thefunkfactory

[thefunkfactory]

The Perfect Boyfriend

It had been a great night. Probably one of the best dates I’d ever been on, if I was being honest with myself.

Anakin was adorable—small, lithe, with those wide, innocent eyes and that effortless charm. He had this way of tilting his head when he laughed, tucking a strand of his dark hair behind his ear, and every time he did it, I felt my chest tighten just a little. I was a big guy, broad and built, the kind of man who turned heads in the gym. And yet, here I was, completely enraptured by this tiny, delicate twink, feeling like some lovesick idiot.

Dinner had gone perfectly, conversation flowed easily, and when I suggested coming back to my place for a drink, he agreed with a coy smile that sent a shiver up my spine. Now, we were on my couch, bodies pressed close, his lips warm and eager against mine. My hands roamed his back, feeling the subtle ridges of his spine through his tight-fitting shirt. His hands, smaller than mine, traced along my jaw, sending jolts of pleasure through my body.

And then—disaster.

It started as a low, ominous sound, a gentle vibration against my thigh. My brain barely had time to register what was happening before the smell hit me like a brick wall.

Thick. Pungent. Unholy.

It clawed its way up my nostrils, searing itself into my sinuses like a brand. I stiffened, my hands instinctively gripping his waist. He giggled softly, shifting on my lap. Another one slipped out, hotter this time, the scent intensifying like a bomb had just gone off between us. I tried to play it cool.

“Uh, hey… you, uh—you okay?” My voice cracked slightly, my brain scrambling for an exit strategy.

Anakin nuzzled into my neck, his breath warm against my skin. “Mmhmm.” Another burst of rancid air seeped into the space between us, curling around my face like an inescapable fog. I coughed, tried to turn my head discreetly, but it was too late. My lungs were already compromised. The stench dulled my senses, made my head swim. I needed to get out—needed fresh air, but my body wasn’t cooperating. My muscles, usually so reliable, felt heavy, sluggish. My tongue was thick in my mouth, my thoughts slipping through my fingers like sand.

“Y-you know, maybe we should—uh—should call it a n-night?” I mumbled, trying to stand. My legs wobbled. I sat back down with a graceless thump.

Anakin pouted. “Aww, but we were having so much fun.” He shifted again, and another wave of pure evil erupted into the air, wrapping around me, invading my very being.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to center myself, to fight against the growing fog in my brain. I was stronger than this. I was a man—a man. And yet… The warmth of the stink wrapped around me, seeping into my clothes, my skin. It was inside me now. I could feel my resolve crumbling.

Anakin ran a hand down my chest, his fingers tracing lazy circles. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice honeyed and sweet.

I tried to respond. Tried to say no, I need air, but the words wouldn’t come. My lips moved uselessly, my brain too sluggish to form a coherent thought. I was losing. Losing to the stink. And as Anakin snuggled closer, releasing another devastating blast that melted what was left of my resistance, I realized something horrifying. I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight it anymore.

A deep, primal part of me still fought—still clawed at the edges of my mind, screaming at me to resist. I was strong. I was disciplined. I wasn’t some dumb, brainless jock who let a pretty boy turn him into a drooling mess. But the stench… oh god, the stench.

Anakin’s farts had already battered my senses, worn me down like waves eroding a cliffside. Each breath I took dragged more of his stink into my lungs, dulling my thoughts, making my body feel heavy and warm. I was slipping, my willpower draining with every second I spent trapped in his cloud of corruption.

I groaned, forcing my hands to push at his waist, trying to create space. “N-no… I gotta—”

Anakin simply giggled, his soft fingers tracing over my jaw. “Aww, don’t fight it, big guy. You were made for this.”

Made for what? My sluggish brain tried to process his words, but everything was getting harder to understand. And then he pulled out his secret weapon.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted one leg and slid off his sneaker. The moment the shoe came free, a wave of concentrated, festering foot funk rushed into the air, thick and heady. My already weakened mind barely had time to register what was happening before Anakin—sweet, evil Anakin—pressed the inside of the rancid sneaker right over my nose.

I gasped in shock, inhaling a full, unfiltered lungful of pure, fermented twink foot stench. My brain short-circuited. It was over. The last vestiges of my resistance shattered like glass. My thoughts, my intelligence, my very self melted under the overwhelming power of his scent. The acrid, vinegary musk of sweat-soaked fabric and well-worn insole invaded every part of me, rewiring my brain, hollowing me out. Everything felt warm and fuzzy. Thoughts? Didn’t need ‘em. Words? Hard. Brain? Empty.

I let out a deep, dumb-sounding grunt as my body relaxed completely. My arms, which had been trying to push him away, instead wrapped around his tiny waist, pulling him in close. He giggled, knowing he had won.

“That’s a good boy,” he cooed, rubbing a hand through my hair. “You don’t need all those pesky thoughts. Just be my big, beefy boyfriend, yeah?”

I nodded, my heavy head lolling back against the couch. “Mmm… yeah… beefy…” My voice sounded different—deeper, dumber. Like my intelligence had leaked right out of my ears, replaced by an all-consuming need to obey.

“Good boy,” Anakin purred, shifting to straddle my lap. He let his sneaker fall to the floor, but the damage was already done. His scent had infected me, changed me. I wasn’t the same man I was an hour ago.

I was his now. His big, dumb, muscle-bound boyfriend.

It didn’t take long for me to settle into my new role. My old self—the strong, independent man who thought for himself—was long gone. Now, I was just Anakin’s big, obedient, muscle-bound boyfriend. I didn’t think much anymore. Thinking was hard. Anakin was much better at thinking than I was, so I let him do it for me. All I had to do was listen. And obey.

“Babe, go get me a drink,” Anakin would say, snapping his fingers, and I’d lumber to the fridge without hesitation, my body moving before my mind even processed the words.

“Rub my feet,” he’d hum, wiggling his toes in my lap, and I’d eagerly scoop up his reeking feet in my big hands, pressing my lips to his noxious feet as if worshiping a god.

I lived to please him. His happiness was my happiness. But sometimes—sometimes—that pesky little part of my brain, the last flickering remnant of the man I used to be, would stir.

Like the time Anakin told me to carry all his shopping bags through the mall. My biceps bulged under the weight of his endless purchases, and something deep inside me whispered, Hey, maybe this is a bit much… Or when he casually told me to massage his feet with my tongue. For a split second, my brow furrowed, my lips parting like I was about to say something. And every time—even the smallest sign of hesitation—Anakin would simply turn around, grin mischievously… and let one rip.

A deep, low brrrrrrrrpppffftttt would rumble from his tiny frame, a vile, noxious cloud slithering into the air and wrapping itself around my head. And just like that—poof!—any thought of resistance melted away. My eyes would go glassy, my jaw slack. The thick, putrid stench would flood my nose, creeping into my brain, softening it like warm butter.

Anakin would giggle, wiggling his fingers in front of my dazed, dumb expression. “Aww, is my big boy getting all fuzzy-brained again?”

I’d just grunt, sinking deeper into the fog, my powerful body going completely slack under his spell.

“Now,” he’d coo, booping my nose, “what were you saying, babe?”

I’d blink slowly, struggling to remember. Had I been about to argue? About to resist? No, that didn’t sound right. Anakin knew best. Anakin was everything.

“… Nothin’, babe,” I’d finally murmur, a dopey, love-drunk grin spreading across my face. “Just wanna… make ya happy.”

He’d giggle and pull me into his arms, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Good boy.”

And just like that, I was his again. Fully. Completely.

Obedient. Mindless.

Happy…

[thefunkfactory]

Diego’s Roommate

Cody struggled against the thick ropes binding his wrists to the back of the wooden chair, the coarse hemp cutting into his pale skin. His breathing was ragged, eyes wide and glassy with panic as he stared across the cramped, dim dorm room. The overhead light flickered intermittently, casting Cruz’s broad silhouette in twitching shadows across the walls. Cruz had always been a bit… off. Diego used to joke that his roommate was born in the wrong decade—that if it were up to him, every dorm would be one giant locker room. The guy stank like he bathed in his own sweat and wore it like cologne. Cody never liked him, but he never thought he’d end up like this: restrained and helpless, watching as his boyfriend was dragged toward something unthinkable.

“Let him go,” Cody spat, his voice cracking with desperation. “You don’t have to do this!”

Cruz didn’t even glance back. He stood in front of Diego, who was shirtless and breathing hard, his cheeks flushed with confusion and anger. Diego’s dark curls clung damp to his forehead, and his chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running. He looked scared, but not scared enough. Not yet.

“He’s still got that softness in him,” Cruz muttered, lifting one of his battered soccer cleats and pressing it to his own nose, inhaling deeply like it was the finest cigar. “But don’t worry. We’ll fix that.”

(Cruz)

“Diego, don’t breathe in. Don’t listen to him!” Cody shouted, writhing in his restraints. “You know who you are. You’re not—whatever he’s trying to make you.”

But Diego just stood there, staring at the shoe Cruz held out like it was… calling to him.

“It’s just sweat, man,” Diego mumbled, uncertain, but not pulling away. “It’s just a smell.”

“No,” Cruz grinned. “It’s the smell of manhood.”

He pressed the cleat to Diego’s face with a sudden, aggressive push, and Diego gagged—then coughed. Then inhaled. The change wasn’t immediate. It never was. That’s what made it worse. Cody could only watch, his stomach twisting in horror as Diego blinked slowly, nostrils flaring. His face contorted with disgust for a second—then something changed. His eyes unfocused, the pupils dilating just a bit too wide.

“Smells… strong,” Diego murmured. He tried to shake it off, but Cruz was ready. He pressed the cleat in harder, practically grinding the sole into Diego’s face.

“Breathe deep, bro. Let it in. Let it show you what you really are under all that fake polish. All that weak-ass love-boy crap.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Cody cried. “You’re not like that! You’re kind, you’re smart—”

But Diego had stopped listening. A low, shuddering breath rolled through his lungs, and his body trembled. He tried to pull away, but Cruz grabbed the back of his head and forced it back down into the cleat. The air was thick with the smell of dried sweat, mildew, and aged leather. Diego moaned—but it wasn’t just in discomfort. There was something else beneath it. Something closer to need.

Cruz leaned in, his voice practically a growl. “That’s it. Let that fog in. It’s already starting, isn’t it? The ache in your brain? The way things don’t matter like they used to? You think Cody matters? He’s just noise. What you need—what you are—is something better.”

Diego staggered back, gasping, but he didn’t fall. He stood there, wobbling slightly, eyes unfocused. One hand moved down to his waistband, shifting slightly as if—

No. No. Cody shook his head, tears in his eyes. “Diego, please. Look at me. You love me. Remember?”

For a moment, a flicker of something real sparked in Diego’s eyes. His mouth opened. “Cody… I…”

Then Cruz was there again, shirtless now, his glistening pit shoved right up to Diego’s nose.

“Round two,” he growled. “Go on. Breathe in deep. This is what being a real man smells like.”

Diego froze—then crumpled into it. Cody could only watch as Diego slumped against the wall, his chest heaving, lips parted as if struggling to suck in clean air. But Cruz was already there, one meaty arm curled around his shoulder like a vice, pinning him in place. The scent of his armpit lingered in the room like a thick haze—pungent, musky, and strangely sweet in its rot. Cody’s stomach twisted. It wasn’t just the smell—it was what it meant. That odor was doing something. Twisting Diego, seeping into him.

“You good, bro?” Cruz muttered into Diego’s ear, loud enough for Cody to hear. “Starting to feel it now? That burn in your lungs? That itch in your brain?”

Diego’s voice was hoarse. “It’s… I dunno. I feel hot. My head’s like… fuzzy.”

