azrerad

[azrerad]

The Special Shampoo

Mark walked into the locker room after a long workout session and threw himself onto the locker room bench, sweat dripping through his workout gear. He was exhausted. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

Suddenly, Mark heard the door swing open. A huge hulking figure walked in. Mark could hear the monster’s footsteps coming towards him. Mark opened his eyes to see a big muscular Arab man taking a seat on the bench across from him. Mark found himself getting lost in the Arab’s dreamy dark brown eyes. Beads of glistening sweat drifted their way down the man’s beautiful brown face. Mark couldn’t help but stare at the man’s frame. His broad shoulders, his massive pecs, his giantic forearms, all of which were coated in a thick pelt of arabic hair. He radiated masculinity. Mark was in awe of the man.

The Arab man then made eye contact with Mark and smirked. Mark immediately diverted his eyes. He didn’t want the gorgeous man to see him lusting over him. Mark’s lust was cut short when suddenly he could smell his own sweat. Mark reached into his gym bag and took out his towel and body wash. However, the body wash felt lighter than usual.

“Damn, it’s empty” Mark sighed as he shook the bottle. Mark could have swore the bottle had been full this morning. The lid of the bottle was loose. It was almost as if someone had emptied i-

“Use mine” The Arab man held out his shampoo.

“Oh no, it’s okay. I’ll just shower at hom-”

“No, just use mine” he said more forcefully this time. He was staring directly into Mark’s eyes.

“Seriously, it’s fin-”

USE MY SHAMPOO

Mark was surprised by the man’s commanding tone. He was manly and intimidating. The arab man’s body hair was infused with sweat. It was beginning to stink up the entire room. Mark’s nose was quickly filled with the man’s alpha stink. It reeked. Mark swiftly took the shampoo from the man’s meaty hands, afraid of what the man would do if he refused.

“Try not to moan too loud” the Arab man laughed to himself.

Mark smiled politely and quickly made his way into the public shower. “What a psycho” he thought. Why was the man so insistent on him using this shampoo? Mark looked at the label. It read ‘مزيل الصبي الأبيض’. The liquid was a brownish orange colour. Mark had never seen anything like it. Maybe it was only made in the Middle East or something?

Mark poured the shampoo onto the palm of his hand and then scratched it into his brown hair. The shampoo trickled down his smooth hairless body. It felt... good. Mark was surprised with how nice the shampoo felt against his pale hairless skin. Mark poured more out onto his hand and began to rub it into his hair more aggressively this time. Mark rubbed the shampoo more and more until he accidentally let a moan slip through his lips. Mark covered his mouth, hoping no one had heard him. The shampoo was sending a warm heated pleasure throughout his body.

“Oh fuck. It feels so goooooood” Mark moaned loudly as he lathered his hair with the shampoo. He couldn’t help it. The pleasure was becoming too intense for him to handle.

Mark was too lost in the pleasure to notice that his hairless torso was beginning to sprout... chest hair? That can’t have been right. Mark’s chest had always been hairless. He had never allowed any hair to grow on his body. He always thought hairy men looked like smelly animals. But now, Mark didn’t have a say in the matter. Dark black hair began sprouting all over his body. His chest, his forearms, his legs, his face now sprouting thick jet-black smelly hair. The once hairless 20 year old had grown so much hair, he looked like some kind of smelly animal.

The shampoo began to sink into Mark’s muscles. His lean body inflating, becoming bigger and stronger. His lean pecs ballooned outwards, now looking like a pair of fat hairy tits. His nipples grew bigger and more sensitive. The slightest touch could make him blow his thick load all over the shower wall. His shoulders grew broader and hairier. His biceps and legs grew big and thick. Mark began growing in size. His thin 5’8 stature increasing to a hulking 6’7 monster. His age increased with his height. The 20 year old aged until he began to look like he was in his 30s.

Mark’s ass grew bigger and juicer. Becoming round and fuckable. It began jiggling with the slightest of movements. It looked like it was constantly begging to be fucked by a nice big thick cock. His average sized penis grew larger too. It grew longer and thicker. His once 5 inch penis shot out into a thick 12 inch monster cock.

The shampoo began to seep into Mark’s pale skin. His complexion slowly darkened as the water washed his whiteness down the drain, never to be seen again. Mark’s smooth pale complexion was replaced by a beautiful brown tone. With Mark’s thick black body hair, his huge monster cock and his beautiful brown skin, someone could easily mistake Mark for... an Arab.

Mark began to panic as he looked down at his new Arab body. Mark threw the pleasureful shampoo onto the shower floor. He took one step out of the shower, struggling to balance his new 6’7 frame. He began stumbling out of the shower area and his fat ass jiggled behind him. His new big hairy tits swaying on his chest. He looked so hairy and fuckable.

Mark stumbled into the locker room, heading straight for the exit. He didn’t care that he was naked. He didn’t care his big fuckable ass was on show for everyone to see. He didn’t care his boner was swaying from side to side. He didn’t care that the bouncing of his new hairy fuckable tits was almost causing him to bust a nut all over the floor. He needed to escape. Now.

WHERE YOU GOING, FUCKTOY

Mark looked back to see the big hulking arab man who gave him the shampoo. It was humiliating having someone see him like this. He was exposed. But Mark knew he had to relatiate if he wanted to get out and find help.

“What have you done to me?! Let me go!” Mark screamed.

“Let you go?” the man furrowed his bushy brows. “You love being around me... don’t you remember?”

“What? No I don-”

YOU LOVE ME

YOU NEVER WANT TO LEAVE ME

YOU ARE MY ARAB BOYWIFE

The words sank deep into Mark’s head. Embedding themselves deep inside his subconscious. Mark grabbed his head. New memories began filling his mind. Memories of growing up in Egypt. Memories of falling in love and marrying his lifelong best friend, Omar. Memories of never getting a job. Memories of being a good submissive boywife filled his head. Mark... no... Ahmad looked up to see his husband standing in front of him. He then looked in the mirror, smiling at his appearance. He loved being Middle Eastern. He loved his heritage.

“Now, boywife. Are you done with your little tantrum?” Omar grinned at his husband.

“Yes, Master. I don’t know what I was thinking. I will make it up to you when we get home” Ahmad smiled adoringly at his loving husband.

“Yes you will” Omar lustfully stroked his husbands bouncy fuckable Arab ass.

“So get dressed now or I’ll fuck your jiggling bubble butt in front of the entire gym”

Ahmad put on his clothes and submissively followed his loving husband back home. Omar smirked at his new boiwife, forgetting that he had left the magic shampoo behind. The shampoo lay on the shower floor waiting to be used by some oblivious unknowing victim...

[azrerad]

The Breeder Curse - Part 1

[An update on a story originally written for CYOC, in a thread involving a gay man cursed to become straight and pass the curse along to other gay people. The original thread specifically involved homophobic insults passing the curse. I have retooled this to not be the case. And while it’s fun to play with straight and masc stereotypes in the context of a TF story, obviously gay conversion is immoral, impossible, and not something any story in this thread is advocating for in any way.]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Thomas cut through the crowd, fighting his way to the DJ platform. His friend Alicia has dragged him to this club, and he’d obliged on account of her recent breakup. Anything for a friend, you know? But she’d vanished into a corner with a hunky Latino guy half an hour ago, leaving Thomas stranded by the bar alone as usual. He tripped over a foot and hastily apologized to a drunk girl who was practically bent in half against some dude’s pelvis. She took notice and launched herself at him. He found himself surrounded by a noxious cloud of beer breath and bad perfume as he struggled to prop her up.

“Wanna hook up?” the girl said, adjusting her bra strap. “I dig chubby guys. They-“ she hiccupped. “They always work harder, if you know what I mean.” Thomas’ face went pale as he deposited the girl on the nearest bro’s crotch. He was into dudes, but even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have gone near that drunk mess in a thousand years. As he passed through the dancing, sweating bodies, jammed together like sardines, he tugged at the front of his shirt. What the girl had said had ignited his old insecurities and he didn’t like the feel of his shirt against his jiggling belly. Thomas wasn’t fat. He knew that. But he looked nothing like the bronzed Adonises bumping and grinding on the club floor.

Always a little too stocky, a little too freckly, Thomas felt like he looked like a Keebler elf after eating one too many fudge cookies. He was ashamed at how much the crowd of straight men turned him on. It only reminded him of everything he wasn’t. These thoughts were pushed from his mind as he finally reached the DJ stand.

Keep reading

[azrerad]

The Breeder Curse - Part 2

[An update on a story originally written for CYOC.

While it’s fun to play with straight and masc stereotypes in the context of a TF story, obviously gay conversion is immoral, impossible, and not something any story in this thread is advocating for in any way.]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Greg was woefully early to his Russian Cinema class. He had taken the afternoon bus to campus instead of the evening one so he could canvass the school and paper every surface with flyers for next week’s LGBT speed dating event. As social secretary for the GSA, he was disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to participate, but he was happy that he could spearhead the event for other lonely hearts on campus.

He tacked a flyer to the bulletin board in the classroom and sat down with an exhausted sigh. He was sweating bullets. Why oh why had he decided to do this on a day when it was ninety degrees outside? He pushed his sweaty blonde hair out of his eyes and opened his laptop. He’d accidentally left PhotoBooth open last night (he was trying and failing to take good Grindr pictures) and his screen filled with one of his less successful attempts. He’d always wished he looked something other than aggressively average. At least the awful spray tan that he’d gotten weeks ago was finally beginning to look like a healthy human color. Almost. All things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

He closed PhotoBooth and opened Reddit, trolling around online as the minutes passed. It was almost time for class when he noticed that he had a Facebook message. It was from Thomasl, the kid who started the GSA chapter on his school’s sister campus. Weird. All it said was “straight.”

Keep reading

[azrerad]

The Breeder Curse - Part 3

[An update on a story originally written for CYOC.

While it’s fun to play with straight and masc stereotypes in the context of a TF story, obviously gay conversion is immoral, impossible, and not something any story in this thread is advocating for in any way.]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The film had ended. His classmates were filing out the door. Grigoriy slouched along the familiar path to the international dormitory. On his way he passed room 613 of the student union. He paused speculatively.

Wasn’t that the room it said on the flyer? Where the gay dating event was supposed to be held tomorrow? He felt a strange compulsion to enter, which he didn’t fully understand. 

The door creaked open without protest. With a brief look around him, Grigoriy slipped into the room. He pulled the tip off an EXPO marker and scrawled the word STRAIGHT across the whiteboard in big, red Russian letters.

With that, he exited and resumed his walk to the dorm. On his way in, two Brazilian girls caught his eye and giggled. They invited him back to their room for some vodka and music. He was all too happy to join them.

Keep reading

[azrerad]

The Science Project

College wasn't hard enough when you look as young as I do. I'm a college student, but I look like I belong in a sophomore high school.

I was awarded a science scholarship due to my excellence and grades.

Before I accepted the scholarship to this college, I should read all the fine print.

In the fine print I was to assist a jock for an entire school year. Help him study do his homework and work on projects together. It was more like I was doing twice to work and he was just standing there looking pretty. This was going in for two years now.

This was the last project for the school year. It's where I bust my butt and he puts his name on it.

Fortunately another school offered me a scholarship so I thought here was my chance to make the most of it.

I had to put alot of thought in the science project. What should I say? Two different science projects.

The first one is the one I i turning with both our names in. The second one is my reward for all the hard work I've done through the school year with this jock.

