catch up on, but luckily his new favorite weed strain was making sure that he was a captive audience until he was fully converted and assimilated into just another Bro.

[bigification]

Preston's 21st

Inspired by a story from Fattystoriez

"Don't worry babe, Preston is an adult now. He can handle meeting his biological father." Vince reassured his husband, hugging him from behind.

"I know, I know. It's just scary letting him take such a big step, I mean what if meeting his father disappoints him. Based on my conversations with that man, I know I would be disappointed. I mean, does he even have a job?" Brent voiced his worries.

"Preston said he was a trucker or something. And this is something that he needs to do. Besides, you know he still loves us as his adoptive parents even if he wants to have his biological father in his life." Vince responded.

"I know, thanks babe." Brent smiled.

"Preston! You should get going, you're gonna be late." Vince yelled.

"I know pops, I'm just getting dressed." Preston yelled back.

Preston scoured through his dresser, trying to find the clothes to wear for his reunion with his father. His biological parents gave him up for adoption when he was a baby, so this will be the first time meeting his father. How was he supposed to dress for an occasion like this.

He threw on his lucky jockstrap, hoping it would give him as much luck as it does in his rugby games. Then he pulled up some grey jeans, leaving them untied while he decided if it looked good.

He stared at the mirror for a bit, undecided on the jeans. And while staring at the mirror, he brushed his hair and combed his beard, wondering if he should shave.

"Preston, hurry up!" Vince yelled again.

"Just a second!" Preston responded.

He quickly buttoned up his jeans and threw on a plain white t-shirt before rushing downstairs. He haphazardly threw on his shoes and a red hat, matching his lucky jockstrap. Just before rushing out the door, his dad's stopped him.

"Be careful, okay?" Brent asked.

"I will, dad." Preston chuckled.

"We love you." Vince added as Preston ran out the door.

"Love you too."

Preston floored it down the road. Luckily his father didn't live far down the road. His brakes screeched as his parked on the side of the road. He was shocked at how run down the neighbourhood looked, each townhome looked old and disheveled. On top of that, every guy he's seen since he entered this neighbourhood has been at least 300 pounds of lard. Preston scoffed at the thought that some people let themselves get to that point.

He squinted as he looked for the address he was given, finally spotting it a few homes down from where he parked. He walked up to the driveway, noticing that the garage door was open. As he got closer, Preston saw a man sitting in the garage, presumably his father. Though his excitement was slightly ruined by the strong smell of beer and cigars coming from the garage. Getting closer, whatever excitement he still had was completely stifled when he got a good look at his father.

The man was laid back on a lawn chair in the middle of the garage, his large frame spilling over the edges of the chair. He was holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. His button up was undone, letting his exposed gut spill out onto his lap.

"Hey, I think I got the wrong *cough* address, I'm looking for a *cough* man named Travis." Preston asked the man while trying to swat away the smoke.

"Yer' lookin at him, son." Travis said in a thick southern accent.

Preston's stomach dropped when it was confirmed that the slob of a man in front of him was indeed his father. He couldn't believe he was related to a man like that, he had always been active and sporty just like his two dad's. He always figured his biological parents must have been pretty active, but that image of his family was being shattered. I guess it makes sense why he never struggled to bulk for the rugby season.

"C'mon in son, have a beer." Travis pulled out a bottle from the mini fridge behind him.

"I'm okay thanks." Preston politely declined, standing at a healthy distance from his father.

"C'mon in, I don't bite." Travis motioned with his hands. "I was drinkin these when I was half yer age, just try one will ya." He held out the beer.

Preston had never had a beer before. His dad's let him try wine a couple of times, but he hated it so he had interest in drinking alcohol, even if was of age now. But he wanted to at least try to have a relationship with his father, so he took the beer. His hand brushed against Travis' as he took the beer, a strange sensation shot through his hand, almost like an electric shock. He figured it was nothing.

"Good boy, it'll loosen ya up a bit." Travis smiled.

Preston tried twisting the cap off, but it didn't budge.

"Give it here." Travis chuckled as he pulled out a bottle opener. "You need a bottle opener for that, I don't buy any of that twist off sissy bulshit they make nowadays." He continued while popping off the cap with ease. "Here, keep the opener. I got a feeling yer gonna need it."

Preston awkwardly put the bottle opener in his pocket, figuring it would make his dad happy if he just went along for now. Though he could see Travis impatiently waiting for him to have a sip of beer.

He lifted the beer to his lips and tilted the bottle up. The cold liquid slid down his throat. It was a bit weird at first, but it quickly started to taste good. He kept going and going, like his body wouldn't let him pull the bottle away from his mouth. Not like he would want to, this was the best thing he had ever tasted. It kicked in quick too, he started to feel slow and lethargic.

A warm and fuzzy feeling started in Preston's stomach, slowly spreading throughout his body. He instinctively raised his free hand to scratch his belly. It felt round and soft, pressing tightly against his shirt. But for some reason, that felt right to him. In fact, the thought of growing made him feel better, it made him feel strong. His dick started to grow hard as his clothes continued to tighten against his swelling body. His pecs were starting to resemble moobs, and his love handles were beginning to spill over his waist band.

He drank every last drop from the bottle before putting it down. His father looked proud, which further increased that nice warm feeling in his belly. But just before he could say something, a loud burp erupted from the depths of his stomach. As he burped, his modest belly rapidly expanded into a thick ball belly, growing from slightly chubby to extremely overweight in moments.

Preston looked down at his expanding belly. He couldn't see his dick or his feet anymore, he could only see the constant reminder of his gluttony jutting out in front of him.

"Dad... why am I gettin so fat?" Preston asked his father.

"Cuz yer part of the family. Every man in this family becomes a fat slob on their 21st birthday. It's about becomin a man, a real man. Nothing like those skinny liberals you call yer father's." Travis explained.

"But... dad..." Preston tried to talk, but was having trouble thinking.

"Shhhh don't talk son, just have another beer." Travis handed him another bottle.

Preston pulled out his trusty bottle opener and easily popped the cap off the bottle.

"Good boy." Travis said, proud of the man his son was becoming.

Preston started chugging the beer while Travis continued his monologue.

"I was like you when I was just a boy. Skinny, weak, political. My pops made me the strong traditional man I am today, and his father did the same to him. Just like you'll do to your son when he grows up."

Preston's clothes began to strain as his body continued to grow. His gut started to hang over his jeans, sagging under its own immense weight. His love handles also spilled over his jeans, making his silhouette look wide and round. His soft pecs swelled into thick man tits that sagged onto his gut.

The button on his jeans popped off, launching across the garage as fat piled into his juicy ass. And a stain of pre cum started to form in his jeans while he massaged his growing gut.

"I'm so proud of you Preston, yer growin so big already." Travis remarked. "And it's not only our sons we can use this God given ability on. We can turn any weak little man into a big strong man, like they were meant to be. Some men choose to walk down a dark path that leads to communism and dieting instead of traditional values and hearty meals, God gave us this ability to save those men from themselves."

Preston finished his second beer, letting out an even louder burp than last time, being heard throughout the neighborhood. As he did so, his tiny clothes finally gave out, leaving him in nothing but a red hat and his lucky jockstrap which is digging into his soft waist.

"Daddy... *Buuuuuurp* I..." Preston tried to speak.

"You want to get fatter and make yer family proud, right son?" Travis asked.

"Yes..." Preston responded.

"Good boy, now drink up." Travis handed him another beer.

Preston tried to look back towards the street, where multiple men were stood watching. He tried to cover up his fat naked body, but it was no use.

"Don't look at them, son. Look at me. If you want to make yer pops proud, you drink that beer." Travis pulled attention away from the onlookers.

Preston simply nodded and started chugging again.