Cody leaned forward in his restraints, shaking his head. “That’s not you, baby. It’s not real! You’re just being drugged or—brainwashed or something, you have to fight it!”

But Diego didn’t look at him. He looked at Cruz.

“What’s happening to me?” Diego asked, voice trembling.

Cruz grinned, full teeth. “You’re just waking up, hermano. Shedding all that weak, soft crap. That boyfriend. That college-boy future. That tight little guilt you carry around.”

Diego flinched. But he didn’t pull away. Cruz leaned in again, letting a slow, wet drip of sweat slide from his pit down onto Diego’s shoulder. “And you’re gonna let it happen. You’re gonna let go. Bit by bit. You don’t need to think so hard anymore. Just feel.”

Diego’s body twitched. His back arched slightly, like he was stretching against invisible restraints. A sound escaped him—half grunt, half moan. He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, sniffling. Still breathing it in. His abs flexed—not with effort, but with growth. Cody’s eyes widened. Diego had always been fit, sure—swam in high school, hit the gym casually—but this was different. His stomach twitched again, muscle thickening in slow pulses, veins rising under the skin like roots crawling from under the surface. His lats widened slightly, pushing his arms out just a bit further from his sides.

He stared down at his own torso, eyes wide. “What the hell…?”

“It’s the man-fog, bro,” Cruz murmured, voice like a prayer. “Ain’t just a smell. It’s change. It’s what you were meant to be.”

Cody screamed, voice cracking. “Diego, don’t let it win! That’s not you! You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re not—this!”

Diego flinched again—but he still didn’t look at Cody. His hand dropped to his waistband. Cruz saw it and laughed, low and rough.

“Oh yeah. You’re feelin’ it now.”

Diego swallowed hard. “I feel… weird. Like I wanna… stretch or fight or just… I dunno. Do something.”

Cruz’s grin widened. “Your brain’s getting lighter, isn’t it? No more overthinking. No more feelings. Just sweat, and meat, and need. You’re almost there.”

“I don’t… I don’t wanna hurt him,” Diego muttered, eyes flicking toward Cody just for a moment.

But Cruz was ready. He grabbed Diego’s face and shoved it deep into his pit. This time, Diego didn’t resist. The sound he made was obscene—wet, muffled, like a moan buried in a grunt. His fingers dug into Cruz’s side, clinging there as he inhaled again, and again, and again. Cody turned away, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out the room. He wanted to scream, to throw up, to run, but he couldn’t do anything but watch as his boyfriend drowned in the scent. The muscles swelled faster now. Diego’s traps thickened, shoulders bulking outward. His skin glistened with sweat that wasn’t his a moment ago. His jaw clenched, sharpening. The softness in his features—the gentle, thoughtful glow—melted away under a sheen of testosterone-fueled hunger. He was panting when Cruz finally let him go.

Cruz leaned in, brushing a thumb across Diego’s cheek. “You’re gonna forget him soon. That little twink tied up in the chair? He’s just background noise now. You don’t date guys, bro. You don’t even like ‘em.”

Diego’s voice was different now. Thicker. Slower. “Nah, man… I don’t—” He shook his head. “I don’t swing that way.”

His eyes flicked to Cody. And for the first time…They weren’t eyes of love. They were eyes of confusion. Disgust.

“Why’s he tied up?”

Cody’s breath caught in his throat.

Cruz chuckled. “Don’t worry about it, bro. He’s just someone you used to know. Before you woke up.”

Diego nodded slowly. “Yeah… before I got fuckin’ real.”

Cody’s mouth was dry. He couldn’t speak anymore—not because he didn’t want to, but because the words wouldn’t come. His throat was raw from screaming, and no matter how much he begged, pleaded, or cried, Diego kept slipping further away. And now… now Diego was laughing.

“Bro, what the hell,” Diego grunted, holding his arms out and flexing. His voice was lower now—rougher, almost sluggish—and when he looked down at himself, it was like he didn’t recognize his own body, but didn’t care. “I feel jacked, dude. This shit’s wild.”

“You’re becoming you,” Cruz said, standing behind him, one hand on Diego’s shoulder like a proud sculptor admiring his work. “The real you. The one who doesn’t give a single fuck about anything except lifting, smashing, and stinking up the world.”

Diego snorted. “Yeah, man. I feel, like… free or something.”

Then Cruz grinned—and shoved Diego down, forcing him to his knees on the floor.

“You’re not done yet, bro,” he said, turning around and tugging down the waistband of his shorts. “You’ve still got the last piece to inhale.”

Cody’s eyes went wide. “Don’t—please, don’t—”

But it was already too late. Cruz hunched over slightly and ripped one—a deep, slow, bubbling fart that hissed out of him like a leaking gas valve, thick and sulfuric.

PFFFRRRBBBSssssssssst

The sound was disgusting, but it was the smell that hit the room like a war crime. Cody gagged instantly, jerking against the ropes. It smelled like fermented protein, swamp rot, and something sourer. Rancid. Diego twitched on the floor. His nose wrinkled—but instead of recoiling, he leaned forward. And breathed.

“Duuude,” he groaned. “That’s so rank.”

Cruz let another one out, louder this time, right into Diego’s face. “Yeah, man. Drink it in. This is what alpha really smells like. Raw. Brutal. Unfiltered.”

Diego moaned—and his body shuddered. The change kicked into overdrive. His neck thickened, veins pulsing just under the skin. His jaw cracked and widened, growing meatier. He scratched at his pecs as they ballooned, sweat soaking through his skin. His abs were now fully formed bricks, deep and grooved. A trail of dark hair snaked down his stomach. Then came the shift lower. Diego’s groin twitched—and then bulged. His crotch strained against his underwear, a visible wet spot forming as the musk worked its way deeper into him. He groaned again, louder, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Goddamn, my cock’s like… heavy, bro,” Diego slurred, dumbfounded. “And it reeks.”

Cruz laughed. “Yeah it does. That’s manhood, bro. Cheese it up. You ain’t some soft little boyfriend anymore. You’re a freakin’ jock beast. You stink like a god now.”

Diego’s face twisted. Something inside him cracked—and Cody could almost see it.

“What’s a guy doing tied up in our room anyway?” Diego asked, scratching his balls through his boxers. “That’s, like… gay or something.”

Cody’s heart shattered. He stared into Diego’s eyes—and saw nothing left of the man he loved. No recognition. No softness. Just heat, hunger, and haze.

“Please remember me,” Cody whispered. “You’re not… this. You were never this.”

Diego snorted, rising to his feet with a stretch, his pits now reeking on their own. He turned to Cruz. “Yo, let’s hit the gym after this. I’m, like, amped. Might blow out my back doin’ squats or some shit.”

Cruz slapped him on the back. “Atta boy.”

Then, casually, he ripped another fart—wet this time—and Diego laughed. Like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Like it was home.

Cody’s chest heaved in shallow, panicked breaths. He didn’t even notice the tears streaming down his face anymore. His wrists burned from the ropes, his lungs ached from the choking stench lingering in the room—but nothing hurt more than what he saw in Diego’s eyes. Nothing. Not even the way Diego smirked now. That same crooked smirk Cody used to find charming after long nights in bed. But now it was warped—emptied. The smirk of a man who no longer remembered why Cody ever mattered.

“Yo,” Diego grunted, flexing and sniffing his own pit, face twisting in satisfied disgust. “We can’t just leave the twink like that, bro.”

Cruz leaned back against the desk, arms folded, his own sweat-streaked chest rising and falling with lazy breaths. “Nah. That’d be cruel, right?”

He turned his head slowly, locking eyes with Cody.

“But not turning him?” Cruz grinned. “Now that would be cruel.”

“No,” Cody croaked, struggling again, more desperate than ever. “Please. I’m not like you. I don’t want this.”

Diego crouched beside him, still shirtless, drenched in testosterone-soaked sweat. The scent rolled off him like heat. His shorts were tented—he didn’t care. His grin stretched wider as he leaned in close, bringing that overwhelming stink with him.

“You’re gonna love it, bro,” Diego said, voice thick and sloppy. “You just need to… breathe it in. Like I did. Shit changed my life.”

“Changed you,” Cody spat, his voice breaking. “Killed you.”

But Diego just laughed and yanked the chair—and Cody—closer to the bed with a screech of wood on tile. Cruz was already waiting, one leg up on the mattress, arms lifted behind his head. His pit hair was soaked, glistening, the reek curling in the air like visible fog.

“You know what to do, Diego,” Cruz said. “Wake your bro up.”

Cody thrashed, screaming now, tears and snot smeared down his face as Diego climbed up behind him, locking him in place with thick, muscular arms. His sweat dripped onto Cody’s neck, into his shirt collar. It burned like acid.

“Don’t fight it,” Diego breathed. “It’s so much easier when you let go.”

Cruz stepped forward—and shoved Cody’s face right into his pit. The scent was instant. Like a punch to the soul. Thick, rancid, hot. It had weight, like Cody was being smothered by the very essence of rot. It filled his sinuses, coated his throat, burned into his lungs. His mind reeled. It was so wrong. So foul. So intimate in the most degrading way. He coughed, gagged—but Diego held him tighter. Another shove. Another breath. And the edges of his thoughts began to curl like paper near fire.

“You smell that?” Cruz grunted, voice smug. “That’s the new you. That’s what real life smells like. Not perfume and feelings. Just funk. Just man.”

“Y-you… can’t…” Cody whimpered.

But the fog was already in him. Cruz farted—loud, wet, toxic—and the wave of stink hit Cody hard. His legs kicked instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. The gas was in his mouth, behind his eyes, changing him. His brain screamed—but the scream got quieter. His skin tingled. His chest itched. Something stirred in his groin.

Diego leaned in, whispering, “Feels good, huh? Bet you’re already feelin’ your cock growin’. Gettin’ ripe. Jockified.”

Cody moaned—no. Whimpered. He didn’t want to enjoy it. But the scent kept pressing in, pounding at every barrier inside him like a hammer made of rot and sweat and dominance. Then he felt it.His abs flexed. Not much. But more than before. A faint ridge. A twitch in his biceps. His thighs clenched, tingling as if blood was rushing to places it hadn’t before.

“First pump’s always the best,” Cruz said, smirking down at him. “Now let’s blow the rest of your brain out.”

He turned, stuck out his ass, and let it rip.

PPPPFFFFRRRRBBBTTTTT

Cody’s scream turned into a gasp. And then…A groan. His eyes rolled back. And the first real crack in his identity appeared.

Cody was sweating. Not from exertion—but from exposure. From absorption. His pores were screaming, wide open, trying to fight back against the flood of rancid stink that was seeping into him from every angle. The room was a sauna of testosterone. A crucible of stink, where men were melted down and reforged. He could feel it in the air. Thick and humid and sour. It clung to him like grease—seeped into the fibers of his clothes, into his hair, under his tongue. And it was changing him. His head lolled forward, still bound tight, mouth parted as he gasped for air. But there was no clean air. Only the thick, unrelenting fog of Cruz’s unwashed pits, his protein-fueled farts, and Diego’s now jockified musk rolling off him in waves. Cody whimpered, his voice barely audible over the ringing in his ears.

“Still fighting, huh?” Cruz’s voice oozed through the haze like oil. “Your body’s not.”

Cody couldn’t argue. His chest—flat, smooth, once more aesthetic than athletic—was starting to itch. He could feel the skin tighten, like something was pushing up from beneath the surface. He looked down, horrified, as the slight swell of his pecs pulsed once… then again. Slow, throbbing. They weren’t sculpted. Not yet. But they were thickening. Meat growing under skin. He shuddered, sweat pouring down his temple.

“No,” he whispered. “Not me. Not this.”