Just like many times before he's not around. And I do all the work. I've pretty much have gotten used to it.

And what my friend did not know I already turned in our project I had a schedule.

Now for science project number two just for me.

I found Kyle walking across campus. Handsome blonde boy with an amazing body. I did all the hard work, so my goal is to get most of his hard work.

And as you can see, Kyle spends a lot of time in the gym.

It's only fair. He gets credit for my work I want credit from his.

I ran into him across campus and said "dude we got to finish this project together." You gotta help me with this one.

I need you to complete this project. It didn't take much to convince him that he should really take part in one project. Your name is going on it, and so you need to help me.

He met me in the basement of the science building. It was the second last day of school and boy, was he dumb enough to follow this.

I had him put on something like a two part wet suit.

I was wearing a similar outfit. He put on the pants. And then he zipped up the jacket. I connected wires to both of our suits. Running through this main controller box into computer.

I turned off majority of the lights in the room making it very dark. I started entering some information into the computer and he just sat there.

Come on dude, what's happening here?

I explained to him in a weird way so he wouldn't never understand. It's all a process of given take. Give you two whole year of my work with your name on it. It's not my turn to take.

I did hard work in one category. The payback is your hard work in another.

He was asking a hundred questions after that comment. But by then I hit the enter button on the keyboard.

A power surge started rushing through both our bodies. To him it was like a great force. It started draining him of all his hard work these past two years. I could hear him screaming.

I could feel the force at my own body building up. What was taken from him was added to me. But even exchange I gave him some of my old body in return

I could feel my muscles expanding and contracting bones cracking as I grew.

My entire body was a tingle. Feeling the surge pulsing through me. Every part to me that were not covered by the suit were feeling it. My head and face were all a tingle my feet everything.

I could hear Kyle screaming. I watched his body as he was shrinking down in size. It got to appoint where we both blacked out.

Since my body was full of new energy in life I was the first one to come too.

My experiment was complete success. I was completely transformed. I had his height and all his lean muscle. I age more handsomely than ever. I now looked my age.

You could say I finally hit puberty. Turning into the man that I was supposed to be at this age.

Kyle was out cold still. I removed all the science gear from him. And dress him in my old clothes.

A shell of his formal self, you could say. He was reduced in size in every way.

This kid was so dumb. He probably doesn't even notice that I stole his body pretty much. It looks like I sent him back to his sophomore year of high school if he didn't work out.

By the time everything settled down it was the last day of school. Everybody was in their rooms packing up and heading home.

I headed over to Kyle's room to get all his clothes and drop off mine.

I packed up my car and drove off campus never looking back.

During the summer I was offered a job at this medical science company. And I fit right in. You could say they were impressed with me. From my knowledge to the way I presented myself.

I still had 2 more years of college to finish and they were glad to have me aboard. As I took a spot as a summer intern.

I don't really know what happened to Kyle. It's like I really didn't care. That's school used me for 2 years just to advance one of their jocks. It looks good on paper.

All you know is i'm all set now. I changed colleges to finishing off my schooling. And I already had a job waiting for me.

I look at it this way. They tried to take all my hard work just to advance some dumb jock.

I just in return taken all of his hard work to advance myself. He got the best of me for those two years, my grades. I just took the best of him to advance myself.

[azrerad]

The Principal’s Solution

When Mr Everett was called into the principal’s office to have a one on one meeting, this was the last thing he’d been expecting. “You’re firing me!?”

“David that’s not what I’m—” Principal Bryant was cut off before he could finish.

“What is it? Budget cuts? Because I sure as hell know I haven’t done anything to warrant this? I’ve worked for this school for years! I’ve never even had so much as a sick day!” David rambled on justifiably. After all he couldn’t see a single reason why they wouldn’t want him working as an English teacher here anymore.

Finally however, the Principal put an end to David’s ranting. “Mr Everett! Listen to me! You are not fired! If you had let me finish I was going to say that you’ll be relieved of your current position so that you may take a new one.”

David was a little confused upon hearing this. “What… like a promotion?” He asked, prompting him to wonder if Mrs Freeman, the current head of the English department, had finally decided to retire after spending an eternity here.

“Sort of. Though it’s probably not what you’re imagining right now.” Principal Bryant sighed. “Look. As you know we’ve been low on gym teachers at the school for a while now and with Mr Riggs leaving at the end of next week we’ll be done to only one proper gym teacher. That’s why I’ve decided to move you from the English department over to the Gym department.”

“W-what??” This hadn’t been what David was expecting at all. Moving from English to teach Gym instead? “But sir I’m not a Gym teacher. I teach English! I can’t just switch!”

“Oh come on, of course you can. The English department has plenty of teachers and trainee’s already. I’m sure it’ll do just fine without you.”

David squinted over at Principal Bryant, not believing that his superior couldn’t see the very clear issue with this suggestion. “What?! No, I mean that I have absolutely no idea how to teach a gym class! Hell, I haven't picked up a ball since I was a student. How the hell do you expect me to teach a whole class??” He complained and rightly so. From his point of view this decision seemed completely illogical. “Surely there’s someone else far better suited for this!”

Principal Bryant simply smiled across his desk with a strange glint in his eye that David couldn’t decipher. “Don’t worry Mr Everett. I already have a plan that’ll help you get perfectly settled in with your new position. Soon it’ll be like you never taught English at all.” He chuckled, confusing David en further yet also slightly peaking his interest. “As for the reason I chose you specifically… well you’ve already said it yourself. You’ve never once taken a sick day and you’re always on schedule, if not ahead of it. That’s the kind of dedication I’m looking for in the Gym department.”

Before David had the chance to question his boss any further, Principal Bryant jumped up from his desk with a look on his face that was hard to describe. He seemed excited as whipped open one of the desk draws and pulled out a laptop. The Principal flipped the laptop open and began tapping away, occasionally glancing up at David with an almost lustful smirk. It was a look David had grown all too familiar with over the years. He’d suspected for a long time now that Principal Bryant had a thing for him but he’d never spoken up about it in case he had the wrong impression. But the look he’d received just now, the glint of desire in his boss’ eyes as he glanced up at him, was unmistakable.

“Sir I-” David was cut off before he could speak.

“Ah here it is!” Bryant exclaimed before quickly spinning the laptop so that it faced the couch David was sitting on. “Now Mr Everett. I know you might have some doubts and concerns about this change but this training video I’ve put together should be more than enough to ease your worries. Now if you just sit back and relax for me, we can get started!” He said with a reassuring yet somewhat devious smile.

Once again David hardly had any time to protest before his boss clicked play on the video before moving out of the way. What he was greeted with was a purple and gold hypnotic spiral spinning at a swift pace. Going round and round in fashion so captivating that David couldn’t bring himself to look away. The spiral was just so alluring, so gorgeous to look at that the rest of the world around him just seemed to fall away. He didn’t even take notice of the Principal sitting back at his desk to watch what was about to unfold firsthand.

After about 3 minutes or so a voice began speaking to David through the video…

*Welcome to your one way trip from being a regular ol’ English teacher to becoming a strong and confident Gym teacher that your students and colleagues alike can look up to! My name is Mr Wavell and I’ll be guiding you through this experience.*

The masculine voice spoke with a warm soothing tone which helped to relax David even further, readying his body and mind for what was to come.

*Now let’s get started shall we David? Of course, being an English teacher, you should already know that having the right education and qualifications for the job is essential for becoming a teacher in any area. So let’s get that sorted shall we?*

David didn’t even flinch at how this video seemed to be addressing him directly. He simply continued to focus on the voice as the spiral continued to swirl in a 3D like manner. As if it were reaching out to him and pushing inside his brain.

*Of course we’ve gotta make some room for all these new memories and experiences so…*

It would’ve been impossible to describe what exactly he was feeling right now. It was like something reaching deep into his mind and sifting through his memories until it found what it was looking for. David’s mouth hung open a little as any memories he had of learning English at an advanced level past high school and training to become and English teacher were yanked right out of his head, setting his knowledge of the subject back to a much more basic level.

*Annnnd now to replace them with the proper ones.*

One cue David could feel his mind being stuffed with new memories. Ones where he’d taken basic and later advanced classes in subjects like sports studies and physical education until eventually becoming certified to teach to Gym. Even though these memories were seemingly fabricated, they felt so incredibly real that David found it hard to tell the difference.

*Good! We’re already on the right track it seems. Now all that advanced English mumbo jumbo is gone, you’re already well on your way to becoming a great Gym teacher. But of course what good is all your new knowledge on teaching sports and physical health if you’re not practicing what you teach? Let’s change that shall we?*

More and more memories to push their way inside David’s brain. Forced out were his memories of reading in his spare time and going to book conventions, replaced by memories of him going to a football club and running around a field with a bunch of other dudes throwing a ball back and forth while tackling each other to the ground. He could’ve sworn he’d never been that keen on sports and yet he looked back on memories of kicking a soccer ball around with some mates in his free time very fondly. Suddenly he could recall having played tons of different sporting activities and having loved all of them! He would even watch sports on the TV late in the evening all the time. He couldn’t imagine why he thought for even a second that he didn’t like sports. It was his entire life!

Principal Bryan watched on in astonishment from behind his desk as these mental changes also began to take a rather physical effect on David as well. David had of course always been a rather average guy physically. Having very little muscle on his frame and a small belly. However that soon began to change as any fat on his body started melting away after countless hours of playing sports. In its place some lean muscle began to grow, giving him a physique that reflected great physical health and allowing the suit David was wearing to fit his body in a much more flattering way. Upon witnessing this little transformation, the Principal couldn’t help rubbing his bulge underneath the desk. Completely enthralled by what the video was doing to David.

*Good, good. You’re already looking more and more like a man who’s ready to coach a bunch of jocks. But surely a man like you spends a lot of his time working out in the gym as well right? Lifting weights, Drinking protein shakes. You must’ve put on some noticeable muscle from all that.*

David nodded along to everything he was hearing as he started to remember spending a fair bit of his free time at the gym so he could pump up his muscles, once again causing a ripple effect in the real world. His suit began to feel tighter by the second as his muscles grew even bigger, stretching the fabric of his button down and khaki pants. Biceps threatening to tear his sleeves, almost as much as his pecs threatened to pop the top buttons on his shirt. Thighs thickening into trunks of muscle while his ass swelled up until his pants looked as though they were painted on. Seeing this, the principal had already unzipped his own pants and was jerking over his employee’s transformation.

*That’s it… Looking like a proper example of physical health already. But let’s add a dash of extra manliness to the body of yours shall we? After all, as a coach you’ve also got to serve as a pillar of masculinity at the school for everyone to look up to.*

A shiver traveled across David’s entire body as the next change took place. The small amount of body hair he had before increased as the hair on his arms and legs multiplied. Spreading up across his stomach and chest until he had a thick pelt of manly hair covering his body. However this change was largely unseen by the two men, besides a little chest hair poking out of David’s collar, due to his suit. Though it was impossible to miss David’s sudden growth of facial hair right after, his short beard growing thicker than before! Principal Bryant had always thought David would look hotter with a beard and damn was he right. However there was one last change that the Principal only noticed when David started shifting uncomfortably in his chair a little. His bulge was growing bigger. David was trying to adjust himself because his cock and balls were growing fatter!