"All those men out there are proud of the man yer becomin'. They used to be weak, just like yer adoptive daddies, but I fixed them. I fixed every man in this neighborhood. And I can't wait for you to do the same to yer daddies." Travis said.

"You can fix my daddies?" Preston asked, a thick southern accent starting to take over.

"Of course I can, son. And yer gonna help me." Travis said getting up from his chair. "Now let's get'ya in some clothes."

As his father went searching for a set of clothes that would fit him, Preston finally started growing accustomed to his new body. He had to lean back just to balance out the immense weight of his gut, and he had to spread his arms and legs just to stop them from chaffing. A sense of pride washed over his face, once unsure, he was now unwavering in his confidence. His dull smile was now a permanent sign of his blissful ignorance, he was a proud conservative man just like his father. Tasked with saving other men from their weakness.

"Here ya are, son." Travis tossed him a t-shirt and pants, "they'll be a bit tight cuz ya turned out to be bigger than I thought, but that's somethin' to be proud of."

After taking an unusual amount of time getting his clothes on, Preston confidently looked at himself in the mirror. His clothes were right and his gut spilled out of his new shirt, a public reminder of his manliness. He pulled up his shirt, showing off his rotund gut and his thick man tits, and took a picture.

"Alright son, you ready to see yer daddies?" Travis asked while walking to Preston's car.

"Sure am." He responded with a devilish grin.

The two squeezed into Preston's car, both having to adjust their seats as far back as possible. With his gut touching the wheel, and his head nearly touching the ceiling, Preston floored it back to his place. His dick was leaking at the thought of his adoptive dad's becoming like him. It didn't help that his fat jiggled with the slightest bump in the road, making the stain in his pants even larger.

His tires squeeze as he pulls into his driveway.

"You go in the front door, I'll head 'round back to see if I can catch one of 'em off guard." Travis said as he got out of the car.

Preston simply nodded in response. Travis swiftly, or at least as swiftly as he could, made his way around the house to the backyard. Preston struggled for a moment trying to get out of his car before waddling up to his front door. His heart was pounding, both from the walk up to the door and from the thought of seeing his pops.

He braced for a moment before opening the door and walking inside. Vince was by the closet getting ready for work, seemingly unaware of Preston's presence.

Preston watched for a moment as his father contemplated which tie he wanted to wear. He grunted in disapproval at his grey tie and swapped it out for a pink one.

"What a weak little man." Preston thought.

Vince then grabs an expensive looking suit jacket and throws it on.

"Pops always told me that 'the suit makes the man'." Preston continued to think of things about his father he now despised.

Vince adjusted his suit one last time, making sure it was perfect before turning to leave. He flinched when he finally made eye contact with his son. You could see his kind struggling to process the situation. First he flinched because he didn't recognize Preston, but he quickly relaxed when he realized it was his son. Then fear took over his face once again when he saw the 150 pounds of fat that had engulfed Preston's body.

"Preston?" He asked, his voice was trembling. "Is that you?"

"Sure is pops. In all my glory." Preston said confidently as his slapped his gut.

"Oh my god, what happened to you?!" Vince rushed to help his son.

"My father showed me the error of my ways, the error of yer ways."

"What are you talking about?" Vince asked, now full on panicking.

"You'll see, everyone will see." Preston raised his voice, now sporting an unmistakable deep southern accent.

He grabbed Vince's hand, an electric shock surge from his hand into his father's. Almost immediately, Vince froze. His body was motionless and his eyes went blank.

Preston happily watched on as his adoptive father started to rapidly pack on the pounds. It started with his stomach. Once flat, it quickly started to grow rounder and stick out further. It grew larger than a basketball, sticking out of his suit jacket. It swelled until his dress shirt was at its limit and his gut was spilling over his belt. Although it was still much smaller than both Preston's and Travis', he was still left with a sizable pot belly that protruded in front of him.

Next his chest starts to inflate. The once athletic looking man became buried under a layer of fat. His pecs softened and swelled into a thick pair of moobs that showed through his tight shirt. His arms also got covered in a thick layer of fat, filling out the empty space in his sleeves.

Preston smiled when he heard Vince's dress pants start to rip as his ass inflated, becoming wide but still perky, perfectly filling out his pants. He wasn't as lucky with his belt, however, as his waistline expanded by over 8 inches, snapping his belt in the process. The rest of his pants filled out nicely as his legs swelled with fat.

Finally, his blank face started to change. His ragged features became softer as his face fattened. His cheeks widened and his nose grew, his jawline melted away as a double chin formed. Luckily his beard grew out, covering most of the damage. And his hair suddenly became gelled and combed to the side, making him look professional despite barely fitting into his clothes.

"Oh, hello Preston." Vince said, finally coming back to. "Did you put on weight since I last saw you, it looks good on you kid." He said pinching Preston's belly.

"Thanks Vince." Preston responded.

- Meanwhile -

Travis huffed and puffed as he made it around the house and into the backyard. He seems to have caught Brent just as he was getting into the pool. Travis sneered at the image of Brent's shirtless body. Skinny and well toned, especially for his age. A sign of weakness is all Travis saw.

"Who are you!?" Brent jumped as he noticed the stranger in his backyard.

"I'm Travis, Preston's father." Travis said with a fake smile.

"Oh..." Brent paused for a moment, his eyes scanning Travis' enormous body. "Brent." He responded, reaching for a handshake.

"Glad to meet'ya." Travis said, shaking his hand.

It was almost comical to contrast between the two men's hands. Travis' were thick and calloused from years hauling equipment for his trucking company, while Brent's were sleek and elegant. The contrast wouldn't last for long, however, as a spark of electricity quickly shot from Travis' hand into Brent.

Brent flinched and pulled his hand away, but he was too late. His expression went blank and he stopped moving. The hand he made contact with started to swell. His sleek fingers were stuffed with fat as his hand plumped up. The definition in his arm faded under a thick layer of fat, making it sag under its own weight.

The transformation continued up his arm and into his body. Every part of him was starting to expand. His shoulders broadened, pecs softened, and his flat stomach started to round out. Within seconds he had a pot belly larger than Vince's. It seemed to throw him off balance and he started stumbling backward.

He tripped and fell back first into the pool, creating a large splash in the process. Travis watched in satisfaction as Brent's silhouette under the water was growing larger and larger.

As he grew fatter, he started floating back to the surface. Eventually a soft belly was poking out of the water's surface.

Moments later, Brent came to and pulled his head out of the water. His face was visibly fatter, with chubby cheeks that made his face look much wider and a double chin hiding under his beard.

"You see that Travis!" Brent yelled in a thick southern accent. "I must'a made a real big splash." He chuckled.

"I sure did!" Travis laughed. "Now why don't you come on inside so we can talk business."

Brent slowly made his way to the steps at the end of the pool. He took each step carefully, clearly struggling with his new body. And as he did so, more and more of his body was revealed. His pecs had swollen into soft man tits that sagged into his arm pits. His gut was by far the largest in the family, putting Travis' to shame. His love handles spilled over his skin tight speedo, making his body much wider. Speaking of which, his speedo was barely holding on as it tried to hold his fat ass and thick fat pad. And finally his massive thighs that made him spread his legs just to be able to walk.

Brent proudly approached Travis, gut first as always, eager to talk to him about their trucking business. The two squeezed through the back door into the living room where Preston had just finished up with Vince.

"Good job, son." Travis said with pride.

"Thanks dad!"

"Now for business," Travis huddled with the newly transformed Brent and Vince. "Now as you know, your uncle's and I have built this trucking business from nothing..."

Preston looked confused for a moment before it clicked. Vince and Brent weren't his adoptive dad's, why would he need adoptive dad's when he's got a father already. They're his uncles who helped raise him as if he were there own.

"Brent and I as the truckers and Vince as the fancy business man." Travis said while yanking on Vince's expensive looking suit. "But that's besides the point, I'm gettin' off topic. Since you're an adult now, we want to start training you to be a trucker."