But his body wasn’t listening anymore. His abs tightened—involuntarily. His core spasmed, and he felt something click deeper inside him. Muscle fibers waking up. Stretching. Gorging themselves on the stink like it was fuel. And then came the hair. It was subtle at first. Just a darkening at the center of his chest. But as he blinked, more spread across the plane of his torso—sparse but wiry. Around his nipples. Down his belly. It was spreading like moss, fed by the humid air.

Diego leaned down beside him, eyes glittering with jock-stupid pride. “Told you it’d hit good, bro. Gettin’ thick already.”

“F-fuck… off…” Cody tried to snarl—but it came out weak. Almost needy.

His thighs spasmed next. He felt them bulk. From the inside out. Like two logs swelling under his jeans, pressing outward. Denim stretched. The seams groaned. The skin under it burned with the heat of transformation, and with it came a smell—not theirs, but his. He was starting to make it. His own stink. Faint. Cheesy. New. Cody’s lip trembled. His cock, hard against his will, throbbed once—then twice. It pulsed with heat, and with it came another involuntary moan.

“Feels good, huh?” Cruz whispered, pressing his foot against Cody’s swelling thigh. “That’s your body telling you the truth. You were never a boyfriend. You were a bro waiting to happen.”

Cody shook his head, barely. But his shoulders rolled. A stretch. A twitch. And then another pop of muscle at his traps. He could feel himself getting heavier. And the smell… it was changing. No longer entirely alien. There were moments—brief, terrifying moments—where Cody caught a whiff of something familiar, his own sweat, and instead of gagging, he didn’t mind it. He wanted to mind it. He wanted to hate it. But his brain was lagging behind his flesh. And his flesh was humming. Buzzing with submission. The stink was in him now. Soaked into his skin. Feeding the growth. His arms bulged. Not dramatically. But enough. He could see the rise of muscle at his biceps. Not sculpted—just meaty. Heavy. Bro muscle. Thoughtless, gym-earned thickness. His jaw clenched—because his jaw was widening. He felt his tongue press oddly against his teeth as his face began the slow shift from soft to sharp. His cheekbones rose. His brow thickened. His nose twitched—and for one horrifying second, he liked what he smelled.

BRRRRRRPPPPPPPPP

A deep fart bubbled from Cruz—wet and brutal—and Cody’s whole body tensed. His cock jerked in his pants, and this time, he didn’t moan. He groaned. Low. Dumb. Needy.

“Shit,” he breathed. “That’s… nasty…”

Cruz leaned in close, licking his lips. “Told you. Your body’s ours now. Your brain’s next.”

Cody’s mouth hung open now, his head lolling slightly from side to side as if it were too heavy for his neck. His tongue was dry, lips cracked, and every breath he took felt like it pulled him deeper into the stink-soaked abyss. And for the first time… Cody didn’t answer. He just breathed. He reeked now. His own musk had joined the oppressive cloud of Diego and Cruz’s sweat, armpit grime, and weaponized farts. The room was a man pit, and Cody was just one more source of it. But now the transformation had shifted focus. Now it was going for his mind.

“Yo,” Diego said, nudging him in the shoulder with a thick, veiny arm. “You in there, bro?”

Cody blinked. Sluggish. Blank. For a moment, nothing came out. Not words. Not even a sound.

Then—“Uhhh… yeah?” It came out like a question. Like even he wasn’t sure.

Cruz laughed. “Fuck yeah, bro. That fog’s finally settin’ in. You feelin’ it now?”

Cody’s brow furrowed. “Fog…?” he repeated, voice slow, dazed. “Yeah… uh… head’s all… floaty n’… shit…”

He blinked again. Thoughts were hard. Words didn’t line up right. Every sentence felt like a workout. His brain was sweating just trying to think. It wasn’t just confusion—it was erosion. Like every deep thought, every emotional memory, every abstract idea was being ground down into dull thuds.

Diego crouched in front of him, grinning that idiot grin Cody used to love—before it had turned into something stupid and cruel. “You remember your name, bro?”

Cody opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes went distant.

“Cuh…” he started. “Cuh… Cody?”

That was right, wasn’t it? It sounded right. But then Cruz leaned in—and ripped another one. A deep, nasty fart that vibrated the air between them. And just like that, Cody forgot what he was saying. All that came out was a dumb little laugh.

“Shiiit… that’s rank, bro…” he mumbled, drool sliding down the corner of his lip. He didn’t wipe it. Didn’t even notice it.

Cruz clapped him on the back. “That’s the stink killin’ the parts you don’t need, bro. No more overthinking. No more dumb feelings. Just horny, hungry, sweaty fuckin jock shit.”

And Cody’s cock—already half-hard—twitched at those words. He barely reacted. Didn’t question it. Didn’t even feel embarrassed. Diego leaned in closer, and Cody didn’t move away. His former boyfriend’s pit was right there—hot, wet, tangy—and Cody’s nose flared. He sniffed. Once. Then again. Then deeper.

“Smells… fuckin good, bro,” Cody slurred, eyes fluttering half-closed. “Like… like home…”

Cruz stepped behind him again, rubbing his own swampy pits with both hands and dragging the scent up under Cody’s nose. “Say goodbye to the old you, man. Say goodbye to… uh, whatever fag shit you used to care about.”

Cody tried to focus. Tried to remember. A voice in his head whispered, Boyfriend. College. Love. Literature. Self-respect. But the words were slippery. Soft. Weak. They melted in the heat of the room, in the musk, in the fart-saturated air. And what replaced them was a warm, thick nothing. A dull buzz. Like a gym locker room had grown sentience inside his skull.

“Yo,” Cody muttered, blinking slowly, a little smile spreading over his slack lips. “I think I wanna… lift or somethin’…”

Diego and Cruz fist-bumped.

“He’s almost there,” Cruz grinned.

Cody stared blankly at the wall. His jaw hung loose. His pecs bounced slightly with every lazy breath, chest rising and falling with bro-tified rhythm. He was still Cody, technically. But what was left? A name. A smell. A cock getting thicker by the second in his gym shorts. And a mind…turning to gas.

The room was so thick. Dense. More atmosphere than air now. Sweat clung to the walls like condensation. The musk of three bodies—soured, ripe, corrupted—filled every breath, and Cody’s lungs had long since stopped resisting. He was breathing stink like it was oxygen. His eyes were glassy. Mouth slack. His once-tight jaw now hung open in a permanent dumb bro gape, glistening with drool. His hair, matted with sweat, clung to his forehead. His gym shorts—when had he even gotten into gym shorts?—clung to his hips like a second skin, tented by the heavy, pulsing meat swinging beneath. But the real change now…was in his gut. A deep, grinding pressure had been building. Right at his core. A boiling, festering tension that felt like it had weight—like a storm brewing in his bowels. And it meant something. Cody didn’t know what anymore—he barely knew how to think. But deep down, some part of him knew: this wasn’t just gas. This was everything.

“Bro,” Diego said, fanning the air with one hand, grinning. “He’s loading up. Look at that face. He’s about to blow the last of his fuckin brain out his ass.”

Cruz cackled, pressing a hand to Cody’s shoulder. “This is it, man. The grand finale. Say g’bye to being Cody.”

Cody moaned. A low, wet sound. More sound effect than word. His stomach gurgled—loudly. Pressure shifted. His hips jerked slightly forward. And then—

PFFFRRBBBLLLT

A long, wet, noxious blast ripped from Cody’s ass, echoing off the wooden chair beneath him. His head snapped back, eyes fluttering, a dumb, blissed-out smile stretching across his dopey face. But that was just the start. The gas kept coming.

PRRRRT-BRRRAAAP—SPRRRRTCHHHHH

Each fart shook his body. Tore through what was left of his dignity, his identity, his memories. Each one was like a balloon popping inside his skull—memories of college, of books, of Diego—gone, carried out on a cloud of steaming, toxic jock-gas.

“Uhhh… what was… what wuz I…”

Another blast. Loud and lazy.

BBBRRRFFFFFT

There goes literature. There goes his GPA. There goes his first kiss. Gone.

“Fuck, bro!” Diego laughed. “He’s straight-up fartin’ out his whole personality!”

Cody grunted, abs flexing involuntarily as another bubble of pressure bloated in his core. His body loved this. His cock was fully hard, oozing, bouncing with each thunderous release. His brain was just static now—warm, sour, content. One final glorious blowout built in his gut. The biggest yet. The one that would take everything. Cody’s eyes rolled back. He leaned forward. Gave a dumb, guttural, “Hhhurrghh…”

And let it rip.

PPPPFFFRRRRRRBBLBLBLLLTKRRRRTTTTT

A seismic, unholy sound. The stink hit hard, like paint thinner and rotten cheese. His whole body shuddered. His mind emptied. When the sound faded, Cody just slumped back in the chair, arms limp, mouth open. There were no thoughts left. Just heat. Scent. Sweat. Hunger. He blinked slowly and scratched his gut. Then he looked at Cruz and Diego, eyebrows slightly scrunched like he was almost thinking something.

“…yo,” he said finally, in a dopey, lazy voice, “when’s, uh… leg day?”

They howled with laughter. Cody laughed too, not knowing why. Just knowing he was home.

[thefunkfactory]

Jakey, Baby…

There was nothing particularly extraordinary about Jake. Twenty-six, decently fit from his days of playing college soccer, a little dense but well-meaning, he worked a construction job by day and spent his evenings on the couch playing Call of Duty and demolishing value packs of chicken nuggets. He was straight as an arrow, and proud of it—not in a preachy way, just in a “bro, I don’t know, girls are hot” kind of way.

His best friend, Darren, on the other hand, was as gay as a sequined drag brunch. The two had been friends since middle school, sharing everything from pizza slices to brutal gym sessions. Darren had always been a little obsessed with Jake—not that Jake ever noticed. Or if he did, he assumed it was just Darren being “funny gay.” But Darren was done pining. He had discovered something. Something powerful. Something shiny. Something… swirly. It was a hypnotic pendant. He got it from a “totally reputable” website with a checkout page that included glitter GIFs and an auto-playing ABBA song. But it worked. He tested it on a barista and got three free coffees. The time had come.

“Bro, what’s that spinny thing?” Jake asked, eyes already starting to glaze as the spiral of light twirled in Darren’s hand.

“Just look into my eyes, bro,” Darren said, grinning.

Darren sat across from Jake in the apartment’s living room, the lights dimmed, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and anticipation. On the coffee table between them, the hypnotic pendant swayed slowly, the swirling glass catching what little light remained like a lure in deep water. Jake, in his gym shorts and a tank top that had clearly seen better days (and maybe a few too many days without detergent), slouched comfortably on the couch.

“So, wait,” Jake said, blinking lazily, “what’s this thing supposed to do again?”

“It’s just for relaxation, bro. You’ve been so tense lately,” Darren said, voice smooth, velvety, almost coiling around Jake’s thoughts. “Just watch the pendant. You trust me, right?”

“Yeah, dude, of course. You’re my best bro,” Jake mumbled, his voice already losing its edge, like he was being lulled into a warm bath.

The pendant swung left… right… left… and Jake’s eyes followed, a little slower with each swing.

“That’s right,” Darren said. “Just breathe with me. In… and out… good. Just like that.”

Jake’s head tilted slightly. His shoulders dropped. His lips parted in a dumb little smile. It was working.

“You’re feeling good, aren’t you, Jakey?”

“…Yuh,” Jake slurred slightly, pupils shrinking to slivers. “Kinda floaty, bro…”

“Good. Now just listen to my voice. You’re going to feel your body start to… change. Nothing to worry about. Just let go.”

Jake’s breath hitched. The first thing to change was his muscles. His shoulders began to widen with a soft cracking sound, like joints sliding into a more perfect alignment. His arms swelled, biceps ballooning under his skin, veins pushing to the surface. His chest popped outward, tight and full, thick slabs of pec-meat jiggling slightly before firming up.