*Now how about you show off some of those new improvements to your boss? Take off that tight button down you’re wearing David. I just know a man like you must hate wearing suits anyway.*

“Yeah… I hate suits…” David muttered to himself before practically ripping his shirt open, popping a few of the buttons in the process. The Principal’s eyes bulged at the mere sight of it, getting to see David’s hairy muscular pecs on full display now. “What do you think sir?” He asked his boss in a very monotone yet noticeably deeper voice followed up by him flexing and bouncing his pecs a little.

Bryant hadn’t realised just how personalised this video had been made. He knew that Mr Wavell guy was good but he didn’t realise he was this good. “Y-yes Mr Everett. You look great! Better than great even. You’re so hairy and… just wow. You look even hotter than before!” He was lost for words. Hardly being able to believe the hairy stud before him was the same man he’d watched from afar ever since hiring him. He couldn’t stop jerking his cock under the desk like a perv, leaking pre-cum while David flexed his arms a little to show off his biceps and hairy pits.

*I have no doubt Mr Bryant is enjoying the show right now but we’ve still got a few more things to do David. Next we’ve got to fix those clothes of yours. After all, what kind of Gym teacher wears brown loafers and suit pants?*

David nodded along, agreeing with everything the voice was telling him as his clothes began to change. The aforementioned loafers were first to be affected. They rippled slightly as the colour began to change, lightening from brown to slightly dirty white as the fabric started to alter. Laces formed on the top while the soles of the shoes became more padded. Before long David adorned a fresh pair white sneakers while his long black socks shrunk away into worn white ankle socks.

During this Principal Bryant leaned over his desk a little to get a better look at what was going on. He would’ve been more surprised at sudden change in footwear had he not just witnessed David bulk up in front of his very eyes mere moments ago. Instead Bryant watched on in curiosity as even David himself looked down to watch as his black suit pants were about to undergo a change of their own.

The belt had already evaporated into thin air while the cotton fabric of the pants was amidst transitioning into polyester. The colour began lightening significantly while the pants legs retracted, showing off more of David’s hairy calves by the second. Soon enough they’d shortened all the way up above his knees, showing off a good portion of David’s strong manly legs, while having gone from being black to light grey. Finally leaving the man with a suitable pair of shorts for his new job.

Bryant figured that must’ve been it until he noticed the discarded button down shirt wriggling a little. Sewing itself together, retracting the sleeves completely and altering its colour like everything else until all that was left was a blue tank top.

*There we go! Now you really look the part. I’d say you’re pretty much ready for your position now! All that’s left is make sure your loyalty to this job also translates to your boss Mr Bryant.*

The Principal was surprised to hear that. He hadn’t asked Mr Wavell to add this part but he couldn’t say he didn’t like the sound of it! Meanwhile David was sat having more orders and memories pushed into his mind. Orders to always do exactly as Principal Bryant asks no matter what. To serve him loyally as both an employee and a boyfriend. To be either as submissive or dominant as Bryant wanted him to be. In turn, memories then also began surfacing of David having dated the Principal for over a year now with the two even living together.

*Perfect. Now nobody will bat an eye when they see the two of you together in public. And with that I think your training to become the perfect Gym teacher for this school is complete! Bigger, manlier, more confident and completely subservient to your boss and now partner. I’d say my work here is done wouldn’t you?*

David once again simply nodded along with everything the voice told him, completely entranced.

*Now, this video is going to end momentarily and when it does you’ll believe you’ve always been the way you are now. A hairy sports loving gym coach. And you’re going to love every second of it. Thank you for listening and I hope Mr Bryant back there is pleased with the progress we’ve made today.*

With that the spiral faded and the video finished. David blinked a few times in confusion, glancing around the office and down at himself, trying to recall why exactly he was here again. “Sir… why did you call me in here again? And why am I shirtless?” He wondered, reaching for the discarded tank top.

“Leave it off.” Bryant responded quickly and to his delight David didn’t even question the order. He simply tossed the tank top back on the couch beside him. “Now uhhhh… I called you to um… tell you how good of a job you’ve been doing recently! As one of our few gym teachers you really put the most into your lessons. It’s very inspiring.” He praised the shirtless hunk before him.

David smirked, getting up from the couch and taking a few steps closer to the desk. “Oh come on, you don’t need to butter me up. If you called me in here for some fun then you just say so.” He leaned over the desk, soon quirking an eyebrow as he noticed his boss jerking his cock under it. “Mmmm looks like you already started without me.”

Bryant’s face went bright red but David didn’t seem at all phased. If anything he seemed turned on judging by how he grabbed his crotch through his new gym shorts. God it was weird! David really did believe they were boyfriends now… and he should be completely subservient according to that video. “Haha yeah I just couldn’t help myself. You’re just such a hunk David. How about you uhhh… show me just how much of a hunk you are? Flex for me again and show me why exactly the two of us are together.” He suggested, testing the waters a little.

To the principal’s delight, David did exactly as he was told. He placed one hand on his hip before tossing the other arm up into a strong bicep flex, smirking cockily as he did. He extended his arm out a couple times before bringing it back in to really show how the muscle bulged and peaked. After which he proceeded to do the same with his other arm. Flexing the bulging muscle for his boyfriend without a care in the world. And once he’d finished with his arms he moved down to his chest, grabbing at his hairy pecs a little before bouncing them as well. Showing just how large and meaty they were. He even turned around and did a double bicep pose to really show off the muscle in his back as well. But the part that really made Principal Bryant drool was when David stuck his tongue out while pulling down the back of his shorts to reveal not only his furry ass but also the fact that his underwear had also morphed into a jockstrap! “This is all for you daddy. It might be my body but you own it.” David stated.

“Well in that case, why don’t you get over here so I can smell those sweaty pits of yours.” Bryant found himself growing more confident with his commands and once again David obeyed without question. Walking around his boss’ desk and kneeling down slightly before raising up one of his arms to reveal one of his hairy pits. The principal wasted no time, shoving his nose deep into that armpit before inhaling generously. The scent was strong and musky due to the sweat David had produced during his transformation. Pungent even. But Bryant fucking loved it! He’d been dreaming of sniffing David’s pits for ages and now that he had the chance they smelt even manlier than ever before! He pulled out of one pit before ordering David to show him the other one. The scent of them being just so intoxicating. And to think he’d be able to smell these pits whenever he wanted from now on! “Fuck those smell good… you’ll need to let me sniff them again when we get home later.” He pulled away from musky pits only to give David’s pecs a quick grope, loving how soft the hairy muscle could be when relaxed.

“Of course sir. My smelly pits are yours to sniff whenever you please. I’ll even jog home later to make myself even sweatier instead of driving back with you if you’d prefer that.” David suggested while Bryant ran his tongue along one of the hairy pits, tasting the delicious sweat.

“Now that’s an incredible idea. I want you to be as sweaty as possible.” Bryant confirmed with a devilish grin. “But right now I want you to get down on your knees and suck my cock.” He continued, now fully confident in the power he held over David while gesturing down at the hard, leaking cock that was sticking out of his suit pants.

David looked down at the cock and then back up at his boss. “Anything for you sir.” He smiled seductively as he lowered himself to his knees. Soon finding himself knelt between Bryant’s legs and facing a pulsing cock that was ready to be worshiped. David didn’t waste any time, licking up and down the shaft before eventually wrapping his lips around the shaft, glancing up at Bryant with his deep masculine eyes as he took over half of it down his throat right away. Hardly even gagging when Bryant grabbed the back of head and pushed it down even further. Simply sucking on the rather thick cock as best he could, occasionally pulling off with an audible pop before jerking it for a while until he was ready to go back down on it again. It wasn’t long before the new gym teacher was deep throating the principal’s cock as if it were made out of candy, his bearded chin periodically tapping against Bryant’s nuts.

“Fuuuuck you’re such a good cock sucker…” Principal Bryant grunted in satisfaction. “But I don’t wanna cum just yet.” He added before grabbing David’s head again pulling him off the cock, precum drooling from his mouth. “Now I want you to show me just how much of a slut you are by pulling down those shorts, bending over my desk, and presenting that hairy ass to me.” He commanded with nothing but pure desire in his eyes.

David did just that, standing up and pulling down his shorts, briefly showing off the tent in his jockstrap created by his erection, before bending over the desk in front of his boss, displaying his thick hairy ass in all its glory to the other man. “How’s this sir? Like what you see?” He teased, waving his ass back and forth seductively.

Bryant didn’t even respond. His mouth went dry as his cock pulsed unbelievably hard. He almost couldn’t believe this was happening. And yet when he reached a hand out, the manly ass it rested on was most certainly real. He ran both hands across the two globes in wonder before pulling them apart slightly to get a look at David’s hole. Bryant found his face being drawn to it, slowly inching closer until he couldn’t help himself any more, stuffing his face between two hairy cheeks while internally thanking Mr Wavell for making this a reality.

The new gym teacher chuckled as his boyfriend and boss enjoyed his hole, eating it out eagerly. His enlarged cock bucking inside the jockstrap pouch under the desk as he felt Bryant’s tongue exploring inside his ass, tasting it with a seemingly insatiable hunger. David could tell the principal was really starting to get into now by the way he was smacking David’s furry ass cheeks.

Despite how much he was enjoying eating his new gym teacher boyfriend's ass, Bryant couldn’t ignore the calls of his dick any longer. After getting one last lick in, he stood up straight and looked down at the man bent over his desk with glee. This had been his dream ever since he first saw David and now he got to experience it with an upgraded version of the man. He rubbed his wet cock against the prepped hole, teasing the entrance with his tip.

Bryant looked around his office, checking that the door was locked and all the blinds were closed before grinning, knowing just how soundproof the room was. “Now. I’m gonna shove my cock up your ass and when I do you'll start moaning like cock hungry slut. Begging me to fuck like a submissive bottom who needs filling.” He instructed with a sinister smile.

“Yes sirrrOoooOOHHH FUUUUU-” David moaned out loudly in his deepened voice, hardly getting a chance to finish his response before getting speared by Bryant’s hungry dick. The principal didn’t go easy on him either, stuffing almost his entire length inside at once. “Fuck yeah sir!! Give me all that cock!” He shouted in response while Bryant started to pump in and out slowly. “Ohhh yeah I need it so badly! Keep going!” He begged.

Hearing a guy as manly as David was now begging to get his hairy hole fucked had always been one of David’s biggest fantasies and it definitely showed. He wanted to go slow but the more David moaned the more he couldn’t help picking up the pace. Slamming his cock in deeper, harder and faster with every thrust only to be met with even more slutty moans from the new gym teacher. “Yeah? You like that bitch? Mmmm fuck! Take my dick!” He responded while grabbing onto David’s hips firmly, allowing him to go balls deep with every thrust much to the other man’s delight.

“Mmmmmm yess sirrrr ooohhhhhhh yesss! Please… fill me with you load! I need it inside me!” David groaned in ecstasy as his prostate was slammed into over and over, causing his own cock to dribble excessively, dampening his jock. “Fuuuck! I need your cum so badly!” He squeezed his hole around Bryant’s member as best he could, enticing his boss to spill his load inside.

Fortunately for David, thanks to how horny Bryant was, it seemed he’d be getting his wish sooner rather than later. The principal kept up a strong, fast pace for a good while but finally the pleasure was starting to spike. His balls starting the churn as they prepared themselves. “Oh god…” He grunted, thrusts suddenly becoming less rhythmic. “Nrghh-fuck! I’m gonna… FUUUUUCCKKK!” Bryant roared as his cock exploded with one of the biggest loads he’d ever shot. Draining his balls completely inside the big manly ass before him.