"Really?" Preston asked.

"Of course, son. We want you to pass on the family business so it can keep going for generations. Every kid you have can grow up to be big fat truckers just like you and me."

"You would really pass on the business to me." Preston's said excitedly.

"Now don't get too ahead of yer'self son, that won't be anytime soon. But when we're too old and too fat to run the business, that's when you'll take over. By then I'm sure you'll have recruited enough men to do the job, just like I taught ya." Travis monologued. "Now, who's ready for a big meal?"

"I am!"

[redpill-tfs]

Pranked Ya, Bro

Max had always prided himself on his sharp wit, preppy style, and deep analytical mind. A freshman at Whitmore University, he spent most of his time buried in textbooks, debating politics in his dorm’s common area, and meticulously planning his future. He had ambitions—big ones. Maybe law school, maybe politics, something to make a difference in the world and improve people's lives. But on April Fool’s Day, all of that was about to change.

It happened as he was walking back to his dorm, his navy blazer and khakis neatly pressed, his brown loafers clicking against the pavement. Out of nowhere, something cold and wet smacked him in the back.

SPLASH!

He gasped, feeling the shock of icy water soak through his clothes. A burst of laughter erupted from behind him. Whipping around, he saw the culprit—a broad-shouldered, backward-hat-wearing frat boy from Beta Delta Omega, the most notoriously conservative fraternity on campus.

“Pranked ya, bro!” the guy hooted, tossing another water balloon up and down in his hand before running off to find his next victim.

Max scowled and shook his head, wringing out his wet sleeves as he tried to fight the tears forming in his eyes and the red flush in his cheeks in his embarrassment. “Idiots,” he muttered, hurrying inside his dorm. He needed to change before he caught a cold.

As soon as he shut the door, an odd sensation washed over him. His limbs trembled, heat coursing through his veins. He stumbled, gripping his desk for balance as his reflection in the mirror swam before his eyes.

“W-what’s happening?” he stammered. His voice cracked—deepened.

His arms bulged, muscles swelling beneath his skin, tearing through the tailored sleeves of his blazer. His legs thickened, his khakis warping into a pair of gym shorts as his loafers melted into battered white sneakers. His once-trim waist widened, his chest expanded, and a tight-fitting tank top emblazoned with an American flag stretched over his growing frame. A red baseball cap materialized on his head, the brim curling slightly upward as bold white letters appeared across the front: MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN.

Max groaned, gripping his head as if he could hold onto his old self, but the thoughts—the sharp, meticulous thoughts—blurred. Concepts like economic policy, climate change, and political philosophy turned to static in his mind, slipping away like sand through his fingers. New ideas replaced them—hazing pledges, chugging beers, pulling epic pranks, and making sure everyone knew who the real Americans were.

His reflection changed further—his face looking more rugged, his neatly trimmed brown hair growing messier, styled almost effortlessly. The scholarly look in his eyes faded, replaced by an easygoing, almost vacant confidence. He was a top dog, and everyone would know it and get out of his way.

His lips curled into a dumb smirk. “Aw, hell yeah, bro.”

He caught sight of his phone vibrating on his desk. Grabbing it, he found messages in the Beta Delta Omega group chat—somehow, he was already in it. But of course he was. Why would he be in the frat's chat? He'd rushed last semester and earned his way in.

BRODY: Yo, we got another one? 

CHAD: LOL welcome to the brotherhood, dude. 

BRODY: Get over here. We got more balloons to throw at nerds.

Mack flexed his newly thick arms before throwing on a pair of sunglasses. College wasn’t about studying and debating. Nah, bro. It was about living it up, making sure those geeky losers and sissy libs knew who really ruled the campus.

Mack gave the dorm a confused look? Why was he here and not back at the frat? He sure was mindless sometimes. Maybe he'd found some hot blonde chick to bang real quick and fill with his alpha seed. Anyway, he needed to get back. The frat needed all hands on deck for the epic prank goin on.

With a low chuckle, Mack turned off the lights and strolled out, his mind empty of everything but the thrill of the fun times ahead, both with his bros and the sorority chicks after practice.

[spartanmuscle]

The High Lieutenant is pleased to receive information about growing numbers of law enforcement officers deciding to join the Program.

The Program believes that it has common interests with Police Departments all across the country - defending the Law and spreading Order throughout America.

/most officers are conditioned to follow orders without question, making them into perfect Guards requires minimal effort/

The Spartan Program is a great way for police officers to continue their work of expanding American Traditions outside of work hours.

/cops are already brainwashed with right-wing propaganda and are easily led to spartan conservatism/

Police cooperation with the Program can lead to higher levels of cohesion within the Police Force.

/the Program can easily turn liberal-leaning officers into huge masculine machines, spreading american values/

Further incorporation of Spartan Guards into the structures of American Police Departments is a welcomed development that will allow the common goals of the Program and the Police to grow and spread.

/influencing Police Forces across the country from the inside will allow the Program to spread and exert further influence over the country - it will allow the Program to make sure American Traditions are preserved, that masculinity is not being erased, that Spartan Conservatism becomes the dominant force of America/

[badguyswin]

Happy birthday to my bro @transform4u

Robin Morningstar unlocked the door to the Enigma Emporium on the morning of his thirty-fifth birthday, the faint jingle of the bell overhead a familiar sound in the quiet shop. Another year older, he thought to himself somewhat miserably. His twenties seemed so long ago now!

For months, he had run this peculiar business—a place where the shelves were lined with items that promised more than mere decoration. Each trinket, accessory, and piece of clothing held a transformative power, turning its purchaser into something new, something extreme. Robin had seen it all: men stepping out of the shop changed forever, their sexuality flipping from gay to straight, their intelligence draining away like water through a sieve, their bodies swelling with muscle, and their minds adopting a brash, toxic alpha masculinity that left them unrecognizable. It was a dark fascination for him, watching these shifts unfold, but he had always kept himself at a safe distance, never daring to take an item for himself. He knew the risks too well.

Yet, as he stepped inside that morning, a pang of concern hit him. The shelves, once brimming with cursed curiosities, stood nearly bare. The Emporium had been thriving—too thriving, perhaps—and now it was time to restock. With a sigh, Robin adjusted his glasses and made his way to the back room, the creak of the floorboards echoing in the empty space. The storage area was a cluttered maze of dusty boxes and forgotten oddities, each one whispering its potential. He began sorting through them, pulling out items he thought might draw a crowd: a silver ring with a skull, a leather wristband, a pair of combat boots. But as he worked, his gaze kept drifting to a small, unmarked box tucked into a shadowy corner.

There was something about it—an almost magnetic pull that made his fingers itch. He hesitated, his rational mind screaming warnings, but the allure was undeniable. It was his birthday, after all. Why shouldn’t he indulge just this once? With a shaky breath, he lifted the lid. Inside lay four items: a pair of sunglasses with reflective lenses, a gold chain necklace with a cross pendant, a pair of black gym shorts, and a white tank top. They were simple, almost ordinary, yet they radiated an energy that made his pulse quicken. Against his better judgment, Robin gathered them up and headed to the dressing room at the back of the store, a small, dimly lit space with a full-length mirror that rarely saw use.

Standing before the mirror, Robin took a long, introspective look at himself. At thirty-five, he was a man who had lived a life of quiet intensity, his body reflecting the years of running his peculiar shop. He was still fit enough, but his frame had softened with age. A slight paunch had settled around his midsection, and his arms now lacked definition, their contours blurred by a thin layer of fat. His dark hair, once thick and vibrant, was now peppered with gray at the temples, the strands thinning slightly at the crown. His skin, once smooth, had a slightly weathered texture, and his posture, though not slouched, carried a subtle weariness, as if the weight of his responsibilities had settled into his bones.