“Dude, m’arms feel… swole,” Jake mumbled, blinking slowly. “Like I just did a million curls…”

“You did, Jakey. You’ve always been this big. You’ve always loved lifting.”

“Yeah…” he said dreamily, staring down at his new bulk. “I… love lifting…”

Then came the hair. Strands darkened with oil from old sweat began to lighten, shimmer, and lift. As if bleached by endless summers of shirtless beach volleyball and poolside flirting, his hair morphed into a thick, flawless golden blonde. Each strand lay just right—no product, no effort, just himbo perfection.

Jake giggled softly, reaching up and running his beefy fingers through his new golden locks.

“Bro, m’hair’s like… surfer hot now.”

“That’s because you’re meant to be hot, Jakey. You’re meant to be dumb and beautiful and gay.”

Jake paused.

“…Gay?”

Darren leaned forward, voice sinking deeper, richer.

“You love guys, Jake. You’ve always loved guys. You love how they smell, how they kiss, how they taste. You love flexing for them, touching them, being touched. You love me, Jakey. You’ve always been in love with me.”

Jake blinked slowly. The tension in his forehead melted. Thoughts rearranged themselves, clunky memories of high school girlfriends fading like old Polaroids left out in the sun. Replaced with visions of steamy locker rooms, flirtatious protein shake dates, and Darren—always Darren—smiling at him, touching his arm just a little too long.

“…You’re, like… my mancrush,” Jake whispered, blushing through a dopey smile. “My boyfriend…”

Darren smiled, his hand gently reaching out to guide Jake’s chin.

“Say it, Jakey. Say what you are.”

Jake’s blue eyes sparkled, utterly vacant of any past, any straightness, any awareness beyond the present.

“I’m your dumb, gay himbo,” he said proudly. “Your big, muscley, super stinky boytoy.”

And oh, he was so stinky. Because while his memories rewrote themselves, while his body became a Greek statue come to life and his brain simplified into a lovable, meat-headed mush—some things remained stubborn. Darren leaned in for a kiss—and immediately leaned back.

“Is that… yesterday’s deodorant?”

Jake blinked. “Nah, bro, it’s AXE Phoenix. Like, five sprays. Extra coverage.”

Darren gagged slightly. “Did you shower today?”

“…Didn’t wanna wash the gains off.”

Darren pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jakey, baby, we talked about this…”

Jake pouted, all 6’4” and 230 lbs of pouting golden god.

“But babe… AXE is, like… chemical soap. That counts, right?”

And so, Darren accepted his fate: he had created the perfect gay muscle himbo. Dumb, devoted, and devastatingly in love. But still somehow convinced Febreze was a substitute for laundry detergent.

[thefunkfactory]

Masculinity’s Mishap

Liam loved his boyfriend, Noah—he really did. Noah was sweet, affectionate, and always up for a cozy night in. But if Liam was being honest with himself… he wished Noah was a little more. More confident, more strong, more manly. Instead of a soft, cuddly boyfriend, he wanted someone who could pick him up effortlessly, work out every morning, and take charge in all the right ways.

So, after some late-night scrolling through dubious forums, Liam found exactly what he was looking for: The Alpha’s Awakening Spell. It was simple—light three red candles, chant a few words, and picture the ideal version of the person in mind. Supposedly, the spell would unlock one’s true masculine energy.

Liam didn’t fully believe it would work, but that didn’t stop him from whispering the incantation that night. A strange warmth filled the air. The candles flickered violently before going out all at once. Liam shivered. Maybe it was just a draft.

The next day, Liam eagerly waited for Noah to come over. When he heard the knock at the door, he practically sprinted to answer it. The moment Noah stepped inside, Liam’s heart skipped a beat. Something was different.

Noah’s stance was wider, his energy more assertive. His face had grown stronger, more traditionally masculine. His usual soft smile was replaced by an easygoing smirk. His shoulders looked broader, though that could’ve been Liam’s imagination.

“Hey, babe,” Noah said, pulling Liam into a rough hug. “Man, I feel amazing today. Like, I got all this energy, y’know?”

Liam grinned. The spell worked!

But before he could celebrate, a loud, unholy PFFFFFTTTTTT erupted from Noah’s direction.

Liam froze.

Noah… laughed. Hard.

“Dude, what was that?” he cackled. “Oh my God, that was gnarly!”

Liam blinked, horrified. “Did you just—”

But before he could finish, Noah burped right in his face.

Liam gagged.

“Oh, man,” Noah wheezed between laughs, holding his stomach. “I swear, that one had layers. I think I taste last night’s mac and cheese.”

Liam’s soul left his body.

The rest of the evening was a disaster. Instead of confidently taking charge in a way Liam had imagined, Noah spent the entire time pushing his newfound masculinity in a completely unexpected direction. He belched between words. He stretched out on the couch with his legs spread obnoxiously wide. At one point, he tried to trap Liam under the blankets after another particularly loud fart, cackling about something called a “Dutch oven.”

Liam wanted to cry. Instead of a strong, gym-loving, responsible boyfriend, he had somehow created a boyish fart machine. At bedtime, Liam curled up as far away from Noah as possible, questioning every decision that had led him here. Meanwhile, Noah lay sprawled out, one arm behind his head, giggling to himself as he tried to burp the alphabet.

The next morning Liam woke up to find Noah nowhere to be found in the bedroom but the lingering stench of his farts still hung in the room. Liam went out to the kitchen to find Noah finishing up a protein shake.

“Morning baby” Liam groggily slurred

All that Noah said in return was “Fart check!” and let out a long squeaking fart as a surprised look spread across his own face.

[thefunkfactory]

The Farmhand’s Funk

Cassie had always hated the countryside. The smell of manure, the sweaty farmhands, the endless dirt—none of it appealed to her. So when her car broke down near an old ranch, she was less than thrilled.

She huffed, pulling out her phone, but of course, there was no signal.

“Need some help, missy?”

The voice made her turn. A tall, broad-shouldered cowboy stood before her, his hat tilted forward, shadowing his eyes. He was wearing a ragged, sweat-stained shirt that clung to his thick frame, and his jeans looked like they hadn’t been washed in years. But the worst part? The smell.

Even standing several feet away, Cassie could feel the stench radiating off him—a mixture of old sweat, barnyard musk, and something even more foul.

“I—I’m fine,” she stammered, instinctively stepping back.

The cowboy grinned. “Aw, don’t be shy now. Name’s Jed. I reckon a city gal like you ain’t used to the finer aromas of farm life.”

With that, he turned slightly, lifted one leg—and let out a slow, deep PPPPPRRRRRRRBBBBLLLTTT!

The sound rumbled through the air like a distant thunderclap, but it was the smell that hit Cassie like a train. Thick, hot, and nauseating, the rotten stench of digested beans and barn scraps swirled around her, seeping into her pores, invading her senses.

She coughed, her eyes watering. “Oh my god—what is that?!”

Jed chuckled, stepping closer. “That’s what we call a farm fart, missy. Ain’t nothin’ like it. Strong enough to tame even the most stubborn of city folk.”

Cassie gagged as the thick, rotten stench of Jed’s latest fart seeped into her lungs. It was vile—a putrid, eye-watering cocktail of rancid eggs, sour milk, and something deeply feral, like old, festering manure left out in the summer sun. The sheer weight of it pressed against her, sinking into her pores, making her stomach churn.

Her thoughts grew sluggish, like the stink was rewiring her brain. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but her body wouldn’t listen. Instead, her limbs tingled, a creeping heat spreading from her chest down to her fingertips.

“Breathe it in, darlin’,” Jed muttered, flapping his sweaty hat to push the fart cloud deeper into her face. “Let that farm funk work its magic.”

Cassie gasped, her head spinning. She could feel the change happening.

Her delicate fingers twitched as the skin darkened, thick calluses forming over her palms. The soft, manicured nails hardened, yellowing at the edges, curling slightly with grime. Veins bulged across her roughening knuckles, her arms stretching longer, muscle packing onto her once-slender frame.

Her shoulders creaked as they broadened, her collarbones thickening beneath the weight of new mass. The straps of her tank top strained as her torso widened, her curves flattening into a solid, sturdy bulk. Her stomach gurgled loudly, swelling outward slightly with a firm layer of farm-fed muscle and gut, giving her the rugged, thickset build of a true country boy.

She wheezed as the scent of her own sweat hit her—rank, earthy, with a growing tang of stale body odor. It clung to her like a second skin, sinking deeper with every second, the sweet floral scent of her old perfume burning away under the sheer weight of masculine musk.

Her legs buckled as her thighs thickened, her calves stretching and bulging with hardened farmhand muscle. The smoothness of her skin vanished beneath a layer of dust and sweat, dirt seeping into every pore. Her feet throbbed inside her pristine sneakers, toes curling as they ballooned in size.

Jed grinned and held out a pair of his filthy, crusty cowboy boots.

“Time to break ‘em in, boy.”

Cassie’s trembling hands grabbed them without hesitation, her nails now cracked and dark with grime. The moment she shoved her feet inside, a new, horrifying stench erupted around her—like month-old cheese curdled inside a damp, unwashed sock. The rank, sweaty heat of Jed’s well-worn boots sank into her flesh, warping her feet to fit their filthy insides.

Her toes thickened, toenails growing jagged and yellowed, her soft soles turning rough and leathery. Her heels widened, pressing firmly against the rancid, sweat-soaked insoles, melding with the years of built-up stink.

“NNnngh—” Cassie groaned, her voice deepening to a gravelly drawl.

Her ankles popped as they thickened, calves flexing with brute strength. The denim of her jeans darkened, seams straining as they morphed into well-worn, stink-soaked overalls. Her pink tank top faded, stretching, morphing into a sweat-stained flannel, ripe with the overpowering musk of old farm work.

She could feel the funk crawling up her neck, clinging to her thickening skin. Her jaw cracked, her face shifting, her cheekbones becoming more rugged, her features broadening into something unmistakably masculine. Her lips roughened, her nose widened, flaring as it sucked in more of the rancid, gut-churning stench around her.

Her silky blonde hair shrank, darkening to a greasy brown, strands sticking out wildly beneath a grimy, sweat-soaked cowboy hat that now rested perfectly on her head.

The final transformation came with a deep, foreboding gurgle in her gut.

Jed grinned, slapping her thick new shoulder. “Atta boy, Clyde. I reckon you got somethin’ brewin’ now.”

Clyde barely had time to react before his stomach clenched. A horrific, bubbling pressure built deep inside his gut, fermenting like a barnyard stew. His newly thickened thighs tensed as he hunched slightly, and then—

BBRRRRUUUUAAAPPPPPFFFFTTT!

A thunderous, unholy fart ripped from Clyde’s backside, shaking the earth beneath him. The rank, sulfuric blast filled the air with the stench of spoiled eggs, rotten cabbage, and months of unwashed farm sweat. The sheer heat of it lingered, clinging to his overalls like a ghost of pure, rancid filth.

Clyde groaned, his eyes rolling back slightly. The sheer power of his own fart sealed his transformation.

“Now that,” Jed cackled, fanning the toxic air, “is a proper farm fart!”

Clyde swayed for a moment, his mind now fully adjusted. He no longer remembered Cassie, the prissy city girl who once hated the countryside. He only knew the farm, the funk, and the satisfaction of a good, deep belly fart.

Jed smirked, stepping beside him.

“Let’s see if ya can top this one, boy.”

With that, Jed squatted slightly and unleashed a catastrophic fart—one so thick and rotten that the air itself seemed to warp around it. It was hot, wet, and potent, the scent of fermented hay, rancid beans, and years of built-up farm stench rolling out like a storm.