“Yesssss! Give it all to me sir!” David moaned like the submissive slut that he was right now, simultaneously blowing his own load. Completely drenching his jockstrap as thick globs of cum forced their way through the fabric before dripping heavily onto the carpet below.

The two panted heavily for a moment after such an experience. Taking in everything that had just happened. David winced slightly as he felt Bryant slowly pulling his cock back until it flopped out, wet with cum and saliva. Bryant stood up straight again and looked down, admiring what he had before him. It really was a miracle.

“Alright, stand up properly for me David.” The Principal ordered and of course his slutty gym teacher boyfriend did exactly that. “Now turn around for me so I can get a good look at the mess you’ve made…” he smirked, licking his lips as he saw David’s cum covered pouch. He knelt down until he was eye level with the jockstrap before wrapping his mouth around the bulge. David’s cum tasted just as good as he’d hoped. Deliciously salty as he licked and sucked on the bulge. “Damn these balls of yours really know how to produce some amazing cum…” he complimented.

“Thank you sir…” David panted, still a little worn out. Yet he couldn’t stop a grunt from escaping his lips as Bryant squeezed his balls playfully.

With that Principal Bryant jumped back up onto his feet with a content smile on his face. As he did he grabbed the grey shorts that hung around David’s ankles and yanked them all the way back up over David’s crotch and ass. “There you go. Now I want you to go about the rest of your day with my load in your ass. Just imagine that my cum is fuel that keeps you going.” He smirked before giving David’s hairy bubble butt a hefty smack.

“Of course sir! I won’t spill a drop!” David claimed boldly before glancing over at the clock. “Well it looks like lunch is almost over. Guess I’d better start getting ready for my next class. I’ve got some students today that are just as eager about football as I am hahaha!” He chuckled.

“Well you’d better head off then Coach Everett. Wouldn’t want to keep the students waiting now would you?” Bryant smirked while stuffing his cock away in his suit pants again.

“Absolutely not!” David began making his way towards the door, grabbing his tank top and slipping it on over his head. “Well I’ll see you tonight babe after my sweaty jog home.”

“Can’t wait. And maybe tonight I’ll let you be the dominant one instead…”

David unlocked the door and pulled it open. “I like the sound of that.” And with that David took his leave, heading for the gym teacher offices as if he’d always worked down there. Not a single memory of ever being an English teacher left.

Now alone, the Principal found himself punching the air in excitement. This was better than anything he could’ve ever asked for! He’d have to thank Mr Wavell if he ever saw him again because he really went above and beyond. He couldn’t help but wonder what other sexual fantasies he could play out with David in the near future…

———

Little did Bryant know that Wavell had been present the whole time being the pervy warlock he was. Having watched everything that went down from the transformation to the sex. He had a fair reason of wanting to see if the experimental magic infused video he’d given to Bryant worked properly. “Seems everything went smoothly this time. Complete override of specific aspects of the subjects reality. Intensity of transformation magic perfectly balanced. Subject didn’t accidentally turn into a massive muscle giant hardly capable of moving nor is he aware of his former life. Seems like I’ve found the correct formula for these transformation videos.” Wavell muttered to himself…

[azrerad]

New Crew

Another busy morning in Austin, Texas, with commuters rushing to get to the office with what little time they have left. Among them is Joseph, a successful salesman, on the usual route to his high-rise office. Joseph prides himself on his degree of sophistication and elegance, dressed in a tailored suit and strolling confidently with his expensive coffee cup in hand, savoring every sip of the meticulously crafted and smooth brew. The breeze dances down the street and weaves in between the buildings, giving Joseph some respite from the heat but also threatening to knock a few hairs out of place.

Along his path, he spots a new construction site. “Probably another hotel,” he thinks to himself. As he approaches the site, the sounds get louder; the sharp strikes of a jackhammer breaking up concrete and men yelling at each in Spanish isn’t exactly what Joseph wants to hear at 8:45 in the morning. Annoyed, he continues walking, noticing the group of laborers hard at work, sweat glistening on their foreheads as they dig and hammer away. Wearing ear protection and on a tight timeline to finish the project, the workers are mostly oblivious to their surroundings and laser focused on the job.

Among the workers is a young Latino construction worker, who happens to be shoveling dirt right alongside the path Joseph is walking. Engrossed in his task, the worker unintentionally swings a shovel full of dirt right in Joseph's direction, and the passing breeze picks up the dirt, smattering Joseph's tailored suit and white button up brown.

Fuming with anger and nearly late for work, Joseph halts abruptly, his eyes narrowing as he confronts the worker responsible. "Hey! Watch where you're aiming that thing!" he snaps, his frustration evident in his tone.

As Joseph reprimands the worker and disregards his apology, he can't help but notice an older burly Latino worker watching him intently from a distance. The man's dark eyes seemed to bore into Joseph's soul, an intensity that unsettles him. Hearing warning bells in his head, Joseph brushes off the dirt as best as he can and tries to continue on his way.

However, the burly worker has other plans. As Joseph approaches, and with a sudden movement, he steps into Joseph's path, blocking his way. "Excuse me," Joseph huffs, attempting to sidestep the man and continue on his way. However, before he can take even another step, the man's hand shoots out and firmly grips Joseph's arm, pulling him back. Joseph tries to shake free, but the worker's grip on his arm is firm, and before he can react, a white hard hat, like the entirety of the construction crew is wearing, is placed forcefully on his head. Confusion and panic washes over Joseph as he staggers back, his vision blurring, and his surroundings spinning like a chaotic whirlwind.

Dizzy and disoriented, Joseph's heart pounds in his chest as he hunches over, trying to steady himself. He can feel something inexplicably changing within him, a sensation he can't comprehend or control.

Though his vision comes in and out of focus, Joseph swears he sees his suit jacket shimmer in the light, there one moment and gone the next. He starts to feel the breeze on his arms, and he can see the white of his button up retracting up his arms, eventually settling into the form of a tank top, the material changing next into a thin, ribbed material rife with splotches of dirt. His creased slacks ripple, transforming into dirty and stiff blue jeans, and his polished dress shoes morph into worn-out work boots, the leather going from delicate to thick and protective.

The breeze he felt earlier as a mere annoyance now feels different, beating against his bare arms as they pack on muscle: His shoulders broaden under the straps of the tank, his once slender frame being sculpted anew. Veins snake down his arms as his biceps and triceps grow in prominence, giving his newly burly arms an enviable sculpted and rounded appearance.

Under the jeans, his legs follow suit. His calves explode with growth, going from their thin and unremarkable lankiness to two solid columns of muscle. At the same time, his thighs pack on muscle. Still hunched over and steadying himself, he feels his quads bulge against his skin, the well-defined muscles able to be seen with every movement of Joseph's legs.

Still planted on his thighs, Joseph's hands, once soft and manicured, roughen and callous from years of manual labor. He can feel his body continue to change, bulking up with newfound strength and stamina. His chest expands, pecs forming two solid mounds of muscle, and his stomach ripples as his abs emerge from under what used to be a slightly overweight physique caused by years of sitting at a desk.

His skin darkens from its pallid shade to a rich bronze, matching that of his new coworkers. His lips plumpen, and his once blue eyes turn a deep, warm brown in a matter of blinks. As his eyes darken, so does his hair, going from chestnut to black and beginning to retract into his head. The tugging sensation continues until Joseph is left with a utilitarian buzzcut, the bristles tickling against the hard hat. The tickling sensation continues as stubble emerges along his newly chiseled jawline. The transformation spread like wildfire, reshaping his very identity, and with it, his thoughts as well. The panicked thoughts rushing through his mind in English suddenly shift to Spanish—his former mother tongue gone in an instant.

As the metamorphosis comes to an end, Joseph straightens up, taking in his new form with a mix of shock and disbelief. He was no longer the lanky and somewhat soft salesman he once was, but a burly and solid Latino construction worker, akin to those who surrounded him.

"Qué me hiciste?" (What did you do to me?) Joseph asks in Spanish, his voice now unfamiliar to his own ears.

The burly worker who had placed the hard hat on his head chuckles heartily and calls over the rest of the crew to greet their new member. As the men approach, Joseph wants to run, to escape this place and this life that seems to be forcing itself on him, but his body doesn't move. As each worker shakes his hand and gave him a warm pat on the back, Joseph feels his old life slipping away, his memories fading like a distant dream. By the final pat on the back, he can only remember his new life as if it had always been his reality.

With the rest of the crew heading back to their tasks, Joseph stands there, his muscular frame seemingly suspended in air, the only movement his massive chest rising and falling. Inside, his mind is working to thread everything together: his life, his family, his job, his name. The burly man returns, shovel in hand. He smacks Joseph on the helmet lightly, snapping the man out of his daze.

"José, el descanso ha terminado, vuelve al trabajo." (José, break's over, back to work)

José.

"Dale," (Okay) José says as he takes the shovel from his boss, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his other hand. He joins his coworker, Miguel, in digging out the foundation near the sidewalk, the stream of commuters finally starting to thin. As he scoops his first shovelful of dirt, he notices a man wearing a nice-looking navy suit and tie approaching. José is careful to toss the dirt low to the ground, avoiding it potentially getting caught by the wind. He nods at the man as he passes, who responds with a soft smile before refocusing on his stride.

[azrerad]

[azrerad]

[azrerad]

Being gay is hard. Why do straight douchebags like Matt Rife and Jake Paul get all the fame and glory? I wish I could be like them, or worse then I'd have all the fame and glory for sure.

Be Careful...

Suddenly you found yourself snapping pics of your nearly naked body and posting to social media, just enough to tease the ladies and get them to subscribe to your only fans site where you'd share dick pics while padding your account with lots of cash. You in fact would never engage with your bustling female audience instead hang with your douchebag friends and make videos playing grab ass and talking about how you love the way the ladies drool over you. You become the hottest Ass on the internet with an amazing ass that you tease the world with. You begin to build a brand and become rich and famous all off your looks, no talent, just a greasy douche who uses his fans, until you turn 30 and suddenly it all comes crashing down and your role as a ladies wet dream comes crashing down when your filmed being the bottom bitch to a famous leather master. Suddenly your female fans vanish, though your gay fans increase it's not enough to make up for the loss. You end up broke, no followers, no more influence.

You become masters permanent fuck boy. And sure like your heroes for a time you were famous and rich, the douche in you ends up betraying you and you end up locked in leather with a dildo permanently in your ass, thinking of what you lost. They're all one dark secret away from loosing it all.

[azrerad]

Trick or twink

Belated Halloween Story. Same story, two different endings

Dylan adjusted the ruffled edges of his pastel pink Prince Peach costume, the satin fabric shimmering under the soft glow of the streetlights as he made his way to Samantha's apartment. He could already feel the energy of the Halloween parade bubbling up in his veins, a mix of excitement and the thrill of being the cutest prince in town. His day as a social media manager had been long, filled with scrolling through endless memes and celebrity gossip—each post an escape from the mundane. But tonight, all that mattered was the parade and the company of his best friend. He knocked on Samantha's door, the familiar rhythm of their friendship echoing in the hallway. It swung open to reveal her, a vision of dramatic flair in her witch costume, complete with a towering hat and a swirling cape. But instead of the anticipated excitement, her eyes were puffy and red, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“He broke up with me, Dyl” she wailed, her voice a high-pitched symphony of heartbreak. Dylan’s heart sank, momentarily eclipsing his costume joy.