But all of that was about to change. With a mix of excitement and apprehension, Robin reached for the items he’d selected from the unmarked box, his fingers trembling slightly as he picked up the sunglasses first. They were sleek, with reflective lenses that shimmered even in the dim light, and their cool metal frames felt almost electric against his skin as he slid them onto his face. The world blurred for a heartbeat, a dizzying swirl of colors and shapes. When his vision cleared, he blinked in disbelief, his breath catching in his throat.

The man staring back at him was not thirty-five. He was twenty-three again, a version of himself he hadn’t seen in over a decade. The gray in his hair had vanished entirely, replaced by a rich, light brown hue that seemed to glow with vitality. The thinning strands at his crown had thickened, now styled in a messy, upward sweep that gave him a carefree, youthful edge. His scalp tingled as the follicles rejuvenated, each strand growing fuller and shinier, as if infused with new life. The lines on his forehead smoothed out and the crow’s feet around his eyes disappeared leaving his skin as smooth as polished marble. His complexion brightened, the weathered texture replaced by a flawless, sun-kissed glow that radiated health and vigor. His eyes, previously dulled by years of late nights, once again sparkled with a youthful intensity, their deep brown hue flecked with golden specks that caught the light. His cheeks filled out with a taut firmness, and his jawline sharpened into a chiseled edge, the soft jowls that had begun to form melting away to reveal a strong, angular structure. Even his lips seemed fuller, his teeth whiter, as if every part of his face had been reset to the peak of his youth. Robin touched his face, marveling at the softness of his skin, the absence of stubble—he hadn’t even shaved, yet his face was perfectly smooth, as if the sunglasses had erased every sign of aging down to the smallest detail.

The transformation wasn’t just facial, though. His neck, once showing the first signs of sagging, tightened, the skin pulling taut over newly defined muscles. His Adam’s apple became more prominent, his voice deepening slightly as his vocal cords adjusted to his younger self. His posture straightened instinctively, the weariness in his shoulders lifting as a surge of energy coursed through him. He felt lighter, more agile, as if his body had shed not just years but the physical toll of those years. He flexed his fingers, noting the newfound strength in them, a precursor to the more dramatic changes to come.

Next, he reached for the gold chain necklace, its cross pendant gleaming faintly in the dim light. As he fastened it around his neck, the cold metal brushed against his collarbone, sending a shiver down his spine. Instantly, a warmth surged through his chest, a fiery heat that spread like wildfire to his arms, torso, and legs. He gasped, his body trembling as the transformation intensified. His muscles began to swell, the change so rapid it was almost painful, yet exhilarating. His biceps, once modest and softened by age, ballooned beneath his shirt, the sleeves stretching as the muscles doubled, then tripled in size. The fabric strained, threads popping audibly as his arms grew into massive, sculpted pillars of power. Veins popped beneath his skin, a network of blue lines snaking across his forearms and biceps, pulsing with the newfound strength coursing through him. He flexed, watching in awe as the muscles rippled, each movement highlighting the striations and definition that had never existed before.

His pectorals pushed outward, transforming from a flat, slightly sagging chest into a broad, chiseled expanse that strained the front of his shirt to its limits. The fabric tore slightly at the seams as his chest expanded, each pec becoming a slab of muscle, perfectly rounded and firm, the kind of chest that could stop a punch—or a woman’s gaze. His nipples, now more pronounced against the taut skin, pressed against the fabric, adding to the raw masculinity of his new form. His shoulders widened dramatically, the deltoids swelling into boulder-like structures that gave him a commanding presence. The bones themselves seemed to shift, broadening his frame to accommodate the muscle mass, his collarbone lengthening slightly to support the new width. His back thickened, the lats flaring out like wings, creating a V-shape that tapered down to his waist. The muscles along his spine tightened, each vertebra supported by a lattice of new muscle that made him feel unbreakable.

His abs tightened next, the slight paunch at his midsection melting away as if burned off by the heat of the transformation. His core contracted, the skin pulling taut over a chiseled six-pack that emerged like a sculptor’s masterpiece. Each abdominal muscle was defined, the obliques carving sharp lines along his sides, giving him a midsection that looked like it had been carved from stone. The warmth spread lower, his hips narrowing slightly to enhance the V-shape of his torso, while his glutes tightened and grew, becoming firm and powerful, the kind of backside that filled out any pair of shorts perfectly.

The black gym shorts came next, and as he stepped into them, the drawstring brushing against his fingers, a jolt of energy coursed through his lower body, igniting another wave of transformation. His thighs thickened, the quadriceps swelling with muscle, becoming distinct and massive. The skin stretched to accommodate the growth, the veins on his thighs becoming as prominent as those on his arms, a roadmap of power that pulsed with every heartbeat. His hamstrings tightened, adding to the bulk of his legs, while his calves hardened into sculpted curves, the muscles bulging with each flex, as if designed for explosive power. His knees, once slightly knobby, were now surrounded by muscle, giving his legs a seamless, statuesque quality. His feet even changed, growing slightly larger to support his new frame. The shorts fit perfectly, hugging his muscular thighs, the small embroidered “QUAD” near his left thigh a subtle nod to the power now residing there. A small tattoo appeared on his upper left thigh—bold, black letters spelling “BRO”—as if the transformation itself was branding him with his new identity.

Finally, he pulled on the white tank top, the fabric stretching tight across his broad chest, clinging to every ridge and contour of his enhanced physique. His shoulders, already wide, seemed to double in visual impact under the tank, the straps emphasizing the sheer size of his deltoids. His arms, now massive and defined, hung at his sides like weapons, the triceps forming a horseshoe shape that flexed with every movement. His torso, a perfect V-shape tapering to his hips, was accentuated by the tight fit of the tank, the fabric outlining his six-pack and obliques in stark relief. His posture shifted into one of unshakable confidence, his chest puffed out, his spine straight, as if the very act of standing was a declaration of dominance. He stood taller, his height increasing slightly to a commanding six-foot-two, his legs lengthening just enough to match his new proportions.

In the mirror, he saw a man who could have stepped out of a fitness magazine—muscular, youthful, and undeniably striking. His body was a masterpiece of power and symmetry, every muscle group perfectly proportioned, every line and curve a testament to his transformation. His skin, now a flawless, sun-kissed tan, glowed with health, the tattoos that had appeared during the process—on his thigh, his arms—adding to his rugged, alpha aesthetic. He flexed one last time, watching as his reflection moved with a grace and power he’d never known, a body built for dominance and display. But the changes weren’t just skin deep—his mind was next, and the transformation there would be just as dramatic.

As Robin admired his reflection, a shift began in his mind, subtle at first but growing stronger with each passing second. The sunglasses seemed to sharpen his perception—not just of the world, but of himself. A wave of arrogance washed over him, drowning out the quiet humility he’d once carried. Why had he spent so long cooped up in this dusty shop when he could have been out there, dominating the world? He smirked at his reflection, a cocky tilt to his lips. “Looking good, Ryder,” he said aloud, the name slipping out effortlessly. Ryder? He frowned for a moment, trying to grasp at his old identity—Robin—but it slipped away like sand through his fingers.

The necklace pulsed against his chest, and with it came a flood of new beliefs. His once-centrist politics swung hard to the right, a fierce pride swelling in him for conservative values. Trump and the MAGA movement filled his thoughts—strong leaders, real men, the kind he now aspired to emulate. He sneered at his old self, so weak and wishy-washy, unable to pick a side. Now, he knew where he stood: on top, where he belonged.

The gym shorts and tank top awakened something primal. His sexuality, once a steady attraction to men, flipped entirely. A burning lust for women ignited in his core, his mind racing with images of them—soft curves, admiring glances, conquests waiting to be claimed. Commitment? Respect? Those were for losers. Women were there to be won, to fawn over him, and he’d make damn sure they did. His intelligence, once sharp and analytical, dulled to a blunt edge, replaced by a focus on physicality and bravado. Who needed books when you had biceps like these?