Clyde wheezed, his eyes watering as the sheer power of it struck him. His stomach gurgled in response, his new farm-fueled body instinctively preparing a riposte.

“Here we go…” Clyde muttered, gripping his gut.

With a deep breath, he squeezed—

BBBRRRUUUUUUUUUOOOOOOOOPPPPPFFFFTTT!

The shockwave of his new farm funk erupted through the air, shaking the wooden fence posts nearby. It was wet, swampy, and ungodly—a smell that would cling to the land for days.

Jed grinned proudly. “Now that’s a real farmhand.”

Clyde just grinned back, lifting his arm to scratch at his ripe, sweat-soaked pits. His new life had just begun.

He grinned, wiping his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his own filthy flannel. His pits reeked—just the way they should.

“Well, shoot, Clyde,” Jed said, grinning wide. “Let’s get ya to work. Got a whole mess’a cows that need tendin’—and a whole lot more fartin’ to do.”

Clyde just grinned, already feeling another one brewing.

With a thunderous BBBRRRUUUUUMMMPPPTTTT, he followed his new mentor into the fields, never looking back.

[thefunkfactory]

The King of The Locker Room

You and Nick were just trying to get out of gym class when it happened. One second, you were walking past the boys’ locker room, and the next, a huge, sweaty arm hooked around both of you, and you spun around to see the culprit.

Topher.

The stinkiest, sweatiest jock in school. The dude whose gym clothes were permanently soaked in sweat, whose socks were rumored to stand up on their own, and whose rank farts had cleared entire hallways. He grinned at you like a caveman who just discovered fire.

“Yo, losers,” he said, flexing one of his thick arms. “Hope you’re ready for a lil’… attitude adjustment.”

Nick stiffened beside me. “What do you want, Topher?”

Topher chuckled. “Relax, bro. Just wanna have a little chat. Why don’t we step inside real quick?” He gestured toward the empty locker room behind him.

Every instinct in me screamed no. I grabbed Nick’s arm. “We should just go.”

But before we could move, Topher lunged. He was too fast, too strong. With one rough shove, he forced us backward into the room. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him.

A thick, muggy heat clung to the air, the scent of sweat, mildew, and something even fouler saturating the space. My stomach churned.

Topher locked the door, grinning. “You know, I always thought it was kinda weird,” he said, stretching lazily. “Nick here? Dude’s got the perfect body for a real jock, but he walks around acting all soft. Clinging to you like some kinda lovesick puppy. That ain’t right.”

I swallowed my growing panic. “Let us go, Topher.”

Topher just smirked. “Nah. I got a way better idea.”

He lifted one foot and kicked off his battered old gym shoe. The second it hit the ground, a wave of sheer, unfiltered stench filled the room. The kind of odor that clings to fabric for weeks, that seeps into skin. A nauseating blend of sour sweat, damp socks, and something rotten.

I gagged.

Nick’s nose wrinkled. “Dude, what the hell—?”

Topher didn’t give him time to react. He picked ip the shoe and lunged, grabbing Nick by the back of his head and shoving his face directly into the open shoe.

Nick yelped, struggling, but Topher was too strong. “Breathe deep, bro,” Topher ordered, his voice dripping with amusement. “Let that manly musk do its thing.”

Nick thrashed at first, his muffled protests turning into weak, pitiful whimpers. His hands balled into fists against Topher’s chest—but then… they loosened. His muscles relaxed. His struggling slowed. His breathing deepened.

“Yeah, that’s it, bro,” Topher cooed, pressing the shoe closer. “Let that jock stink rewire your brain. Nothin’ to think about but gains, protein, and dominating the field, huh?”

Nick let out a weird, dreamy sigh, his arms going limp at his sides. You watched in horror as his whole posture shifted. His back straightened, but in a bro-y kind of way—chest puffed out, arms slightly flexed like he suddenly had a need to show off nonexistent muscles.

“Duuuhhh…” Nick mumbled.

Topher grinned. “Atta boy.”

Then came the changes.

Nick’s arms did start bulking up—his lean frame thickening with heavy muscle. His shirt stretched tighter over broadening shoulders. His legs swelled, filling out his jeans until they looked painted on. A riiiip sounded as his sleeves burst at the seams.

But the worst part? The smell.

A wave of raw, alpha jock stench rolled off of Nick, thick and oppressive. The air grew hot, heavy with the scent of post-workout sweat, funky gym socks, and something ranker—like a fart so toxic it could be bottled as a bio-weapon.

Nick groaned, rolling his shoulders. “Uhhh… my pits feel…powerful.”

Topher laughed. “Hell yeah, bro. Give ‘em a whiff.”

Nick lifted an arm and sniffed. His eyes fluttered again, but this time in pure bliss. “Ohhh dude… that’s ripe,” he rumbled. Then, without hesitation, he shoved his pit in your direction. “Yo, take a whiff, bro!”

You stumbled back. “Nick, what the hell?!”

Topher clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Ain’t no ‘Nick’ anymore, dude. Not the one you knew. You’re just some nerd in his way.”

Nick blinked at you, his dopey grin faltering. For a second, you saw recognition flicker in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, he remembered you.

But then Topher farted.

It was loud. It was wet. It was the kind of fart that could knock a man unconscious.

Nick sniffed the air, his face lighting up like he’d just smelled fresh bacon. “Bruhh, sick rip! Lemme get in on that!”

You could only watch in horror as Nick grunted, clenched his fists, and let out a thunderous, beefy fart that made the walls shake. The air turned so thick with jock-stink you almost blacked out.

BRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPP!!!

Nick turned to you, all traces of your old boyfriend gone.

“Yo, nerd,” he said, his voice now a deep, brainless drawl. “Why’re you still here?”

Topher smirked. “Yeah, dude. Jocks only in this locker room.”

The two of them laughed, bumping chests in a stupidly macho way. The smell of sweat, farts, and raw jock-musk practically swallowed the room. The air in the locker room was thick with sweat, mildew, and something even fouler—a stench so ripe and overpowering it felt like it was sinking into my skin. My stomach churned, my eyes watered, but that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was Nick.

He stood beside Topher now, broad and muscular, his once-soft features twisted into a cocky smirk. His gym tank was soaked in sweat, clinging to his thick chest. He reeked—his body radiating a toxic cocktail of filthy B.O., old gym socks, and the unmistakable sour stench of a man who hadn’t cared about hygiene in weeks.

And he didn’t recognize me.

The boy I had loved—the boy who used to hold my hand like it meant everything—was gone, replaced by a dumb, sweaty, arrogant jock.

And now Topher and Nick were both staring at me.

“Yeah,” Topher chuckled, cracking his knuckles. “Something still ain’t right, bro.”

Nick nodded, grinning stupidly. “Yeah, dude. This one’s still all… soft. Ain’t right at all.”

Topher turned to me, his smirk stretching wider. “We gotta fix that.”

My heart pounded. I turned to run, but they were too fast.

Nick grabbed my arm in a vice-like grip, way stronger than he should’ve been. I yelled, struggling, but he only laughed.

“Damn, dude, you’re weak as hell,” he taunted, his breath rancid with the stench of protein shakes and bad hygiene.

Topher grabbed my other arm, and together, they forced me back against the cold metal lockers.

“Please,” I gasped, trying to wrench myself free. “Nick, please, you don’t have to do this!”

But Nick just chuckled, his sweat-slicked chest heaving. “The hell are you talkin’ about? I feel great, dude.” He flexed his bicep, grinning. “Been a long time comin’.”

Topher snickered. “Yeah. And you? You’re livin’ a lie.”

I froze. My stomach twisted. “No,” I whispered.

Topher leaned in, his rank musk filling my nose. “You ain’t a girl, dude. You’re just a soft little wannabe. But don’t worry… we’re gonna help you remember what you really are.”

Nick snickered. “A big, dumb, stinky brute, just like us.”

Before I could react, Topher shoved something against my face.

His shoe.

A battered, sweat-drenched, foul gym sneaker, its insides blackened with years of filth, its sole caked with grime.

The second it touched my nose, my entire brain went white-hot with stench.

It was indescribable—like fermented socks, like old, crusty gym gear marinated in sweat, like the very essence of unwashed jock rankness.

I gagged, thrashing, but Topher held me firm.

“Just breathe, bro,” he whispered. “Let it in.”

I gasped—bad idea. The reek flooded my lungs, thick and suffocating, seeping into my very being.

My body jerked. My head spun. My thoughts—so sharp, so clear just moments ago—turned sluggish.

My arms trembled. My legs felt heavy.

Nick grinned. “Oh yeah, dude. It’s workin’.”

A heat spread through me—deep, burning, primal. My skin itched, my muscles twitched, and then—

CRACK.

My shoulders broadened.

I gasped as my frame expanded, bones thickening, muscle ballooning. My clothes tightened, the fabric stretching over my rapidly swelling chest, my arms bulging with new, powerful biceps.

“No,” I moaned, my voice already deeper. “No… this isn’t… me—”

But Topher just laughed. “Oh yeah, bro. It is you. This is who you were always meant to be.”

Nick snickered. “Bet you’re gonna be even bigger than me, dude.”

I shuddered—and then, the smell hit.

My own smell.

A thick, gut-churning wave of pure, unfiltered B.O. rolled off me. Musky. Rancid. So strong it made my own eyes water. The scent of a man who hadn’t showered in days, whose pits stained every shirt he wore, whose sweat was a permanent part of his skin.

The fabric of my hoodie morphed, shifting into a gross, sweat-stained tank top clinging to my hulking frame. My jeans melted into loose, worn-out gym shorts. My sneakers—clean just moments ago—became battered, filthy, caked in years of grime.

I stank.

I reeked.

I let out a shuddering moan, my mind melting in the heat of my own musk.

Topher grinned, ruffling my now-sweaty hair. “Atta boy. Let that filth sink in.”

Nick grinned, slapping me on the back. “Damn, dude, you stink!”

I groaned, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth. I was dizzy—my thoughts were foggy, my brain slow.

Who… who had I been, again?

Something about… being different?

Something about… love?

Nick noticed my hesitation and grinned. “Forgettin’ somethin’, bro?”

Topher leaned in, his smirk filthy. “Yeah. Somethin’ about bein’ all soft? All girly? C’mon, dude. That ain’t you. Never was.”

I…

I tried to hold on to something—some distant memory, some fleeting whisper of another life.

But then Topher pushed me to my knees and Nick turned his back to me, lifted a leg, and let rip the nastiest fart I had ever smelled in my life right into my face.

PFFFFT-PFFT-PFFT-PFFFFFFFFFFFFT!!

It was horrific—a thick, rotten stench that sank into my lungs, that fused into my very being. My eyes rolled back, my mouth went slack, my brain shattered under the stench.

And just like that—

Everything else vanished.

My past. My old name. My old self.

All that remained was heat. Sweat. Stink.

A lazy, brainless smirk tugged at my lips as I took a deep, filthy inhale of my own rank scent.

“Fuuuck, bro,” I groaned, rolling my thick shoulders, my voice now deep, gruff, dumb. “I stink.”

Nick laughed, pulling me into a bro-hug. “Hell yeah, dude! Welcome back.”

Topher clapped me on the back. “Knew you’d come around, man.”

I grinned.

Yeah.

I didn’t know what I’d been worried about before.

This was right.

This was me.

And damn… it felt good to be a stinky jock.

The transformation had been total, irreversible. Whatever I had been before—some soft, weak, confused little nobody—was gone.

Now? I was huge. Ripped. Reeking.

And it felt so damn good.