“Oh, babe,” he cooed, stepping inside and pulling her into a tight hug. “That sucks. But honestly, let’s just get plastered tonight and find some hotties to take home!” Samantha sniffled, trying to compose herself but failing miserably. “If only I could cast a spell and bring him back,” she lamented, the drama of her witch persona colliding with the rawness of her heartbreak. Dylan stepped back, a smirk dancing on his lips despite the situation. “Sweetheart, you know spells are for amateurs. Let’s conjure up some cocktails instead. A little liquid magic never hurt anyone!” He gestured flamboyantly, his wig catching the light like a halo. Samantha wiped her tears with the back of her hand, a reluctant smile breaking through her frown. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But I really thought he was the one.” “He was a total asshole and you know it. I never understood straight dudes. Honey, you deserve a king, not some peasant who can’t handle your fabulousness!” Dylan declared, his voice a melodious mix of sincerity and sass. “Besides, you have me, your loyal prince, to distract you from that heartbreak. Now, where’s the wine?” With a dramatic flourish, she led him to the kitchen, where the aroma of brewing potions—read: cheap wine and cocktail mixers—filled the air. “Let’s make this a Halloween to remember, even if it’s not exactly how we planned,” Dylan said, raising his glass in a toast. Samantha’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as a wicked smile spread across her face, transforming her tear-streaked visage into something delightfully sinister. “You know,” she said, a conspiratorial tone lacing her words, “maybe I do have a spell or two up my sleeve after all.”

With a dramatic twirl of her cape, she strode confidently toward the other room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor like a witch’s cackle. The anticipation in the air shifted as Dylan watched her go, intrigued by the sudden surge of her energy. When she returned, she held the grimoire aloft like a trophy. The book was bound in black faux leather, embossed with intricate silver designs that shimmered in the light. “Behold!” she declared, flipping it open with flair, the pages whispering secrets of ancient spells and enchantments.

Samantha flipped through the pages of her grimoire, her excitement palpable as she searched for the perfect spell. As she landed on a particularly ornate page, her eyes widened in astonishment. “Dylan, I think I found it!” she exclaimed, her voice rising with thrill.

Samantha flipped through the pages of her grimoire, the musty smell of old paper mixing with the sweet scent of the cheap wine they’d been drinking. Her fingers danced over the text, the excitement building as she searched for the perfect spell. “Come on, come on,” she muttered under her breath, a flicker of hope sparking in her chest. She paused, eyes widening as she spotted a particularly ornate page.

“Is it the one that makes perfect boyfriends?” he asked, leaning in closer, curiosity piqued.

“Yes! Just listen to this.” She cleared her throat dramatically and began to read the spell aloud. “Oh, hear me now, powers that be, bring forth a love that’s meant for me!” But as she continued, her confidence faltered, the rhythm of the words tripping over her tongue. “Uh, with charm and wit and—um, oh wait, what was that next part?”

Dylan watched, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You’re really nailing this,” he teased.

“Shut up! I’m trying!” Samantha huffed, but her laughter only made her stumble further. “Uh, for all to see and for—uh, to set him free?” Her voice grew more uncertain, and the words twisted and blurred together until, with a final fumble, she mispronounced the last line.

Silence hung in the air, and nothing happened. Dylan’s shoulders relaxed a bit, a glimmer of relief crossing his features. “See? No harm done.”

But just then, he felt a tickle in his throat. He coughed, the sound nasally and awkward. “Ugh, what is happening?” He glanced around, confusion painting his face as his vision began to blur. He blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the growing fog in his head.

Suddenly, he realized he was getting shorter. “Samantha!” he shouted, but his voice came out high-pitched and obnoxious, thick with nasally. “What did you do to me?”

Before his eyes, he saw his reflection in the kitchen window, and he gasped in horror as his height dwindled to barely 5'4". The chiseled edges of his body softened, his abs disappearing beneath his costume, the defined twink biceps rendered into nothing. Dylan’s body took on an increasingly exaggerated form, each change more pronounced and comically awkward than the last. His limbs elongated, stretching like taffy pulled too thin, leaving him with arms and legs that seemed almost too long for his newly diminutive stature. His once-toned physique melted away, morphing into a spindly frame that looked like it might topple over with a gust of wind.

His posture sagged, shoulders hunched in a way that suggested he’d spent countless hours glued to a screen, furiously gaming or scrolling through memes. It was as if he’d been molded from a caricature, complete with a slouch that screamed, “I’d rather be at home in my pajamas!”

The transformation didn't stop there. His face became a chaotic canvas—a patchwork of features that seemed to have been hastily assembled. His nose, once perfectly proportioned, now jutted out prominently, almost like a signal to the world that he was the quintessential “awkward nerd.” His ears stuck out like a pair of eager spectators, straining to catch every word of the bizarre spectacle unfolding.

His skin turned a ghostly pale, a stark contrast to the vibrant costume he once wore. It was dotted with blemishes that seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder of his new identity. The oversized glasses that materialized on his face magnified his wide-eyed expression, amplifying his bewilderment to comedic levels. “This is a disaster!” he squeaked, adjusting the frames nervously, but they only slid further down his nose, adding to his clumsiness.

As he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window, the full horror of his transformation settled in. His once-defined jawline had disappeared, replaced by a soft, round chin that seemed to bemoan the loss of his former self. His hair, which had previously been styled to perfection, now lay in a messy mop of unkempt locks that screamed “I forgot to shower for a week.”

Dylan’s clothing shifted to reflect his new persona, morphing into a wrinkled graphic tee emblazoned with some obscure Doctor Who reference that nobody else would understand, paired with cargo shorts that hung limply from his spindly hips, showcasing his unfortunate lack of style. The shirt, riddled with snack stains, draped awkwardly over his thin frame, as if it were borrowed from a sibling who had long outgrown it.

His arms, once muscular and defined, were now mere twigs, lacking any semblance of muscle. Each gesture he made was a frantic, over-the-top flail, as if he were trying to convince the world of his presence through sheer enthusiasm. His fingers, now stained from late-night gaming snacks, twitched nervously, fidgeting with the glasses that felt like they were trying to escape his face.

His abdomen flattened out, taking on a sunken quality that gave him a slightly bird-like appearance, while the echo of his old charm faded into oblivion. He began to grumble about his diet of energy drinks and instant noodles, convinced that it somehow gave him an edge in the digital realm. “I swear, my strategies are genius! You just don’t understand!” he protested, a hint of entitlement creeping into his nasally voice.

Overall, he exuded an aura of misplaced bravado, half-embarrassed yet defiantly clinging to the remnants of his former self. He was a walking contradiction—awkward and obnoxious, both endearing and pitiful, navigating the absurdity of his new reality with a chip on his shoulder and a profound misunderstanding of just how far he’d fallen from his prince-like status.

“Dylan, what’s happening?” Samantha exclaimed, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and amusement.

“Don’t ask me! I’m a—ugh—human coat rack now!” he wailed, flailing his spindly arms in a frantic gesture. His fingers bore traces of snacks, stained from late-night gaming sessions, and his demeanor shifted from charming to oddly pitiful.

His abdomen flattened, taking on a slight bird-like quality, and he started to mumble about his diet of energy drinks and instant noodles. “This can’t be happening! I’m supposed to be a prince, not a—whatever this is!”

Samantha struggled to suppress her laughter, though concern flickered in her eyes. “What did we do wrong?”

“I don’t know!” he wailed, a mix of frustration and entitlement bubbling beneath the surface. “I’m still the same genius! Just because I look like a—like a—”

“Like a normie nerd?” she interjected, giggling despite herself.

“Shut up! This is not funny!” he snapped, a mixture of annoyance and disbelief in his now awkwardly thin frame. His body had fully transformed, each feature exaggerated and ridiculous, the transformation cementing his new identity as a walking punchline.

“Okay, okay! We need to reverse this!” Samantha said, flipping through her grimoire again, determination igniting her eyes. “Just hold on, I’m sure there’s a way to fix this!”

But deep down, amidst the chaos and confusion, Dylan couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope—perhaps, just maybe, this spell might lead to a wild, unexpected adventure after all. That's right---He was always obsessed with stuff like Spider-Man comics and obscure Doctor Who trivia. These interests started to warp and mix together in his sick, twisted mind. Suddenly, he began seeing the world through a lens that said women were inferior, unworthy of respect.

In his mind, he was genius----and he should be treated with damn respect, a master strategist whose intellect eclipsed the average person’s understanding. “Sure, I might look like a walking cliché,” he mused, adjusting his oversized glasses with a flourish, “but I’m the one who knows the intricacies of quantum physics and can quote every line from Doctor who.” His smugness radiated from him, a defensive mechanism against the chaos of his new reality.

Dylan took immense pride in his hobbies, each one a badge of honor that he wore like a crown. His passion for video games was unmatched, and he often claimed that his skills in competitive online arenas placed him in a league far beyond the “normies” who merely dabbled in casual gaming. “While they’re busy grinding through level one, I’m mastering the art of the speedrun,” he’d often brag, his voice dripping with condescension. “I mean, who else can achieve a sub-three-hour time on Legend of Zelda?”

His collection of vintage comic books and rare action figures wasn’t just a hobby; it was a testament to his refined taste. “You wouldn’t understand,” he’d say with a dismissive wave, as if the very notion of appreciating such art was a mark of sophistication that only he possessed. “These aren’t just collectibles—they’re historical artifacts that represent the evolution of storytelling!”

In his warped perception, he believed men should be in charge, dictating terms to women. His sick fantasies took root, seeping into his psyche and manifesting in his toxic online presence. He began posting long, rambling rants belittling women and woke culture alike. Each word dripped with disdain and condescension as he spouted off random facts and comic book references to "prove" his superiority. His messages were exhausting and obnoxious, full of self-aggrandizement.

As Dylan's warped perspective solidified, the sickening realization hit him. The memories of sleeping with other men vanished like a bad dream. His disgust for the mere notion of intimate contact with males washed over him, leaving him feeling filthy and pathetic. The idea of a man touching him was utterly revolting now. But something else nagged at the back of his mind...

Memories of attending gay pride parades and protests against LGBTQ+ rights slowly resurfaced, making him cringe. He remembered how he used to despise those communities, viewing their lifestyles as depraved and unnatural. The shame and self-loathing came rushing back. In the midst of this inner turmoil, a new sensation crept over Dylan. Unbidden, his gaze locked onto Samantha, the pretty brunette who had been flirting with him all week. Her soft curves and innocent smile stirred something deep inside him. A hunger, a need.

With trembling hands, Dylan dug through his pockets, rummaging until he found a thick wad of cash. He stared at the bills, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Here, take it," he growled, thrusting the money at Samantha. "I bet a slut like you knows what to do with it."

As she picked up the cash, Dylan's mind flashed back to his old life - the countless nights spent hunched over computers, lost in his latest RPG or anime obsession. The friends who mocked his lack of social skills, calling him a pathetic virgin. Tears of humiliation pricked the corners of his eyes, but he blinked them away angrily.

Dylan's mind warped and twisted, memories of his past life resurfacing like a bad dream. He saw himself as Eugene, a nerdy loser with delusions of grandeur. In his warped recollection, he had gone to college for game design, convinced he was destined to create masterpieces that would win countless awards. Women would fall at his feet, captivated by his brilliance and charm.