His sense of humor twisted too. A loud BURRRRRRRP bubbled up, and he let it rip, laughing at the sheer audacity of it. Farting in public? Even better. It was crude, sure, but it was power—a way to say he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. He was the alpha now, and the world would bend to him.

By the time the transformation was complete, Robin Morningstar was gone. Ryder Manning stood in his place, a twenty-three-year-old Adonis with a body built for dominance and a mind wired for arrogance. He couldn’t remember owning the Enigma Emporium, couldn’t recall the countless customers he’d watched change. All he knew was that he was Ryder—personal trainer, womanizer, king of his own world.

He stepped out of the dressing room, the sunglasses perched on his nose, the gold chain glinting against his tanned skin, the tank top and shorts showcasing his physique. The shop felt small now, insignificant. He had better places to be—the gym, the streets, anywhere he could flex his muscles and his attitude. As he pushed open the door and stepped into the sunlight, he let out a loud BURRRRRRRP, grinning at the sheer freedom of it. The Enigma Emporium faded into the background, a forgotten relic of a life he no longer knew.

Ryder Manning strode into his new existence, a douchey personal trainer ready to flirt with every woman in sight and bodyshame any man who dared step into his orbit. The world was his, and he’d take it one arrogant stride at a time.

The gym, Iron Paradise, was Ryder’s domain, a sanctuary of clanging weights and mirrored walls where his authority went unchallenged—or so he believed. He was mid-set on the bench press, his tank top soaked with sweat, showcasing every ripple of his muscular frame. The bar groaned under the weight as he pumped out reps, grunting loudly with each lift. As he racked the bar, he caught a glimpse of a guy—mid-thirties, wiry, with a towel slung over his shoulder—watching him from the cardio section.

Ryder sat up, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and locked eyes with the man. The guy quickly averted his gaze, but it was too late—Ryder’s radar for perceived slights was razor-sharp. He stood, his six-foot-two frame towering, and marched over, his sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

“Yo, dude,” Ryder barked, his voice cutting through the gym’s hum. “What’s your deal? You eyein’ me like some kinda queer?”

The man flinched, his face reddening. “I wasn’t—I was just watching your form. It’s impressive.”

Ryder sneered, stepping closer, his chest puffed out like a gorilla asserting dominance. “Bullshit. I know that look. You think I’m some fag you can drool over? I don’t swing that way, bro.” He punctuated his words with a loud BURRRRRRRP, the sour stench of his protein shake wafting into the air. A woman on a nearby treadmill shot him a disgusted glance, but Ryder didn’t notice—or care.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” the man stammered, backing up. “I’m just here to work out.”

“Yeah, well, keep your fuckin’ eyes to yourself, or I’ll make sure you’re workin’ out with a busted face,” Ryder snapped, flexing his biceps for emphasis. “Real men don’t stare at other dudes. Get that through your thick skull.”

The man retreated to the locker room, head down, while Ryder turned back to the weights, letting out a loud fart that echoed off the walls. “Fuckin’ pansies,” he muttered, grinning as a couple of guys nearby chuckled nervously. His homophobia wasn’t just a reaction—it was a performance, a way to cement his status as the alpha in a space he ruled.

Moments later, two women approached—clients he’d been training for weeks. One, a petite brunette named Jen, wrinkled her nose at the lingering smell, while the other, a curvy redhead named Tara, smirked faintly, her eyes tracing his sweat-slicked arms.

“Ryder, can we go over squats again?” Jen asked, her tone clipped.

“Sure thing, babe,” Ryder replied, winking at Tara. “Gotta get that ass tight, right? Nothin’ sexier than a chick who can squat heavy.” He let out another BURRRRRRRP, laughing as Jen recoiled. “What? It’s natural. Real men don’t hold that shit in.”

Jen rolled her eyes, but Tara giggled, her cheeks flushing. “You’re so gross,” she said, though her tone was playful, her gaze lingering on his chest.

“Gross? Nah, I’m just real,” Ryder shot back, flexing his pecs. “You love it, don’t lie.” Tara blushed deeper, while Jen muttered something under her breath and started setting up the squat rack. Ryder’s crude charm was a double-edged sword—repulsive to some, magnetic to others.

Later in the day, Ryder was spotting a new client, a burly guy named Mike who’d signed up for his “no bullshit” training program. As they worked through deadlifts, Mike brought up a news story he’d seen about immigration reform. “Man, I don’t know,” he said, grunting as he lifted. “Maybe we should be helping some of these people out. They’re just looking for a better life.”

Ryder snorted, a sound that morphed into a loud fart as he bent to adjust the weights. “Better life? Fuck that. They’re invaders, bro. Comin’ here to take our jobs and live off our taxes. Trump had it right—build the wall, keep ’em out. Real Americans don’t owe nobody nothin’.” He flexed his shoulders, his muscles bulging under his tank top. “This country’s for winners, not whiners.”

Mike frowned but didn’t push back. “I guess you’ve got a point,” he mumbled, though his tone suggested doubt.

“Damn right I do,” Ryder said, clapping him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. “MAGA, bro. That’s the only way to keep this place great. Weak-ass liberals wanna turn us into a fuckin’ daycare.” He punctuated his rant with a BURRRRRRRP, grinning as Mike forced a laugh. Ryder’s political preaching wasn’t rooted in deep thought—it was a parroted script, a badge of his new identity, delivered with the same bravado he used to lift weights.

Across the gym, a woman overheard his tirade and shook her head, muttering to her friend about “meatheads with no brains.” But a guy nearby, decked out in a Trump 2024 cap, gave Ryder a nod of approval. His toxic ideology found its audience, however small.

Ryder Manning had fully settled into his new life, the remnants of Robin Morningstar and the Enigma Emporium nothing but a distant, forgotten whisper in a mind now consumed by bravado and excess. It was his twenty-third birthday, a milestone he intended to celebrate in the most over-the-top, unapologetic way possible. The venue was The Iron Horse, the same bar where he’d become a local legend among the gym rats and party crowd. The night was set to be a testament to his transformation—a gathering of his new tribe, a crew of jock bros as obnoxious and conservative as he was, alongside a gaggle of bleached blonde bimbos who couldn’t resist his alpha charm.

The bar was packed by 9pm, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, cologne, and the faint tang of sweat. Neon lights cast a red and blue glow over the crowd, and the jukebox blared a playlist of bro country anthems—Ryder’s kind of music. He stood at the center of it all, his massive frame dominating the space. His white tank top clung to his chiseled torso, the gold chain necklace with its cross pendant glinting under the lights, and his black gym shorts showed off his thick, tattooed thighs. He’d added a new accessory for the night—a MAGA 2024 cap, tilted just so, a bold statement of his hardcore conservative stance.

“Yo, bros!” Ryder bellowed, climbing onto a table with a beer in hand, his voice cutting through the noise. “It’s my fuckin’ birthday, and we’re gonna party like real Americans!” He let out a loud burp, who erupted in laughter and raised their drinks in salute. “That’s how we roll, baby!”

His jock bros—six of them, all muscle-bound and sporting similar attire—crowded around, their own Trump hats and tank tops a uniform of their shared ideology. They were as crude as Ryder, burping and farting without shame, their laughter a constant roar as they swapped stories of gym conquests and political rants.

“Bro, I was tellin’ this libtard at the gym today,” one of them said, slamming his beer down, “if you ain’t votin’ Trump, you ain’t American. Dude got so triggered, I thought he was gonna cry!” He let out a fart, grinning as the others howled.

“Fuckin’ right,” Ryder said, clapping Chad on the back. “We don’t got time for snowflakes. Real men run this country—always will.” He chugged his beer, crushing the can against his forehead and tossing it into the crowd, where it narrowly missed a group of women.