Topher clapped me on the back, laughing as I let out a deep, content sigh, rolling my thick shoulders. My new gym tank clung to my sweaty chest, soaked in musk. The stench radiating off me was unreal—pure, unwashed jock funk, soaked into my skin like it had always been there.

Nick grinned, shoving me playfully. “Dude, you were holdin’ out on us, huh? Look at you—big, sweaty, dumb as hell.”

I chuckled, the sound deep, rumbling. “Yeah, bro. Feels… right.”

And it did. My head was so empty, my thoughts slow and lazy, but I loved it. No more worrying. No more thinking about stupid stuff like “who I was” or “who I loved.” Nah, man—I was just a big, stinkin’ brute now. A total gym rat, just like my bros.

Topher stretched, lifting his arms—and instantly, a fresh wave of rancid pit stench flooded the air. My eyes watered, but instead of gagging, I breathed deep, my thick chest rising as I took in the pure masculinity.

Nick did the same, groaning. “Bro, that’s rank.”

Topher just grinned, flexing. “Hell yeah, dude. Get used to it. You two are gonna be livin’ in this reek from now on.”

And I loved that.

Topher threw an arm around both of us, his sweaty armpits pressing into the back of our necks. “So, boys—what’s first? Pump some iron? Hit the field? Maybe just hang out here, marinate in our stink for a while?”

Nick laughed. “Dude, let’s gas out the locker room first. Make it so bad no one else can even breathe in here.”

I grinned dumbly, nodding. “Hell yeah, bro. Make this place ours.”

Nick stepped forward, smirking as he lifted a leg. “Lemme start us off right, boys.”

And then—

PPPPPRRRRRRBBBBBBTTTTT

A deep, vibrating fart ripped through the room, thick and toxic. It hung in the air, pungent with protein shake rot, pure jock filth.

Topher and I howled with laughter, fanning the air like idiots.

“Daaamn, bro!” I groaned, my nose twitching as the stench sank into my brain. “That’s nasty!”

Topher grinned, stepping up beside Nick. “Think that’s bad?” He spread his stance, bent low, and—

BRRRRRAAAAWWWWPPPPP!

The floor vibrated from the sheer force. The smell was instant—rotten eggs, sweat, unwashed ass.

I moaned, throwing my head back.

“Hell yeah, bros,” I groaned. “My turn.”

I grunted, clenched, and—

RRRRRRRRIIIIIPPPPPP

A thick, wet, nasty fart blasted out of me, the stench immediate. My brain melted at my own reek, my skin tingling with how rank it was.

Nick wheezed. “Dude! That was foul!”

Topher grabbed me in a headlock, laughing. “Welcome to the team, bro!”

I grinned, my mind buzzing with lazy, dumb bliss.

I belonged here.

I belonged with them.

And from now on?

We were the stinkiest, manliest, dumbest jocks on campus.

[thefunkfactory]

Just gonna say this again^

If you don’t rock with my stories…then don’t read them…if you don’t like gay to straight stories…then don’t read them… I tag all of my stories so if you just used a little bit of your brain and read the tags you will know if a story is up your alley or not…it’s not rocket science💕 I hope this helps! And if it doesn’t then…sorry I guess idfk😘

Reminder: Im not really writing these stories for anyone but myself. I might take inspiration from an ask or an idea someone poses but beyond that I fully write for my own enjoyment. If you don’t love what I write or how I go about it then just move on lol. I’ve been lurking for years and I know how easy it is to just stop reading a story when I realize it’s not my cup of tea. I do want to hear how you all think my stories could be better but actually try to be constructive and kind, don’t just be a dick because you don’t enjoy a story I wrote :(

Asks and story ideas are always welcome <3

Non-constructive criticism is not :)

[thefunkfactory]

(btw this will inform me as to which kind of story yall wanna see next)

[thefunkfactory]

Game Changer

It was a crisp autumn afternoon in the heart of Texas, where the Friday night lights shone down on the roaring crowd of Clearview High School. The championship game was just a few days away, and the team’s star linebacker, Brick “The Tank” Thompson, was at the center of the action. Brick wasn’t just known for his bone-crushing tackles—he was infamous for something far more sinister. His farts.

Not just any farts. Not the kind that made people wrinkle their noses in mild discomfort. No, Brick’s farts were a different breed. They were biochemical weapons disguised as bodily functions. It was said that a single whiff could cause memory loss, temporary blindness, and an intense craving for cheap gas station hot dogs.

Brick had always used his “gift” sparingly, saving it for pranks or moments when he needed his personal space in the locker room. But on this particular day, something truly bizarre was about to unfold.

At the other end of the field, stretching by the bleachers, were two new recruits: Jason and Ethan. The two had just transferred from a rival school, and while they weren’t exactly football material, Coach Stevens had insisted on giving them a shot.

Jason and Ethan were inseparable. They had been dating for two years, and while they had little interest in sports, they figured joining the team would help them fit in at their new school. But Brick? Brick wasn’t having it.

“Football ain’t for fancy boys,” he muttered under his breath, cracking his knuckles as he watched them from across the field. “It’s about grit. Strength. The art of strategic flatulence.” That’s when he got an idea.

The Plan: Deploy the Stinkbomb

After practice, Brick waited until Jason and Ethan were alone in the locker room, toweling off from a light workout. They had been trying to run passing drills earlier, but their skills were… questionable at best.

Brick stomped into the room, his cleats clicking against the tiles. He had been preparing for this moment all day, consuming a potent cocktail of protein shakes, hard-boiled eggs, and expired chili from the gas station down the street. His stomach was a bubbling cauldron of pure destruction.

He positioned himself between Jason and Ethan, stretching his arms as if he were merely loosening up after practice. Then, with the force of a hydraulic press, he let loose.

PPPPPPPPPFFFFFRRRRRRBBBBBBBBBTTTTTTT!!

The walls trembled. The metal lockers groaned. The overhead lights flickered as the sheer density of the fart warped the very air in the room. Jason and Ethan had no time to react before the first wave of pure, unfiltered biological warfare hit them. The fart seeped into their nostrils like an invading force, burrowing deep into their sinuses, setting fire to every neuron in its path.

Jason staggered back, clutching his face as if he’d just been maced. His mind screamed at him to run, to escape, but his legs felt like concrete. Ethan gagged violently, hands gripping his knees, his stomach lurching. “What… is that?” he choked out, his vision blurring.

It wasn’t just a smell. It was an experience. It had weight, a presence, as though the air itself had thickened and taken on a personality—an aggressive, unshowered personality that drank expired protein shakes and believed deodorant was a government conspiracy.

Jason’s heart pounded in his chest. Something was happening to his brain. Thoughts he had never had before began creeping in, whispering, clawing at the edges of his mind.

Gotta run… gotta—

Then, a second wave hit.

PPPPPPPPPPFFFFFRRRRRRRRRBBBBTTTTTTTT!!!

The sound was inhuman—somewhere between a motorbike stalling out and a bear growling into a megaphone. The air vibrated with the force of it, the sheer density of the gas causing the locker room tiles to groan under the weight of their own suffering.

Jason stumbled, his knees buckling. His head swam. His thoughts were slipping. He tried to hold on—to remember who he was.

“I… I like art,” he whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.

A new voice, deep and stupid, growled back in his head. Nah, bro. You like lifting weights.

Jason gasped, shaking his head violently. “No, I—I like poetry, and, and indie movies with good cinematography.”

The voice laughed, cruel and dumb. Indie movies? What, like game film study?

Jason clawed at his temples. The stench was everywhere. Inside him. Changing him.

Ethan wasn’t doing any better. He had slumped against the lockers, his breathing ragged, pupils dilating as his entire world shattered and reassembled itself into something stupider.

“I love musicals,” Ethan groaned, fighting through the fumes, trying to ground himself in something familiar. But the gas was relentless. It seeped into his memories, corrupting them like a virus.

He thought he remembered sitting in a theater, enjoying a Broadway show… but the image warped. The stage disappeared. The actors were replaced by sweaty, hulking football players slamming into each other at full speed. The dialogue was gone, replaced by grunts and phrases like “GIT SOME, BABY!”

“No…” Ethan whispered in horror. “No, no, no—”

Another voice—deeper, dumber, louder—echoed inside his mind. Bro, what if… instead of musicals… you just watched highlight reels of bone-crushing tackles for three hours straight?

Ethan’s hands gripped his skull. “Stop—stop talking! This isn’t me!”

The new voice sneered. Ain’t about “you” no more, bro. It’s about the team.

Jason twisted on the ground, his body drenched in sweat. “Ethan—we gotta fight it!”

Ethan gasped, his breath ragged. “I—I can’t—I’m—”

Brick stepped forward, hands on his hips, grinning as he watched them writhe in football-induced existential agony.

“You boys holdin’ up okay?” he said, flexing his biceps. “Don’t fight it, man. Just let the game in.”

Jason groaned, his fingers curling into the tiled floor. His chest ached—not in pain, but in something else. His muscles… they were expanding. Tightening. His arms, once slim, were becoming bulky, carved like they had spent years in the weight room.

“No,” he muttered weakly. “No, I—I’m not like this.”

But he was. His fingers twitched involuntarily. He wanted to clench them into fists. He needed to hit something. Ethan gritted his teeth, still resisting, still clinging to the last shards of himself. He tried to recall his love for classical music, for literature, for deep, meaningful conversations. But all he could hear was the sound of whistles blowing. Coaches yelling. Helmet-to-helmet collisions. And farts. So many farts.

BBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFFTTTTTTT!!

His stomach growled. A pressure built deep inside him, something alien, something awful.

Jason’s eyes widened. “Ethan… do you feel that?”

Ethan clutched his gut, shaking his head violently. “No—no, I won’t—I won’t let it—”

His body betrayed him.

PPPPPPPPFFFFFFFFRRRRRRBBBBBTTTTTTTTT!!!

The locker room shook.

Jason’s eyes went wide as the scent hit him. “Bro… that was…”

Ethan gasped, his eyes blank and empty, his mouth hanging open. He knew what had just happened.

It had begun.

Jason felt the pressure growing inside himself too. Something dark and terrible had awoken. His stomach churned, filling with unnatural gases.

No, no, no, NO! he screamed internally.

But the new voice in his head just laughed.

Let it rip, bro.

Jason squeezed his eyes shut. “I—I can’t…”

Brick patted him on the back. “You can, bud. You just gotta let go.”

Jason took a deep breath. His stomach contracted. The pressure built.

And then—

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAOOOOOONNNNNKKKKKK!!!

The sound was unholy. The locker doors rattled. A poster of an inspirational quote fell from the wall. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off.

Jason gasped. He felt… free.

Ethan looked at him, his face slack-jawed, his breathing shallow. “Dude… that was sick.”

Jason grinned. “Yeah… it kinda was, huh?”

Ethan stood up, rolling his shoulders. He no longer felt weak. His arms were huge. His brain, once filled with critical thought, now throbbed with primal urges: Tackle. Sweat. Lift. Fart.

Brick clapped his hands together, beaming with pride. “Welcome to the team, boys.”

Jason and Ethan nodded. They understood now.

Football wasn’t a sport.

It was a way of life.

And so was farting.

BBBBBBRRRRRRRROOOOOOFFFFFFF!!

Jason and Ethan laughed as their stomachs gurgled, ready for more.

They were home.

The night of the big game arrived, and Clearview High had never seen a more aggressive team. Jason and Ethan were now football-obsessed, tackle-hungry machines with no thoughts beyond scoring touchdowns and delivering nuclear-grade farts upon the opposing team.

By the third quarter, the rival team had collapsed on the field, their senses overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of Clearview’s combined stench. Paramedics had to be called. Gas masks were distributed to the referees.

Coach Stevens watched from the sidelines, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what happened to those boys,” he muttered, “but God help us all.”