But beneath the surface, Eugene was an entitled, obnoxious prick. He looked down upon anyone who didn't share his interests, especially women. He would mock their intelligence, belittle their accomplishments, and reduce them to nothing more than sexual conquests. In his warped mind, he believed he was God's gift to women, tasked with enlightening them with his superior intellect. Now, as Eugene stood before Samantha, his gaze raked over her body with a predatory gleam.

[azrerad]

White (Trash) Christmas

Andy sat hunched at the bar, his head heavy with the weight of a year that felt like it had crushed him at every turn. The jarring, repetitive beat of Last Christmas played overhead, the same song that seemed to haunt him each holiday season—like a soundtrack to his failures. His eyes, sunken from too many sleepless nights and too many rejections, stared blankly into his half-empty Cosmo, the pink liquid swirling in the glass as though mocking him. The glimmer of the holiday lights outside was no comfort, just a cruel reminder that the world kept turning while he stayed stuck in place.

The year had been brutal, 2024 a series of missed opportunities and cracked dreams. He'd gone through auditions like a man grasping for air, each one more soul-crushing than the last. Even the glitzy facade of Hollywood seemed indifferent to his struggles. He couldn't land anything substantial. A guest role here, an uncredited bit part there. He’d been a twink once, or at least that was how he’d been cast in his younger, leaner days—a bit of eye candy for the late-night TV crowd. But now? Now, he was just another actor on the verge of obscurity. With Trump on the brink of returning to the White House, it felt like the universe had been siphoning every ounce of hope from his veins.

His hand tightened around the glass for a moment, but then he relaxed, looking down at the drink in his hand. He couldn't let this be the end of it, could he?

In the silence, he made a wish, almost inaudible, a quiet promise to himself. "I wish next year would be the best year ever for me. I want a Christmas to remember."

He didn't believe it for a second. But somehow, in that moment, the words felt like a lifeline, a flicker of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time—hope.

He dragged the rim of his glass, sipping cautiously. It was a Cosmo, but it didn’t taste like one. The bitterness settled on his tongue, heavy and foreign. A strange aftertaste lingered, sour in a way that made him wince. The weight of the glass felt wrong in his hand—like it wasn’t meant for someone like him. He paused, squinting at it, then spat out the sip with a curse. He leaned over the counter, mouth twisting in disgust.

"Ugh," he groaned to himself, staring at the glass. "What the hell is this?"

It was then that he realized: he'd been drinking some watered-down, cheap beer. His Cosmo had been swapped out somewhere along the way.

"Great," he muttered, the sarcasm thick in his voice. But just as quickly, a smirk crept across his lips, a fleeting moment of amusement that caught him off guard. "Dang, that's got a kick to it."

As the liquid slipped down his throat, he felt an odd warmth begin to spread through his body—at first subtle, like a low hum beneath the skin. But it didn’t take long for that warmth to bloom into something far more intense, as though his muscles were responding to the strange concoction inside him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his body began to shift. His once-soft, slightly pudgy form seemed to retract, his waistline drawing in, the faintest hint of muscle beginning to line his abdomen. His fingers tingled, then his forearms, before a subtle tightness grew around his shoulders. A slight discomfort in his back, followed by a slow, crackling sound, made him tense. It was as if his body was re-arranging itself, tightening, reshaping, each inch of his skin reacting to the strange forces surging through him.

His legs twitched under the table, and he watched, eyes wide, as his quads began to firm up, growing visibly defined under his jeans. His calves, once lanky and lean, bulged beneath his pants, the muscles straining against the fabric. A strange sensation shot through his chest. His shirt, already tight, seemed to grow tighter still. His pecs tightened, pushing out against the seams, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut as his chest expanded in real-time. His arms bulged as his biceps swelled with new definition, veins popping out in intricate patterns as his body continued to morph.

But it was his face that shifted most dramatically. His features—soft and youthful, marked by the innocent roundness of a former twink—began to tighten and sharpen. The smoothness around his jawline began to harden, the edges of his face chiseled with sudden definition. His once full cheeks thinned out as his jaw squared, becoming more pronounced, his lips pressing into a permanent grimace of self-assured masculinity. The stubble on his chin thickened, darkened, growing out to a stubbly, day-old beard. His neck, already starting to thicken, stretched out, thicker and more muscled, struggling to fit inside the collar of his shirt.

As his body grew, so did his presence—his muscles expanding with an almost unnatural speed, pushing past the limits of his old frame. He could feel his shoulders expanding, his arms thickening, his chest pressing against the tight fabric of his shirt until it seemed ready to tear. He couldn't help but glance down at his hands as they thickened, the veins popping up like cords under his skin, his fingers growing broader, the nails taking on a rougher, more utilitarian shape. His feet felt too big now, his shoes tight and uncomfortable as his calves tightened further, muscles straining against the fabric of his jeans. His posture had changed, no longer slouched, but upright and rigid, as though the weight of his new form was demanding respect.

And all the while, his mind—still clouded by the weight of the beer—stayed strangely quiet. He was aware of the changes, of course, aware of the sensation of power, of strength, coiling inside him like a tightening spring. But he didn’t question it. He didn’t care to. His mind remained simple, just as his body was becoming—he was bigger, stronger, better. He was no longer just a failed actor, no longer just some twink caught in a faded dream of youth. He was something else entirely now, something that demanded attention. Something that belonged.

He leaned back in his chair, muscles straining, the chair groaning beneath him. The weight of his new body was suffocating—he could feel it in the tightness of his clothes, the tension in his arms and chest—but there was something thrilling about it. A raw, primal energy surged through him, overpowering his thoughts. His eyes scanned the bar, already sizing up everyone around him. The bro that he’d become—huge, imposing, raw—looked back at him from the reflection in the bar’s window. The subtle twist of a smile crept onto his lips. It wasn’t a happy smile, not by any means.

As Andy sat there, his mind, once sharp with ambition, began to slow. It was as though a thick fog was rolling in, clouding his thoughts, dulling his past. His memories—those of acting school, of youthful passion for the craft, of friends he once considered family—began to fade, slipping away like sand through his fingers. Each time he tried to grasp onto them, they seemed to evaporate, growing more distant, less relevant.

He tried to think back to those days—auditions where he had given everything, long nights with friends, the joy of performing. But the images of him in that artful world—worn-down rehearsal rooms, the excitement of a new play, the heartbreak of missed opportunities—began to dissolve. Then came the pride parades, where he had marched proudly with rainbow flags, and the thrill of being a part of something larger than himself. But these memories began to flicker out too, like the last embers of a fire, the bright colors fading to dull grays. He couldn't quite recall the feeling of community anymore—the sense of belonging among a group of people that once felt like family.

Instead, the quiet hum of the dive bar around him seemed to start seeping into his soul. A faint pull, like gravity, was dragging him into something darker, something more primal. He felt the lingering tension in his muscles, but now, it wasn’t just from his body transforming—it was the changing of his entire mindset, his identity.

Memories from his childhood in Florida began to bubble up, unbidden, taking root in his mind like weeds in an overgrown yard. His old trailer park, dingy and smelly, started to rise in vivid detail—rusted trailers, crumbling driveways, the stale, suffocating heat of summer. The picture of his life in that little place, tucked away behind a low-income neighborhood, settled in like a weight on his chest. The people he had grown up around—their accents thick with drawls, their rough, sun-weathered faces, their cheap beers and backyard barbecues—started to feel like the real him.

His mother’s voice, ragged and sharp from years of chain-smoking, calling him to dinner in their cramped kitchen, sounded like it was playing in his head. He remembered the fights with his father, the way his old man would sit in a recliner with a beer in hand, eyes glazed over, watching Fox News on the TV, the only source of truth in his world. The stench of cheap cologne and unwashed bodies that clung to everything in that trailer, the way his dad’s hand would slap his back a little too hard, as if a simple touch could teach him to be a man.

And then there was church. Church on Sundays, the stifling heat of that old wooden pew, the smell of stale incense mixed with the faint scent of sweaty bodies. The fire-and-brimstone sermons from Pastor Dave, whose eyes seemed to burn with righteous anger every time he spoke about the “sins of the world.” The image of Andy, younger then, sitting with his family, pretending to be engrossed in the scripture while his mind drifted to the TV shows he couldn’t wait to get home and watch. The idea of being good—of being right—started to settle in his heart, as though it had been there all along.

The more his mind shifted, the more the present around him began to change. The polished wood of the upscale bar and the glowing neon lights blurred, as though melting into something far less refined. The walls grew more stained, the lights dimmer, the scent of stale beer stronger. The sounds of Last Christmas faded away, replaced by the clang of pool balls, the muffled laughter, and the clinking of beer bottles. It wasn’t the elegant bar he had been in moments ago—it was something else entirely.

The tacky, dingy Florida dive bar came into sharp focus, all at once. The booths were cracked vinyl, stained with spilled drinks and grease from cheap bar food. The walls, once adorned with swanky modern art, were now covered with faded posters of vintage beer ads and old wrestling match posters. The floor, once pristine, was sticky with years of spilled alcohol and foot traffic. And there were the people—gruff men and women in tank tops, worn-out sneakers, and baseball caps, their voices loud and rough, their laughs coarse and guttural.

His eyes locked onto a woman at the far end of the bar, sitting alone. She was pretty in that Barbie doll way—bleached blonde hair, lips done up to perfection, eyes heavy with too much makeup—but there was something about her. A sense of openness in her eyes. She seemed like the kind of girl who could appreciate a man who wasn’t complicated—one who didn’t waste his time thinking about existential crises or emotional depth. Someone who just knew how to have a good time, someone who knew what it meant to be simple, to be free. A girl like her could love a guy like him.

And, suddenly, it felt like everything clicked into place.

"She’s a keeper," Andy thought to himself with a flicker of a grin, though it wasn't quite a happy grin. It was more smug, more confident, like someone who had already decided the world would bend to his will. The fog in his mind cleared further. His past, his ambitions, his art—those were things that belonged to a time that no longer mattered. They were gone now, washed away by the simple, undeniable reality of the world he'd now stepped into.

He didn’t need acting anymore. He didn’t need those grand aspirations of fame or recognition. He didn’t need anything except for the satisfaction of knowing he could have whatever he wanted, however he wanted it.

As his mind settled deeper into this new, narrow worldview, the bar around him—the dive bar in Florida, the echo of the past he’d long since abandoned—seemed to feel more like home.And Andy, now a towering, cocky bro, sat back in his chair with a glint in his eye, watching the world he no longer needed to understand. The world of shallow smiles, muscles, and easy conquests. There was no more room for questions—only answers, only victory.

Andy's eyes locked onto the curvy blonde at the end of the bar, her tight top barely containing her generous assets. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her chest as he lit up a cigarette and took a long drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that wafted towards her. The acrid stench of stale tobacco mixed with the pungent aroma of unwashed body odor clung to Andy like a second skin. Days without a shower had left him reeking of sweat and beer, the smell so potent it made your eyes water. As he downed his pint in one gulp, a loud belch ripped through the air, echoing off the dingy walls. Undeterred by his own stench or lack of social graces, Andy swaggered over to the blonde's side. His greasy hair hung limply around his weathered face as he flashed her a crooked grin filled with yellowing teeth.