Those women—five bleached blonde bimbos who’d been orbiting Ryder all night—giggled and squealed at his antics, their high-pitched voices a constant backdrop. One of them, a girl named Brittani with glossy pink lips and a fake tan, draped herself over Ryder’s arm, pressing her chest against him.

“Ryder, you’re, like, so hot when you talk politics,” she purred, batting her lashes. “I totally voted for Trump ‘cause of you.”

Ryder grinned, his ego swelling as he flexed his bicep for her to admire. “Damn straight, babe. Stick with me, and you’ll be ridin’ with a winner.” He let out another burp, the smell of beer and nachos hitting her face, but she only giggled harder, her friends joining in with their own flirty laughter. They were grossed out by his crudeness—Brittani wrinkled her nose at the stench—but his confidence, his sheer alpha energy, kept them hooked. They threw themselves at him, each vying for his attention, their hands brushing his arms, their compliments as loud as the music.

Another of the girls, Kelli, handed him a shot of tequila. “To the hottest guy in the room!” she squealed, her friends echoing the toast. Ryder downed the shot, slamming the glass on the table and letting out a loud “Hell yeah!” followed by a fart that made the bros cheer even louder. The girls giggled, torn between disgust and attraction, their eyes glued to his muscular frame.

The night rolled on in a haze of excess. At one point, Ryder led the group in a chant of “USA! USA!” that drowned out the jukebox, his voice the loudest of all. He flexed his arms, showing off the tattoos that marked his transformation—the BRO on his thigh, the lightning bolts and floral designs on his arms—each one a badge of his new identity. The bimbos swooned, Brittani planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek while Kelli snapped a selfie with him, her lips pouted for the camera.

As the clock struck midnight, officially marking the end of his birthday, Ryder stood on the table again, a fresh beer in hand. “This is my fuckin’ life now!” he roared, his voice raw with triumph. “No rules, no regrets—just me and my crew, livin’ like kings!” He let out a final, massive BURRRRRRRP, followed by a fart that made the bros double over with laughter and the bimbos squeal in a mix of horror and delight.

Ryder Manning had fully embraced his new life as a toxic alpha male. The memory of Robin Morningstar, the Enigma Emporium, and the quiet, introspective man he’d once been were gone, erased by the relentless swagger of his new persona. Surrounded by his jock bros and the adoring bimbos, he was exactly where he wanted to be—on top, unapologetic, and utterly oblivious to the man he’d left behind. This was his world now, and he’d rule it with every crude, arrogant step.

[dansformations]

"Man of the future"

Alan was 20 years old gay guy that turned his passion for video games into a career as a streamer. Every night, he sat in front of his computer, illuminated by the lights of his setup, and connected to play with his thousands of followers enchanted by the fact of having a popular gay and handsome streamer. That night, however, something different happened.

While chatting with his audience and viewing the comments in the chat, he noticed a message that stood out among the others.

@ yourbroski: "Try this game, 'Man of the Future'," said a donation message with a link.

@ yourbroski: "Its my game, i create It"

- You Did!? No way - Alan replied

He clicked the link, opening the Game just for being nice, the title didnt sounded like something that the girly Alan would enjoy.

Within seconds after the click, Alan found himself downloading a game he had never heard of. The title, "Man of the Future," glowed on the screen.

The game was a complicated obstacle course and shooter that quickly engrossed Alan into the digital word.

- Hey, this is indeed fun

But the fun ended quickly. When he died in the game for the first time - Which was pretty fast -, a screen appeared with the saying, "C'mon Bro, you can do better" along with an strange music, almost hipnotazing music.

- Whoa, did you guys see that? - Alan said, leaning back in his chair. - This game is savage! 'C'mon Bro, you can do better'? Challenge accepted! - he answered.

However, the second attempt didn’t go any better. When Alan died again, the message changed to, "Don’t be a noob, Bro."

Alan face reddened with frustration. "Okay, Bro," he muttered under his breath.

- No way am I letting this game call me a noob. Let's do this! - He turned to the chat, determination blazing in his eyes. -You guys with me? This game’s going down, Bros!

Took a sip of His... beer? He didnt remenber being drinking beer, he didnt even remenber enjoying beer but he was so centred on beating that game that kinda ignored It.

- OOOOOUUURRRP - he belched - dang, sorry bros - he said a bit ashamed... Just a bit. He was too centred to being ashamed.

Meanwhile the coments were going crazy.

"Whats happening With all those 'Bro'? Thats off character"

"@ yourbroski: Nothing to be ashamed! Better out than inside my Bro!"

"Are we sure this Is Alan? Lol"

He keep playing moving his fingers as fast as he could, he was doing Better and when he almost reached the wining flag - a flag decorated only With White and black lines - he got killed by another player.

- Son of a bitch! - he yelled - that motherfucker killed me at the very last BRARRRRP - belched - moment!

"Dont be a pussy" The screen said this time, as knowing he was whining.

- No way this game just called me a "pussy"! - he said ofended - Im not, and in gonna show them all - he said while opening his legs in the chair in a more relaxed position, tooking a moment to scracht his balls in front everybody before starting the new round.

In that position everybody could apreciate some strong arms and legs that people didnt knew Alan had abd Alan didnt remenber to have worked on.

"Sexy" a guy comented.

He was gay, but for some reason reading that from a guy, maked him feel angry.

- Dont be a weirdo, dude - he said

He was gay, right..?

Then started playing again, not releasing every time his character died, a part of His persona did too.

Yelling, coursing, chugging beer and burping, acting with a cocky attitude more and more, every round, less nice, less gay, less him, until...

- BROS, I-OARRRRRP -He couldnt contain a burp - I DID IT!

His character was holding that black and White flag.

"Now youre a real alpha" the tv screen said With that strange music still.

"Now youre the Man of the future"

And with that, the remains of Alan were erased, he didnt remenber being a girly gay guy anymore, he always had been an alpha, a straight, gassy, jock that loved playing videogames and humillating the noobs and "queerdos" on the games.

Alan started doing a "celebration dance" that basically was doing hip moviments to show his bulge. Like he were fucking someone.

- This Is for you, @broski - Alan put His microphone close to his ass and ripped a big, loud, smelly fart on It - i beated you - he said proud. Between laughs he added - Nah, GG bro, youre talented, definetly gonna share It with the bros.

"Whats happening with Him?!' someone comented

"@ yourbroski: That flag send the fag away"

Alan didnt even read those coments, he was busy trying to fan away the fart with his hands.

That Night the strange transformartion of the gay gamer Alan was trending everywhere, but before His friend Group had read something, they receive link to a Game from Alan.

"Alan: Best game of the month broskis"

The group of friends made up of gay guys and nice straight guys thought Alan's writing was odd, but without knowing the situation they gave more atention to the link, opening it, ready to play a life-changing game, "The man of the future."

(This is just fetish writing)

[tfalpha88]

[manlysun]

A Thanksgiving Story

Arrogant, ignorant, and stupid, no three words could better describe my dad. I didn't always see him like that, though. Growing up, we were best buds—I admired and looked up to him as a role model. I truly felt like I could tell him anything, I could trust him. So, you could imagine my shock when after coming out as gay to him, he turned on me. He ignited into a homophobic rage, disowning me as his son. He couldn't stand the sight of me. The unpleasant feeling was mutual and I moved out as quickly as possible.

For almost a decade, there was nothing but radio silence between us. Until one day, I randomly got an email from him, inviting me to a one-on-one Thanksgiving. I read it over and over, completely stunned. As mad and hurt as I still felt, I knew I'd regret not accepting his olive branch. So, I accepted.

A few days later, in the early afternoon of Thanksgiving, I drove over to my dad's place, my childhood home. As nervous as I was, driving up the old driveway and parking in my old spot felt good. As I stepped out of my car, I was reminded of how sweltering it was for November, even for Florida. As much as dressing up sounded fun, wearing a white tank top, dark tan loose shorts, and flip-flops only made sense. My balls would have melted in a pair of underwear, so I freeballed.