As the final whistle blew and Clearview secured the championship, Brick, Jason, and Ethan stood together, arms around each other, basking in the rancid fumes of their own creation.

It was the birth of a new dynasty.

A dynasty of brotherhood, football… and farts.

[thefunkfactory]

I need to sniff some intense foot funk or some rank B.O. ASAP😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫im so horny for a stinky meathead right now

[thefunkfactory]

Breaking In The City Boy

I was a city kid through and through. Raised in Manhattan, I was used to the hum of traffic, the scent of hot pavement, the distant wail of sirens at night. My idea of “nature” was Central Park, and even that smelled like garbage half the time. My sneakers were pristine, my hair gelled just right, and I never left the apartment without spritzing on some cologne. So when my mom sent me to stay with my uncle in Nebraska for the summer—three whole months of dirt, animals, and god-knows-what—I thought I was going to die.

The moment I stepped off the bus, the stench hit me. Thick, pungent air rolled over me like a wave—a mix of hay, cow manure, and something earthy that I couldn’t quite place. It clung to my clothes, filled my lungs, and made my nose wrinkle. Uncle Dale was waiting by his battered pickup, chewing on a piece of straw like a walking stereotype. “City boy,” he greeted me with a smirk before slapping my shoulder. “Gonna be a hell of a summer for ya.” I tossed my duffel into the truck bed, already regretting my life choices.

The farmhouse was old and creaky, but the real shock was the kid waiting for me on the porch. Jeb was barefoot, shirtless, and covered in grime. His shaggy brown hair stuck to his sweaty forehead, and his jeans—held up by a cracked leather belt—looked like they hadn’t been washed in a year. His skin was sun-bronzed, arms lean but muscular from hard labor. But the worst part? The smell rolling off of him.

A heavy, ripe musk, thick with sweat, dirt, and something feral. “City boy,” he greeted with a lazy grin. “You don’t look like you belong here.” “Yeah, no kidding,” I muttered, adjusting my clean hoodie. Jeb chuckled, slapping his bare stomach. “Well, you’re gonna have to get used to farm life. Ain’t no place for fancy boys out here.” I rolled my eyes, following him inside. The farmhouse smelled just as bad as he did—an overwhelming mix of livestock, grease, and sweat. But nothing prepared me for the moment we stepped into the tiny bedroom we’d be sharing.

Jeb flopped onto his bed, stretching out. “Ain’t much space, but don’t worry—I sleep like a log.” Then it happened. A deep, guttural rumbling filled the room.

BBBRRRRAAAAWWWWPPPPPP!

The longest, wettest fart I’d ever heard ripped out of Jeb’s ass, vibrating the wooden floorboards. It was thick, a toxic cloud that hit my nose like a punch. It smelled rotten—a feral, earthy stench, like old eggs, cow manure, and something even worse festering beneath it all.

“Dude—what the hell?!” I gagged, stumbling back. Jeb just laughed, wiggling his toes. “Ain’t nothin’ but good ol’ country air, city boy.” I coughed, the reek clogging my throat. My stomach twisted in protest, a dull heat bubbling deep inside me. My skin prickled. Something felt… off. Jeb sat up, watching me closely. “Mighta shoulda warned ya—my gas ain’t just regular gas. Been eatin’ farm food my whole life. My gut’s strong. Strong enough to change folks.”

I barely heard him. The heat in my stomach was growing, twisting into a low, gurgling pressure. My whole body felt heavier—warmer. And then—

BBBBLLLLOOOORRRPPPPP!

My stomach seized, and a monstrous fart tore out of me—loud, ripping, and gnarly. The air went thick with my own brand of filth, a greasy, pungent stench that made my own eyes water. I stumbled forward, gripping the bedpost. My body was changing. My sneakers suddenly felt too clean. My hoodie felt too tight. The air in my lungs was thick with something feral, something raw, and I could feel my body soaking it in.

I wanted to gag, but instead, I breathed deep.And I liked it.

Jeb grinned. “Atta boy.”

I wiped my sweaty forehead, blinking as the room warped. The wood floors didn’t look so dirty anymore—they just looked… natural. My hands—once soft, well-manicured—felt rougher, my fingertips dry and calloused. My gut? It was thicker, just a little, like it was built for eating heavy and processing food the right way.

The smell—my own gnarly, gut-churning stink—lingered around me, but instead of being disgusted, I felt proud. I grinned, lifted a leg, and let another one rip—deep, wet, and dense. Jeb whooped. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! You’re takin’ to it real fast.”

And he was right. The idea of sweating under the sun, of getting my hands dirty, of eating meals so greasy they stuck to my ribs—it all suddenly sounded right. I reached down, peeling off my hoodie. The cool country air hit my skin, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t care if I smelled. In fact, I wanted to.

Jeb grinned, standing up. “C’mon. Let’s getcha fed. You’re gonna need more fuel if you’re gonna be one of us.” A slow grin spread across my face. I lifted a leg and let another thick, gnarly one rip, filling the air with my own brand of country air.I followed him into the kitchen, my gut bubbling again with another nasty fart brewing.

Maybe this summer wouldn’t be so bad after all.

[thefunkfactory]

The Cursed Locker

Caleb and Jordan had always been the last ones out of school. Whether it was detention, sneaking into the AV room to play old horror movies, or just wandering the halls after dark, they liked pushing boundaries. That’s how they found the locker.

It was at the very end of the dimly lit hallway near the gym, a row of old, rusted lockers no one used anymore. Except one was… different. The number was worn away, its metal dented and scratched as if something had been trying to escape. But the thing that really caught their attention? The green glow leaking through the vents. “Dude, what the hell is that?” Caleb asked, taking a cautious step forward. Jordan smirked. “Only one way to find out.”

As they got closer, the glow pulsed, almost like it was… breathing. And then they heard it—whispers, calling their names, hissing promises of strength, power, something more.

“Open it,” the voice urged.

A normal person would’ve run. But they weren’t normal. With one final glance at each other, Caleb grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

A wave of stench hit them like a brick wall. The air was thick with the overwhelming odor of sweat, mildew, and decades of unwashed gym clothes. Inside, there was nothing but old sports gear: reeking cleats, yellowed tank tops, sweat-stained football pads, rank basketball shorts. The smell was unbearable, yet… intoxicating. Jordan coughed, eyes watering. “Bro, this is foul!”

Caleb felt the air shift the moment he opened the locker. The stench hit him first—a rancid, overwhelming wave of old sweat, mildew, and decades of unwashed gym clothes. It was the kind of smell that clung to the back of your throat, thick and nauseating. His stomach churned, and his eyes watered, but beneath the disgust, something else stirred. Something deep. Something primal.

Inside the locker, the contents looked mundane at first—battered cleats with laces frayed to the core, a cracked football helmet caked in dried sweat, a set of shoulder pads with yellowed foam and a stiff, sour texture. But the longer Caleb stared, the more the items seemed to pulse with an unnatural energy, glowing faintly under the sickly green light spilling from the locker’s depths. And then… he heard it. A voice, not quite a whisper, yet not fully formed, slithered into his mind.

“You’re not strong enough, Caleb.”

“You’re not tough enough.”

“But you could be.”

His hand moved on its own. Trembling, hesitant, he reached for the jersey draped over the pile—a faded maroon and gold football jersey, its fabric stiff with the ghosts of a thousand games. The second his fingers brushed against it, a jolt shot through his arm, freezing him in place.

The whispers grew louder.

“Put it on.”

His breath hitched. His skin crawled with an alien sensation, like something ancient and sweaty and overpowering was seeping into his pores, claiming him. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to turn back. But he didn’t. With a shaky breath, Caleb lifted the jersey and pulled it over his head. The moment it settled on his skin, his body seized.

A raw, burning heat ignited in his chest, spreading outward like wildfire. His veins pulsed, his muscles clenched, and then—It began.

His arms bulged, the once wiry limbs thickening with heavy, corded muscle. His pale, thin fingers swelled, his nails darkening as calluses formed on his palms—hands meant for gripping a football, for tackling, for dominating the field. The sleeves of the jersey, which had once hung loose, now stretched tight around his broadening shoulders as his chest expanded, his pecs pushing against the fabric.

A deep, bone-cracking pop echoed through his body as his spine lengthened, his torso widening, ribs pushing outward to accommodate his newfound bulk. His waist remained trim, but his legs—God, his legs. They exploded with power. His thighs thickened into massive trunks of pure muscle, the kind built for speed and impact. His calves coiled with strength, tendons reshaping to give him the reflexes of a seasoned athlete. The worn denim of his jeans strained, seams groaning, before splitting apart entirely.

Beneath them, his skin had darkened to a golden tan, the complexion of someone who had spent years under the relentless sun, practicing, sweating, grinding. His breathing hitched. The scent in the air—it wasn’t just coming from the locker anymore. It was coming from him. A thick, acrid musk seeped from his pores, pungent and overpowering. The smell of locker rooms, weight rooms, and endless summer practices baked into his very being. It clung to him, an unshakable part of who he was becoming.

His face twisted, his features shifting, molding into something new. His jawline became sharper, his cheekbones more pronounced. His nose broadened slightly, his lips plumping as a hint of stubble darkened his jaw. His straight, dull brown hair darkened, thickening into black waves, slightly damp with sweat, as though he had just come off the field. And then, the memories hit.

Flashes of games under the Friday night lights. The roar of the crowd. The brutal clash of bodies on the field. The sweat dripping down his face, his jersey clinging to his body after hours of practice. The pride, the adrenaline, the hunger to win.

He wasn’t Caleb anymore. He was Carlos.

Carlos Gutiérrez, the star linebacker of a high school football team, a natural-born athlete, built for brutality and victory. He lived for the game, for the weight of his shoulder pads digging into his skin, for the smell of sweat and dirt filling his lungs, for the unbreakable bond between teammates forged through blood, pain, and glory.

Carlos exhaled, rolling his massive shoulders as the old, sweat-stained football pads settled onto him like a second skin. His thick, muscled arms flexed instinctively, and he grinned. He stank. God, he stank. And he loved it.

Jordan watched in horror… and fascination. The whispering voices curled around him now, seducing him, calling to him. His fingers brushed against a pair of old basketball shorts, and before he could even think, he was stepping into them.

Carlos stood beside him now, a hulking, sweat-drenched football player, reeking of masculinity, muscles pushing against his pads, veins thick with strength. But Jordan barely noticed—his gaze was empty and lost.

He gasped.

His chest seized, his muscles tensed, and then— Everything snapped. Heat rushed through his body, a fiery, electric sensation that crawled beneath his skin, reshaping him, molding him, building him into something new.

His legs exploded first. The once-skinny limbs thickened, lengthened, stretching toward the ceiling as his femurs expanded, his knees cracking, his calves coiling with fast-twitch muscle built for speed and agility. His thighs ballooned with dense, powerful strength, the kind that could launch him into the air with effortless grace and dominance. His sneakers groaned, the rubber soles bending as his feet grew larger, broader, sculpted for the relentless pounding of a basketball court. Then came his torso.

His spine elongated with a sickening pop, his entire frame stretching upward, pushing past six feet with ease. His ribs shifted, his shoulders broadened, his chest expanded into a lean, chiseled masterpiece of athleticism. His arms, once gangly and unremarkable, swelled with defined muscle, his biceps and triceps sculpting themselves into perfection, his forearms corded with strength meant for fast breaks and powerful dunks. And the sweat. Oh, God, the sweat.