Andy sidled up to the blonde, a cocky smirk spreading across his stubbled face as he eyed her curves. "Well, well, well... Ain't you just the prettiest little thing in here tonight," he drawled in a thick southern accent. He reached out and grasped her arm with a calloused hand, squeezing it hard enough to leave fingerprints. "You know what they say about girls who look like you - they were made for sin." Andy's other hand drifted down to rest on her thigh, fingers inching slowly towards her inner knee. "I reckon I could show you some real fun if you're willin' to get dirty with an old country boy like me." His breath reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap beer as he leaned in close, voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent shivers down her spine despite herself.

The blonde's cheeks flushed a deep crimson as Andy's rough hands roamed her body, making her squirm in her seat. "Mmm, I like the way you think what's your name?" she purred, tilting her head back to give him better access to her neck. "Uhhhhhh....Name's Tucker," he slurred, belching loudly and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But y'all can call me Tuck the fuck if'n ya want." He licked his lips, eyes gleaming with a mix of lust and entitlement. The blonde giggled at his antics, clearly taken in by Tucker's crude charm. "Well, Tuck... I'm Sunny," she cooed, running a manicured nail down his arm. "And it looks like we're gonna have us a real good time tonight." Tucker grinned stupidly at that, already imagining all the ways he could take advantage of this easy lay. Tucker's mind raced with thoughts of domination as he gazed at Sunny, his gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts straining against her top. This was going to be a great year, indeed - Trump in office meant open season on women and minorities like her. He could already imagine the look of disgust on her face when she realized what kind of man she'd gotten herself involved with. "Tucker," he repeated, savoring the sound of his new alias rolling off his tongue. "Yeah, that's me. One hundred percent American-made white boy from the good ol' US of A." He puffed out his chest, feeling a surge of pride at being part of the emboldened underclass rising up in response to Trump's divisive rhetoric. Sunny seemed taken by his bravado, giggling and leaning into him as if drawn to a magnet. Tucker's life was a string of dead-end jobs, beer binges, and catcalls hurled at any woman within spitting distance. This redneck trash had homophobia oozing from every pore, judging anyone not like himself as fags or queers to be crushed beneath his judgmental heel. Sexism wasn't just an ideology - it was the very air he breathed. He zeroed in on Sunny like a predator stalking its prey, eyes roving over her curves with undisguised lust. "Well well, look what we got here," he sneered when she glanced over, noticing the way her shirt strained across her breasts. "A little city girl lost in redneck country." His meaty hand shot out to grab her wrist, yanking her close until their faces were inches apart. She could smell the stale sweat and cheap cologne wafting off him as he leered into her eyes.

His other hand roamed over her curves possessively, groping and squeezing as if trying to stake a claim. Sunny squirmed uncomfortably but didn't pull away, caught up in the intoxicating thrill of being manhandled by this roughneck stud. "You city girls are all the same - think you're better'n everybody else just 'cause you got your nose in a book," Tucker continued his tirade. "But I'm gonna show you what happens when you tangle with a real man."

With that declaration, he crushed his mouth against hers in a brutal kiss that left no doubt about his intentions.

[azrerad]

Yuck?! I’m a twink influencer, so I’m used to being sent products to try out on my live streams. Today I decided to test this new cologne I was sent, and I swear it smells like someone bottled a gym bro’s fart inside! My eyes are watering, and my head feels funny. But the weirdest thing is all the people commenting on my stream are saying I look different, and it seems like more and more fitness bros are joining as my normal followers are leaving. Bro- fuck, I didn’t mean to say that. What’s happening to me?!

As the air thickens with the sharp tang of something foul, your nostrils flare instinctively, your breath coming in shallow, forced sniffs. A sensation ripples through you, unwelcome, but undeniable—like an intrusive thought trying to take root. The odor, pungent and overpowering, presses against your mind like a weight, clouding your senses. Without realizing it, your face begins to shift.

At first, it’s subtle. Your nose widens, nostrils pulling apart as if reacting to some primal instinct. The skin around your cheeks begins to stretch, loosening and thickening in a slow, torturous process. The once youthful roundness of your face, so smooth and boyish, starts to transform, as though it’s being molded by an invisible sculptor. Your features harden, the softness fading into something more coarse and angular. The air feels heavier now, thick with something more than just scent. Your jawline becomes exaggerated, jutting out like it was carved from stone, and the curve of your lips stretches into something brutish, a barely-there sneer pulling at the corners.

The flush of your face deepens, reddening not from embarrassment but from an almost feverish intensity—like sweat-soaked skin baked under an unforgiving sun. A rough, tanned texture creeps across your skin, every pore screaming of labor and physical exertion. The fine, delicate texture of your youth seems to dissolve beneath the weight of something more base, more primal. The skin is worn, weathered, and now carries the marks of a life lived on the edge of recklessness.

Your nose flattens slightly at the bridge, something broken in its past that never fully healed, and it takes on a strange, awkward appearance, as if too large for your features. It’s an unmistakable sign of past collisions, of days spent taking hits and getting back up. Beneath it, a scraggly beard begins to sprout, uneven and patchy, like it’s trying to be something it’s not, a reflection of a face that’s losing its identity, piece by piece. A few stubborn patches refuse to grow, leaving an unkempt look—rough, almost defiant in its neglect.

Your brow grows heavy, the muscles above your eyes taut with confusion and dullness. It’s as though the very lines of your face are saying: I don’t know what’s happening, but I don’t really care either. The look on your face shifts, and it’s a look that belongs to someone who spends more time swinging weights than engaging in thoughts deeper than a good pump. Your eyes widen, becoming vacant, lost in a haze of thoughts that are shallow, fleeting. They reflect nothing but the instinctual need to do, to be, with no real direction.

In the back of your mind, the faintest buzz of your former self is there, distant and fading with every moment, like an echo of a dream too far gone. You recall flashes of standing in front of a camera, yammering about the latest beauty product or discussing a cause you once cared about. But those thoughts feel like foreign concepts now, tainted with an almost violent disgust. You can’t remember why they ever mattered, why you ever cared about the things you once did. The scent in the air thickens, a reminder of your body—of who you are becoming. Your chest rises, and it feels heavier now, like the weight of your own thoughts is too much to bear. The smell—it’s a mix of sweat, stale beer, and something far more... animalistic.

The hum of your thoughts grows louder, more repetitive, each second more focused on the things that matter now. The gym, the girls, the parties. There’s no time for deeper thought—who needs it when the next set is calling, when the beers are waiting? The echo of your old self is quiet now, drowned by the roar of muscles and testosterone.

Your mind is filled with flashes, not of the past, but of the now: weights in the gym, parties with the guys, beers flowing, and the satisfaction of knowing your body is as strong as it’s ever been. There’s no room for anything complex. The idea of books, of learning—these are foreign concepts that have no place here. A faint chuckle rises in your throat, self-satisfied, knowing that the world can be conquered by the sheer force of your body. You’ve earned this, this simplicity. You’ve earned the power, the confidence that radiates from every fiber of your being.

But as you take another breath, the scent grows stronger—the sweat, the gym clothes, the beer, and the acrid tinge of protein shakes. It’s all you are now. Your clothes cling to your body, soaked with your efforts, your excesses. Your muscles scream for more, and in the background, the faintest trace of your old self—a sliver of recognition—wants to break through.

You let out an obnoxious fart, and with it, the smell expands. PPPPPPFFFFFT. It’s a thick, acrid cloud that rolls off you like an invisible wave, filled with the sharp scent of gym sweat, stale beer, and the greasy residue of protein shakes. The odor sticks to the air, like it belongs there, unapologetic and raw.

You throw your phone to the floor in frustration, watching it buzz with notifications from random chicks whose names you don't remember. The screen flashes—messages about nothing important, nothing that matters to you right now. You don’t even pick it up. Instead, you find yourself standing in front of the mirror, flexing. The muscles ripple beneath your skin, slowly swelling. As you flex, a slow burn builds deep in your gut, and the muscles in your body tense. Another fart escapes you, loud and proud, and you feel the gas building within, pushing against your core. PFFFFFFFFTTTTT It feels almost like another rep, like another lift—hard and controlled, but without the effort to make it clean.

You can feel it. Every muscle in your body begins to expand, push out, harden. The biceps, already massive, swell further, like ripe melons pulling against your skin. Veins twist like thick rivers, running down your arms, pulsing with the beat of your blood. The skin over them is taut, stretched to its limit, and you can feel the hairs growing thick and wild on your arms, coating them like the dark forest of masculinity they’ve become. You flex again, and the veins stand out, thick and bulging, snapping and thrumming with the sheer effort of it all. Sweat rolls down your arms, slick and hot, mingling with the scent of your own exertion. Each flex makes the smell linger longer, stronger—filling your nostrils with that unmistakable tang of raw effort, physicality, and sweat-soaked determination.

Your forearms bulge, twisting and flexing, like thick cables under your skin. You can feel the pull of every vein, every sinew, working together as you lift, squeeze, curl. The calluses on your hands are worn deep from years of holding onto bars, dumbbells, and anything heavy enough to feel satisfying. You tighten your grip, your hands and forearms pulsing with each movement. The rough hair on your arms catches the dim light, a reminder of your raw masculinity. The stench from your body clings to the hairs, mixing with the sweat that’s dripping in rivulets down your torso.

Your chest, the centerpiece of your body, presses forward as you flex it, each movement feeling like a testament to your strength. The pecs—hard, firm, massive—strain against your skin, the muscles tightening and expanding with every breath, every flex. The sweat pools beneath them, soaking into the thick layer of hair that clings to your chest. It drips, sliding down your abs, collecting in the crevices between the ridges of muscle. You can almost hear it—the dull sound of your body working, burning, and your muscles ache from the constant strain.

Speaking of your abs—while they're not the sharpest six-pack, they’re solid. Strong. Their sheer size speaks more to raw power than aesthetic beauty. A sheen of sweat coats them, mixing with the smell of your body and the lingering scent of old rubber gym mats. Your stomach tightens, and the muscles ripple beneath the skin like a wall of solid muscle, bulging against the weight of your own body. The scent is everywhere now, mingling with the air, the gym equipment, and the sharp tang of protein shakes you’ve gulped down in excess. The sweat, the effort, the gas—all of it blends together into a single, powerful fragrance that has come to define you.

Your shoulders bulge, massive and round, like boulders rising from your frame. The deltoids are huge, curving out in a shape that mirrors the sheer strength of your will. Your traps—the thick cables of muscle running up your neck—seem to swallow your head as they flex, straining under the weight of their own mass. The hairs on your traps, thick and dark, curl against your neck, tickling the skin and mixing with the potent, salty smell of your sweat-soaked skin. Your body is a monument to strength, a collection of hard edges and muscle, each movement causing a ripple of power, each flex adding to the beast you're becoming.

Your back, the broad, solid wall of muscle that supports it all, continues to grow wider, stretching like the trunk of an old oak tree, thick and imposing. The sweat trickles down your spine, pooling in the small of your back before dripping onto your waistband, mixing with the musky scent of metal and rubber. Your lats flare like wings, broad and powerful, evidence of every heavy deadlift and every pull-up you’ve ever done. The sheer size of your back makes you feel like you could carry the weight of the world, but the ache—deep, dull, relentless—reminds you that every inch of this strength has come with a price.