My heart was racing, as I flip-flopped to the front door. I was expecting the worst but hoping for the best. I could smell the turkey cooking through the front door as I knocked, its mouth-watering scent calming me slightly. A few seconds later, my dad opened the door. Unsurprisingly, he was exactly as I had left him: bulky beyond belief, obviously my leaving had no effect on his serious workout routine. Then again, maybe he exercised to escape the pain, I know I did that. He was wearing nearly the same thing, the only difference being his loose shorts were black. His pit stains were just as bad as mine—like father, like son, I guess. To my relief, his nervous expression pleasantly told me he was just as anxious as I was.

Stepping inside, I got a good whiff of him as I passed him, that oh-so-familiar scent of cologne failing to mask the intense pit reek. The house, like my father's manly stench, was exactly how I'd remembered it, nothing had changed—it was nice. As my dad led me to the kitchen, with his back to me, I gave my hairy sweaty pits a sniff. They reeked, even worse than my dad's. Unlike him, I'd forgotten to put on deodorant or cologne. We both stunk, in slightly different ways, but that similarity was comforting—like father, like son.

I was expecting things to be insanely awkward, but it was like the good old days. We sat out on the porch, drinking beer and shooting the shit as we waited for the turkey to finish cooking on the barbecue. I forgot how much I loved talking with him, for an arrogant douch bag, he sure could make me laugh. Neither of us had brought up my leaving yet, I assume to not break the good flow we had going. In truth, I didn't want to bring it up. It felt good to pretend everything was as it was in the old days.

When the turkey was done, we brought it inside and gobbled it down like too starving beasts. Obviously, our nerves had calmed down quite a bit. Everything was fantastic, I forgot how good of a cook my dad is. We didn't say much to each other while eating, too distracted by our hunger to converse—like father, like son. Before we dove into dessert, he offered me another beer. As much as the pumpkin pie was calling my name, I couldn't decline.

Instead of the usual beer we were drinking, he brought a brand I'd never seen before, "Obedience." I didn't question why he only brought out a single can, I was too distracted by the pumpkin pie to care. I cracked it open and swigged it down, anxious to get to the pie. However, after I finished, I felt funny. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt different. I silently stared at my dad, watching an evil grin form across his face.

My dad spoke, dropping his nice-guy demeanor. "Now listen up, boy. It's time we finally get to the point of our happy reunion." My heart was racing, I knew something terrible was about to happen. Flashbacks of before I left flooded my mind. Strangely, as much as I wanted to move, I couldn't. My body was frozen like it was waiting for something. "Take another swig of your beer, down every last drop." What happened next shocked me to my core, my body moved on its own! It was like I was a bystander in my own body, only able to watch. I robotically brought the can up to my mouth and downed every last drop, doing exactly what he commanded. At that moment, I horrifily knew exactly why it was called, "Obedience," and why he only brought out a single can of it.

"Belch, boy. Like a man." My dad arrogantly commanded, knowing I'd helplessly comply.

"bbbbbbBBBBUUUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPpppppppppp!!!" Just as he commanded, the biggest manliest belch came out of me. I hated how good it felt to obey him, an obvious effect of the beer.

"Belch again, boy. Except this time, additionally, let out all that stress and worry. Also, uncross your legs and manspread! Sit like a man!" He commanded.

I wanted to resist but was helpless to his commands. "bbbbBBBBBBBuuuUUUUUUrrrPPPPPPPPPpppppp!!!" Like he commanded, all stress and worry had left my body. I then uncrossed my legs and manspreaded, just like my dad. Sitting that way felt so much better.

My dad laughed, like a cocky bastard. "Such a good and obedient son I have." I wanted to get up, scream, anything but just sit there. Except I couldn't move. No matter how hard I tried, I simply couldn't move. "Now, let's get to the good stuff," My dad excitedly proclaimed, unnerving me even more. "Let out all the useless liberalism! Become a rigid conservative, just like dear old dad! Like father, like son! Belch, boy!"

I tried as hard as I could to keep it down, but it was useless. "BBBBBBUUUUURRRRRRRPPPPPPpppppppp!!!! With that, all liberalism and open-mindedness had left me. My mind was assaulted and reprogrammed to believe all sorts of small-minded conservative ideas and beliefs. It was overwhelming, yet electrifying. With conservatism comes stupidity, so my mind had become completely moldable, exactly what he wanted.

"Real men vote red, don't they, boy?" My dad asked, every word dripping with superiority.

"Sir, yes, Sir! Real men Vote-BBBBBBBbbbuuurrrrPPPPPPPPpppp!!!" Before I could finish, another manly burp escaped from me, making my dad bust out laughing. I couldn't help but laugh too, being more stupider now. It felt good to make my dad laugh. I felt like… a good son.

"Now, before we continue, I want to make sure you have no remaining resistance. So, let it all out! Give yourself to me completely! Belch, boy!" My dad commanded.

"BbbbbuuuuuuuUUUUUURRRRPPPPppppppp!" I did as he commanded, like a good son. It felt good, right, to obey him. Why would I want to resist him? He's my dad! He made me, I must obey him!

My dad was grinning like a king, as he should. "Belch again, boy! Belch as loud as you can!"

"BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" I was more than happy to obey.

"Fuck yeah, son! You sound just like your old man!" My dad enthusiastically congratulated me.

Having him praise me felt good, so fucking good. More, I wanted so much more!

My dad then got serious, obviously, this next one would be important. "Belch, boy, and erase all gayness from yourself. Become the straight man I've always wanted you to be! No man wants a faggot for a son! Blech, boy! Belch and become straight!!!"

"BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" Like a good son, I obeyed. "BBBBBBBBBBBBUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!" And just like that, all my gayness was gone. I'm now as straight as a freshly bought nail. I like women, only women, like a normal man. Who'd want to be fag, anyway? Fags are sick freaks!! Thank god I'm not one of them anymore. Thank god I'm straight, just like my dad! Like father, like son!

We celebrated my much-needed transformation over two massive slices of pumpkin pie. Afterward, we returned to the porch and smoked cigars, some of his finest. I feel so much better now that I'm following in my dad's footsteps. I want to be exactly like him, in every single way. I want to be completely interchangeable with him. He gave me a matching pair of sunglasses and a red cap, to protect me from the blistering sun. I obviously wore my cap backward to match him. I'm so thankful for my dad. Without him, I'd be lost.

[fratttymatty]

MorphMe

(All characters are 18+)

Elliot Hart was the definition of niche. A 20-year-old computer science major with a stack of anime Blu-rays, a Bernie Sanders sticker on his laptop, and more Funko Pops than friends. He was proudly gay, proudly nerdy, and proudly convinced that his brain was his best asset. His social life consisted mostly of online forums and heated Reddit debates about politics and Star Wars continuity.

One evening, as he scrolled through a lesser-known app store to find some quirky productivity tools, a strange app caught his eye: "MorphMe: Update Your Self". It had zero reviews, a glowy blue icon, and a tagline that read: “Be the you you’ve never met.”

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Sounds dystopian. Love it.”

He downloaded the app.

Upon opening it, a series of sliders and checkboxes appeared on screen. Gender: Male. Sexual Orientation: Gay. Intelligence: 100%. Appearance: Twink. Personality: Cute.

He chuckled and set everything just right, including a little sparkle emoji next to “cute.” Then he hit “Confirm.”

The screen glitched. Hard.

Lines of code zipped across the screen. A notification popped up: "Applying New Settings..."

Suddenly Elliot’s phone vibrated violently. He dropped it as a bright flash filled the room. When he opened his eyes…

Everything had changed.