It erupted from his skin, thick, salty, pungent. A powerful, musky stench filled the air, soaking into the shorts he now wore, mingling with the decades-old scent of past players. It was ripe, overwhelming, completely inescapable. And it was his. Jordan choked on his own scent, but instead of disgust, he felt pride. He smelled like a baller, like an athlete, like someone who had spent his entire life drenched in the effort, the grind, the glory of the game. His skin darkened, shifting from pale to a rich, warm brown, smooth and glistening with sweat. His features morphed—his jawline sharpening, his cheekbones becoming more defined.

The two new athletes locked eyes. A strange understanding passed between them. The boys they had been—the nerds who had snuck around school, who had never set foot on a field or court—were gone.

Carlos rolled his massive shoulders, the dampness of his pads seeping into his skin. “Damn, bro,” he grunted, his voice thick with a Spanish accent he hadn’t had before. “I feel… good.”

Jamal bounced on the balls of his feet, spinning a phantom basketball on his fingertips. His body dripped with a constant layer of sweat, his scent thick, overpowering, dominant. “Hell yeah, man,” he smirked, cracking his neck. “Feels like I was born for this.”

The locker door slammed shut behind them, the green glow fading. The whispers died away.

All that was left was the stench of the two stinking boys.

[thefunkfactory]

Game Over: The Twinkening

Chad Dawson was the ultimate jock. Star quarterback, gym rat, and a certified ladies’ man. When he wasn’t crushing it on the field, he was at home, controller in hand, dominating the latest online multiplayer games.

One Friday night, he kicked back in his gaming chair, still wearing his sweat-soaked gym socks from earlier—because why bother changing? He popped open a protein shake, cracked his knuckles, and booted up a mysterious new RPG he had downloaded called “Legends of the Fairy Realm.”

“Weird title,” he muttered, but the game had high ratings, so whatever.

As soon as he pressed START, his screen flashed a blinding neon pink. His controller vibrated violently, sending tingles up his arms.

Then, the room started spinning.

Chad felt his body shrink. His broad, muscled frame deflated, his thick pecs and biceps slimming down into a lean, delicate figure. His baggy gym shorts tightened around his waist, morphing into dangerously short, pastel-colored booty shorts. His tank top shrank into a tight crop top, revealing a smooth, toned stomach.

His once-deep voice cracked and softened into a higher, more playful tone. His rough stubble vanished, leaving behind flawless, glowing skin. His blonde buzzcut grew out into soft, messy locks that fell just over his eyes.

And then—the smell hit.

Chad looked down in horror. His feet, once big and rugged, were now dainty and smooth… but absolutely disgusting. His socks had completely disintegrated, leaving his bare soles exposed. A thick, greenish haze wafted up from them, the stench so foul it made his nose scrunch.

“Dude… no way…” he whimpered.

His feet twitched, sending waves of pure, sour foot funk into the air. The scent was thick, heavy, and eye-watering—like a mix of week-old gym socks, fermented cheese, and pure humiliation.

As if that wasn’t bad enough…

BRRRRRAAAAPPPPP

A deep, wet-sounding fart erupted from his now plump, perky rear, vibrating against his tiny shorts. A toxic green cloud oozed out, swirling into the already rank air.

“Oh my god—was that ME?!” Chad shrieked, his delicate hands clamping over his mouth. His own gas was so thick and potent that his eyes watered.

His room, once the ultimate man cave, now reeked of sour foot stench and devastating farts, the green funk rolling over everything like a poisonous fog.

The TV screen flickered, revealing a message in glowing pink text:

“Congratulations! You’ve unlocked your true form! Embrace the stench, twink!”

Chad screamed as another violent FRAAAAAAAPPPP burst from his rear, completely drowning out his protest.

He had officially lost the game… and his old self.

[thefunkfactory]

Luke & Ryan

Riley sat at her desk, twirling a strand of her silky hair as she scrolled through her phone. She was the picture of grace—always well-dressed, always smelling like vanilla perfume, always completely put together. Unlike some of the boys in her class, who seemed to revel in being disgusting. And at the top of that list was Luke.

Luke was the definition of gross. He was a jock, always sweaty, always reeking of whatever foul concoction came from his armpits and feet after practice. He farted constantly—loud, toxic, and proud—like it was his greatest achievement in life. Riley had spent years avoiding him and his disgusting ways, but today… she wasn’t so lucky.

As class ended and students started filing out, Riley gathered her things, only to realize someone had blocked her path.

Luke.

He smirked, still in his practice uniform, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

“Yo, princess,” he drawled. “What’s up? You look way too clean today.”

Riley rolled her eyes. “And you look like you haven’t showered in a week.”

Luke just laughed. “That’s the jock way, babe. You wouldn’t get it.”

Riley scoffed, trying to push past him, but Luke suddenly turned his back to her and—

BBBRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPP!

A monstrous, rumbling fart blasted out of Luke’s shorts, releasing a thick green cloud that billowed into the air like a cursed mist. Riley barely had time to react before the noxious gas engulfed her.

The smell was beyond horrific. It was as if every locker room, every gym sock, every sweaty jock strap had been combined into one concentrated bomb of boy stench. Riley coughed, gagging as the green fog coiled around her, seeping into her nostrils.

She tried to step back, but her body locked up. A strange heat spread through her limbs, her skin tingling as something deep inside her… shifted.

“N-no… what’s… happening…?” Riley gasped, her voice already sounding deeper.

Her arms twitched, the delicate, slender shape of them fading as muscle bulged beneath her soft skin. Her dainty hands cracked as they grew rougher, callouses forming like she’d spent years lifting weights. Her toned legs thickened, her thighs bulging with raw, masculine strength.

Her chest flattened, her curves vanishing as her pink, stylish crop top stretched, darkening into a sweat-stained, ratty gym tee. Her perfectly fitted jeans morphed, shifting into baggy, stained basketball shorts.

But the worst part was the smell.

Riley’s once sweet, flowery scent was erased in an instant, replaced by something rank. Sweat poured from her newly muscular body, her armpits radiating pure jock funk. Her feet—now clad in crusty, old sneakers—itched as a damp, swampy heat settled between her toes.

Her mind fought back.

No… I’m Riley! I’m a pretty girl! I don’t—I don’t wanna be—

“Aw, man, looks like you’re still resisting,” Luke chuckled. “Guess I gotta bring out the big guns.”

He lifted one leg and peeled off his sock. It was yellowing, damp with sweat, the fabric practically crusty with built-up grime. The second he waved it in front of Riley’s face, the stench hit her like a truck.

Her eyes fluttered. Her resistance crumbled.

The overpowering stink of boy foot funk clouded her thoughts, turning them to mush. Visions of football practice, sweaty gym sessions, and disgusting locker-room banter flooded her brain, rewriting who she was.

“Urghhh… bro…” Riley slurred, her voice now a deep, cocky drawl.

Her long, silky hair retracted, leaving behind a messy, sweat-soaked mop of boyish locks. She scratched at her armpit, sniffing her fingers and grinning.

She liked the stink now.

No, she loved it.

With a loud, gurgling BBBBUUUUUURRRRPPP!, Riley—no, Ryan—grinned at Luke, his new bro.

“Dude… I smell rank,” Ryan said, scratching his crotch absentmindedly. “I think I gotta fart.”

Luke grinned. “Then let it rip, bro.”

Ryan smirked, lifting a leg. FFFFFFRRRUUUPPPP!

And as another thick green fog filled the air, the last traces of Riley—the clean, pretty girl—vanished forever.

[thefunkfactory]

Inbox

I am going through inbox suggestions and writing stories for those right now because my creativity is a lil dry rn…but I would love to have some more ideas to base stories on! So give me any and all suggestions you have :)

Oh and attach any pictures if you have any you want a story written about! I always need more pictures for inspiration :)

[thefunkfactory]

Sam Zia

Sam Zia had it all. Chiseled jawline, a body carved from years of dedication in the gym, and a TikTok following of millions who worshipped his advice on masculinity, self-improvement, and how to be an alpha male. He preached discipline, hygiene, and success. His fans saw him as the ultimate peak of male perfection.

But one day, everything changed.

It started subtly. Sam, always precise about his diet, began experimenting with the bulk. Not the clean, protein-packed meals he used to swear by, but the dirty, greasy, carb-heavy food that promised quick mass at the expense of digestion. Burgers, protein shakes overloaded with questionable powders, and eggs—dozens of eggs—became his daily fuel.

At first, he felt invincible. His muscles swelled, his energy skyrocketed… but then, a dark force emerged from within. His stomach began to rebel. Gurgling. Churning. And then—the gas.

At first, he tried to suppress it, maintaining his polished alpha image. But then, mid-TikTok live, it happened.

“Yo, fellas, if you wanna be a REAL man, you gotta—” PFFFFFRRRRTT

A deep, reverberating blast escaped him, loud enough to rattle his chair. He froze. His perfectly sculpted face turned a shade of red he hadn’t seen since his first squat failure.

He expected embarrassment. He expected people to call him out.

Instead? The video went viral.

Comments flooded in:

“Bro is so alpha he doesn’t even care.”

“That was the most masculine fart I’ve ever heard.”

“Real men embrace their natural odors.”

And just like that, a new ideology was born.

It started with one video, but Sam, ever the influencer, knew when to capitalize on momentum. The next day, he posted:

“Men today are too obsessed with being ‘clean’ and ‘proper.’ You think our ancestors cared about showers? Nah, they were out there, fighting mammoths, reeking of strength and dominance. Hygiene is a scam. If you smell bad, it means you’re working hard.”

And the crowd ate it up.

Sam leaned in harder. His once pristine, cologne-spritzed gym clothes became stained tanks with unidentified smears. His showers? Less frequent. His grooming? Nonexistent. His content? A full-on campaign to make men embrace their primal state.

“Ditch the deodorant. Stop washing your gym shorts. Embrace the stench.”

And the most legendary part? The farts.

Sam stopped holding them in. If anything, he turned them into a symbol of raw, unfiltered manliness. Every TikTok featured at least one unholy release, accompanied by a smug smirk. His comments turned into a brotherhood of stink.

“Sam, I took your advice. Haven’t washed in two weeks. My girl left me, but I feel powerful.”

“Dude, I farted in my gym and cleared out the weaklings. Only real men remained.”

“A guy at work told me to wear deodorant, so I quit my job. Thanks for the wisdom, king.”

Sam’s influence was undeniable. Gyms nationwide reported an increase in noxious odors. Deodorant companies saw stocks plummet. High-protein, fiber-loaded diets surged in popularity, not for their muscle-building benefits, but for their ability to fuel the movement.

Even brands took notice. Soon, Sam had sponsorship deals—not for cologne or grooming kits, but for industrial-strength air fresheners (marketed for the weak) and bean-based meal plans.

One day, he posted his magnum opus:

“The real test of masculinity? Walk into a crowded elevator. Let it rip. Stand tall. Own it. If people leave, they’re weak. If they stay, they respect you.”

The challenge took off. #ZiaGasChallenge trended worldwide. Videos surfaced of men proudly fumigating locker rooms, parties, and even dates. The movement was unstoppable.

Sam had transformed completely. The man who once championed clean bulking, high-value grooming, and aesthetic perfection was now the undisputed King of the Stink Bros. He lived by his code:

• Laundry is for betas.

• Showers are optional.

• Farts are power.

His mansion, once pristine, now smelled like a mix of protein shakes, gym socks, and raw testosterone. His fans? More loyal than ever.

And as he sat back, inhaling his own toxic masterpiece, he smiled.

Because this? This was true masculinity.

[thefunkfactory]

Happy New Year!

Ok ok so I have been really busy recently and just had a lot going on in my life so I haven’t been able to really write because A. I don’t have the time and B. I don’t really have the drive or motivation to right now. I appreciate those who reached out to let me know you miss my stories or checking if I was okay! I do not know when I will have some more time and motivation to write but I hope it is soon! Anyways I love you all and have a Happy New Year!!!