He sat up in bed — a bed that was now massive, messy, and covered in protein bar wrappers and gym shorts. The posters of Studio Ghibli were gone, replaced with flags: American flags, Gadsden flags, and a giant Sigma Alpha Theta frat banner. The air smelled like Axe body spray and whey powder.

Elliot… wasn’t Elliot anymore.

He was Chad.

Literally. His phone buzzed with a message:

"Yo CHAD bro, kegger tonight at Mike’s. Bring Stacy 🍑🍒"

He stood and caught his reflection in the mirror. Shaggy dirty-blonde hair, rippling muscles, tanned skin, a backwards cap, and not a hint of irony anywhere. His rainbow pride pin had been replaced by a “Don’t Tread on Me” button. His brain felt… lighter? Not stupid, just… breezy. Like algebra was a foreign language, but chugging beer and flexing came second nature.

“Dude… sick,” he said to no one, admiring his pecs. His voice was a deep, confident baritone — not a trace of his former nasally tone.

He opened his closet: polos, tank tops, khakis, and way too many pairs of Oakleys. No more anime tees. No more cardigans. No more Bernie.

And… he didn’t miss them.

Later that day, Chad strolled across campus, his arm wrapped around Stacy, a blonde with lips so glossy they could reflect sunlight. She was chirping away:

“Baaaabe, we totes have to go to Cancun for spring break! Like, it’s gonna be sooo wild. You, me, margaritas, and like, no thoughts. Just vibes.”

He laughed. “Hell yeah, babe. Cancun sounds hella rad.”

He didn’t remember Elliot. He didn’t remember being gay. All he knew was the gym, the frat, and how Stacy looked in a bikini. He fist-bumped his new bros, cracked open a Bud Light (Ironically, he hated IPAs now), and settled into his life.

He never opened the MorphMe app again.

Because as far as Chad was concerned — this? This was who he was always meant to be.

[rod-tf]

Hey I'm a fag looking for a change could help me become a big dumb alpha?

Noah had always prided himself on his intellect. A self-proclaimed progressive thinker, he spent his days debating politics online, scoffing at traditional masculinity, and burying himself in academic texts. But all that changed when he lost a bet with his more athletic roommate, forcing him to complete a full workout at Herculean Gains, a place he normally would have mocked for its “toxic masculinity.”

As he stepped inside, his small frame seemed even more fragile against the towering racks of weights and muscle-bound titans grunting with effort. He tugged at his oversized hoodie, feeling out of place, but before he could turn and run, a deep, commanding voice stopped him.

“Yo, what’s up, man? You new here?”

Noah turned to see a hulking mass of muscle smirking down at him. Rod was everything Noah wasn’t, tall, broad, radiating confidence with his square jaw, short preppy cut, and gym tank barely containing his chiseled physique. The air around him was thick with sweat and something more primal.

“I, uh, yeah. Just checking the place out,” Noah muttered, his voice small.

Rod chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, I could tell". Said the huge man, kind of in a mocking tone. "You look like you’ve never even touched a dumbbell”.

Something about Rod’s presence made Noah’s knees weak, though not in the way he expected. He followed the jock hesitantly, the scent of Rod’s sweat filling his nostrils as they moved toward the free weights. It was overwhelming, intoxicating. His thoughts felt... strange.

“Alright, first thing’s first, bench press. Builds power, makes you a beast.” Rod slapped the bench. “Hop on, bro.”

Noah obeyed, feeling oddly compelled. Rod leaned over him to spot, and as he did, the full force of his scent hit Noah like a wave. Musky, raw, overpowering. It seeped into his skin, into his mind. His fingers twitched around the barbell.

“Oops, sorry man”. Rod said absentmindedly. “This is what real strength smells like.”

Noah groaned softly as something stirred deep within him. A warmth, a pressure, a hunger he didn’t recognize. He lifted the bar, feeling an unfamiliar energy surge through his limbs. His arms looked... different. Slightly thicker, veins subtly more pronounced. His skin, was it darker? A golden hue, like he’d spent hours in the sun, though he never tanned.

Rod grinned. “There we go, bro. See? You got it in you.”

They moved to curls, then squats, then deadlifts. With each set, Noah inhaled more of Rod’s scent, his body growing warmer, tighter, stronger. His hoodie felt stifling, and when he peeled it off, he barely recognized the reflection in the mirror. His pale, skinny arms had taken on a richer bronze hue, a new density to them. His shoulders looked broader, more defined. His jaw felt... sharper. His hair darker, the once soft brown was now deep, almost black, thickening into something wavier, more unruly.

Something was wrong, but it felt so right.

Rod gave a knowing smirk. “Feeling it now, huh?”

Noah nodded slowly, his thoughts clouding. His voice cracked. “Yeah, bro. Feels... good.”

Rod laughed, clapping him on the back. “Told ya, gym life changes a guy.” He flexed absentmindedly, completely unaware of just how literal his words were.

As his muscles grew, so did something else, his instincts, his mindset. His once sharp, overanalyzing brain felt slower, but in a good way, less cluttered, more focused. He wasn’t worrying about nonsense anymore. Just gains. Strength. And... girls. Yeahhh! Hot, tight-bodied chicks who needed a real man to handle them. He could practically see them in his mind, his need for them growing with every breath he took.

He felt a rush of testosterone, a heat in his core that burned away any trace of hesitation. Noé smirked at himself in the mirror. Damn, he looked good. Not just jacked, but powerful. The kind of guy who took what he wanted, who dominated everything he wanted. Who made women weak in the knees just by looking at them.

Rod tossed him a towel. “Shower up, bro. Let it soak in.”

Noé caught his reflection in the mirror again, and his breath hitched. His soft features had hardened into something rugged, masculine. His skin, once pale, now held a deep bronze hue, darkening with every passing moment. His delicate hands had thickened, calloused fingers twitching with an unfamiliar craving. His lean frame had swelled, pecs forming, arms thick with new muscle. His soft voice had deepened, gaining a smooth but confident edge.

Memories blurred and shifted. His family had always been American, sure, but his roots? He could feel them now, deep in his blood. Strong, dominant, latino men. Hard workers who built their legacy with their bare hands. He’d grown up in a traditional household, taught that men provided, protected, and bred. Yeah, that’s what he was meant for. Not wasting time debating politics or worrying about dumb social issues. He was born to lead, to conquer, to make women his.

But it wasn’t just that. He felt disgust at anything weak, anything pathetic. Nerds, soy boys, gays... ugh, even thinking about them made his lip curl. He couldn’t understand why would he ever needed to tolerate that kind of degeneracy. He had always been like this. A strong, dominant alpha, a real man. The idea of ever being anything less, being some weak, scrawny, gay loser? That was unthinkable. Impossible. It wasn’t him. It had never been him.

Rod clapped him on the back, grinning. “Looking great, hermano.”

Noé smirked, flexing in the mirror, rolling his shoulders. He felt powerful, unstoppable. The scent of musk, sweat, and raw testosterone filled his nostrils. And it smelled like home.

He scoffed, getting like a really weak voice telling him he want like that, he was a liberal gay proud man. That nonsense was for beta males, for the spineless. He was a real man now. A true conservative man with conservative values, machismo, strength, family, tradition. Those were the pillars of a real man’s life. Not softness. Not weakness. And thinking too much? That was for losers. Real men followed their instincts. Real men didn’t waste time debating, they acted. He had gains to make and pussies to fuck.

Noé smirked and cracked his knuckles, his thick, muscular frame exuding dominance. He had only one goal now, to claim, conquer, and spread his legacy. He wasn’t just a man, he was the most macho man. The world was his playground, and he was ready to take what was his.

Hope you enjoy your new much better self, see you at the gym or scoring some pussy at a frat party. -Rod

[villainous-homosexual]

Young, Dumb, and full of Cum. Submitting to Christ is so much fun.💪✝️🇺🇸