When you move, your glutes flex, hard and firm, pressing against the fabric of your shorts. They’re thick, rock-solid, built for power. The muscles are like stone, and they flex with every movement, rippling beneath the surface. The hairs there are as thick and coarse as the rest of your body, and they catch the light in a way that only adds to the rugged, untamed nature of who you are. Every step, every shift of your weight, sends a shockwave through the massive muscles of your legs—tree trunks for thighs and calves like blocks of stone, ready to crush anything in your path.

The stench is inescapable now. It’s not just sweat. It’s not just the stink of a gym or the sour scent of a post-workout haze. It’s you. It’s the unmistakable, unrefined smell of power. The sour tang of sweat, the musky weight of body odor, the sharp scent of protein shakes and stale beer. It all mingles together in a heady mixture of masculinity and effort. You flex again, muscles popping, skin tight and glistening. And with that flex, a rush of satisfaction floods through you—a reminder that this body, this beast, was earned with every rep, every set, every grunt.

You are the stench. You are the sweat, the effort, the burn. And it feels like victory.

You can't stop yourself from letting out another gassy fart, PFFFFFFFFFFTTTT and as it echoes through the room, a sly smile spreads across your face. It's like a secret language only you understand. You reach for your phone on the couch beside you, swiping through the various text threads with a flick of your thumbs. Five different girls' names flash across the screen - each one inviting in their own way. Your fingers dance over the keyboard as you type out a lewd message to Samantha, that hot MILF who's been begging for more than just texts lately.

"Fucking hell Sam… I need to spank those big tits and bury my cock deep in your tight cunt so bad right now," you write, not caring about grammar or tact. "I wanna fuck you senseless until all that sass is gone and all that's left is moans of pleasure." You hit send before she can respond with her usual coy come-ons.

[azrerad]

#RedWaveRapture

Ricky is a 27-year-old rising star in the world of TikTok comedy, his content brimming with sharp wit and sarcasm. A self-proclaimed "cute twink" with a bubbly personality, he loves making witty, insightful takes on pop culture, fashion, and everyday life. His feed is a mix of playful skits, funny commentary on viral moments, and relatable content about being a young, queer man navigating life in the digital age. He’s effortlessly charming, with a youthful glow, perfectly styled hair, and the kind of confident, yet endearing demeanor that makes him an ideal influencer for his growing fanbase. His followers adore him for his quick comebacks and his unapologetic authenticity.

It’s a lazy evening, and Ricky’s sprawled out on his bed, scrolling through TikTok, thumb swiping on the screen absentmindedly. He’s watching a hilarious meme about celebrity fashion when his phone buzzes, a notification popping up. It’s a DM from someone he doesn't know—just a random username and a message: “Hey babes. Just thought you might want to see this.”

Ricky rolls his eyes. "Great, another spammer," he mutters under his breath. He’s about to swipe it away, not giving it a second thought, but curiosity gets the better of him. He taps the message.

The link leads to a hashtag: #RedWaveRapture.

He pauses, finger hovering over the link, a slight feeling of unease creeping up his spine. Ricky doesn’t usually bite on these weird, unsolicited messages, but something about it seems... off. He’s about to tap away but is inexplicably drawn to it. The moment he clicks, the screen flickers, the colors distorting, and his hand jolts with an electric shock. It’s sharp, like a sudden surge of static electricity, and it sends a buzz coursing up his arm. The shock spreads, quick and jarring, right up to his head.

His whole body stiffens, his fingers frozen on the screen as a strange, tingling sensation spreads like wildfire through his veins. The phone hums in his hand, and for a split second, it feels like the world around him is... vibrating. He pulls his hand back instinctively, but the sensation lingers, crawling up his arm, sending an electric pulse straight to his mind. Ricky blinks rapidly, trying to shake it off, but the feeling is still there. Something is wrong.

Ricky's brain is suddenly flooded with static, the electric pulse from his phone radiating through his body. He tries to scream, but the sound comes out wrong—a dumb chuckle, an odd, hollow laugh that seems almost out of place. His lips curl into a silly grin as his thoughts begin to slow, then fade, like someone dimming the lights on his consciousness. He feels detached, as if he's slipping into a fog, the clear thoughts that used to come so naturally slipping through his fingers.

His memories, once full of sharp wit and pop culture references, start to twist. Instead of laughing about a funny TikTok challenge or rolling his eyes at another viral trend, his mind begins to fill with strange images of loud, brash parties and guys slapping each other on the back, talking about who’s the most alpha. The kind of memories that have nothing to do with his life—at least, the life he knew. These new thoughts come crashing in like a tidal wave. He doesn’t even recognize them at first, but they’re insistent. Thoughts of being the center of attention, of needing to assert dominance, of being the loudest, most boisterous voice in the room. He imagines himself in a crowded fraternity house, surrounded by guys who laugh too loudly and drink too much, all with the same need to prove something.

Slowly, Ricky’s mind, once full of sarcastic commentary and clever quips, starts to conform to a different kind of thinking. It’s brash. It’s conservative. It’s all about power, control, and showing off. He can almost hear the voices now, an echo in his head, a mantra about how the world is for the taking, how it’s about being "the man," a mentality he’d never had before. He doesn't even realize that the shift is happening, but his thoughts are becoming simpler, more primal—ruthlessly competitive, the way someone might talk about getting ahead in the world without any concern for others.

It’s about winning, about being strong. Who needs the soft stuff? You’ve gotta crush the weak.

And with every new memory, every new thought that sinks in, something starts to change physically. His pale, soft skin—once smooth and lithe—begins to thicken, the muscle underneath starting to pulse and expand. His chest fills out, broadening with visible pecs, while his arms swell with mass, thick biceps bursting with power. His legs, once short and slender, begin to harden, muscles stretching out with dense, powerful quads and calves. The pulse of muscle growth spreads from his chest to his arms to his waist, his body tightening and transforming, reshaping into a stockier, more compact powerhouse.

He watches in a haze, unable to tear his eyes away, as his body becomes more and more filled out, his torso turning solid, filled with muscle. His once soft waist and hips taper into something more athletic, but his entire figure becomes more squared off, more dense, as if he's been lifting weights day in and day out. His posture shifts too. He stands taller, more confidently, his chest puffing out as he takes up more space. His walk becomes a swagger, casual but powerful, the kind of walk you see in guys who know they’ve got muscle to show off, but aren’t afraid to take their time.

His face morphs too. His jawline sharpens, turning into a stronger, more square shape, framed by stubble that’s now a permanent fixture. His eyes, once bright and expressive, narrow, taking on a sharper, more cocky glint. The playful, almost innocent look is gone, replaced with a look of confident arrogance, the kind that dares you to challenge him. His nose settles into his face with a rugged, masculine tilt, adding to the all-American look that’s forming. His smile—once playful—is now self-assured, cocky, almost sarcastic. It’s the kind of grin you give when you know you’re the center of attention.

As his body morphs, the last traces of his old self begin to evaporate, and he feels it—his hands clenched into fists, his muscles twitching with energy, ready to move. His body has reshaped itself into a "thick, short king frat bro" with a demeanor to match. His chest is thick with muscle, his arms are massive, veins running down his forearms. His shoulders are wide, his traps sharp, and his abs, though not shredded, are solid and defined. The kind of body that looks like it's built for both the gym and the party.

His legs are thick and muscular, with the kind of quads that speak of squats and heavy lifting. His glutes are firm, the result of dedication to leg day. He’s now a solid, powerful figure—a short, compact powerhouse with the kind of physicality that demands attention. And his face—his face is now framed with a proud, almost taunting grin, the kind of look that says, I’ve got everything I need, and I don’t care what you think. This is a man who doesn't have time for anything soft. He’s all about strength, competition, and the thrill of the party.

A thick, short king frat bro. And he’s ready to own it. The last remnants of his former self—the witty, fashion-forward, progressive Ricky—start to fade entirely. In his place stands a “short king” frat bro, brimming with conservative views, Christian ideals, and an unshakeable belief that the world should conform to his rigid standards. He feels unstoppable, eager to dominate any conversation, to be the loudest and most opinionated in the room. His body and mind have aligned, creating a new, more aggressive version of himself, the kind of person who thrives on being the center of attention, someone who thrives on being loud, unapologetically bold, and every bit a jerk. Ricky's mind snaps into place as he fully takes on the persona of Dylan - a brash, obnoxious 20-year-old frat bro college townie republican. He logs onto to social media again replaced by something far more sinister, his thumbs flying across the keyboard to spread the #RedWaveRapture hashtag and recruit more followers to his cause. "Hey there snowflakes! It's your boy Dylan here!" he types out in a crude, all-caps rant. "Can't believe these woke libs are still whining about their feelings instead of getting with the program. I'm sick of listening to them cry about 'systemic oppression' when they're just mad they can't get laid or land a job." He scrolls through his feeds, liking and sharing posts that bash liberal ideals and promote conservative values. His eyes gleam with excitement as he imagines leading a red wave takeover of campus politics. Dylan's fingers dance across the keyboard, his mind consumed by a burning desire to spread conservative ideology and recruit more followers to his cause. "Hey faggots!" he writes in one rant. "Wake up and smell the coffee! You're getting played by these liberal scum who just want your votes so they can keep pissing away our money on entitlement programs." He scrolls through feeds filled with posts bashing woke culture and promoting patriotic values. Dylan's eyes blaze with contempt as he thinks about the woke libs who insist on ruining everything with their whiny protests and entitled attitudes. "Fucking snowflakes," he mutters to himself, shaking his head in disgust. His mind drifts to a pretty brunette he saw at one of those rallies earlier in the week - the chick looked like she could use a good dose of reality, let alone a hard fuck from a real man like him. He imagines taking her down a dark alley after class, shoving her against the wall and pushing up that tight little skirt. She'd yelp and struggle at first, but Dylan knows how to break them - just pin 'em down and show 'em who's boss. He'd grab those tits through her bra, squeeze hard enough to make her gasp for air while he grinds his cock against her crotch. "Brainless cunt would probably thank me afterwards" #RedWaveRapture

[azrerad]

I clicked on this weird “red wave” link and suddenly I have this strange thought that I’m some older father figure.. but I’m only 24?

As you open the link, your vision is overwhelmed by flashes of stoic men in suits, holding Bibles with an air of unwavering confidence. Their expressions are resolute, embodying authority and tradition. Then, suddenly, the words "family values" appear before the screen, glowing with an intense energy that demands your attention. A red light, like a beacon, burns brighter and brighter, almost blinding you. You try to shield your eyes, but the light intensifies, and your mind begins to race.

You rub your eyes, but the sensation is different now. There's a new awareness, a shift, as if the passage of time itself has accelerated. You start to notice the changes: the wrinkles beneath your eyes, the bags that sag heavily, a telltale sign of aging. Each second feels like a year passing, your body morphing before you in a dizzying display of growth. You feel your spine stretch, your frame broaden, muscles swelling, each twitch an expression of raw, unstoppable power. Your body is transforming, not just in size but in essence, becoming something new.

Your body fills out, thickening with muscle, your once-lanky figure swelling into the bulk of a jock—a powerhouse of sheer strength. Your chest expands, massive pectorals straining against the skin as your arms inflate into enormous biceps, thick and solid like slabs of iron. Your entire body radiates strength; your back grows broad with thick, powerful lats and traps that seem to engulf the space around you. Your legs, now heavy with muscle, stretch beneath you, solid and unyielding.

But as your body grows, so does something else—an idea, a philosophy, a deep-rooted belief that begins to take hold of your mind. The ideals of family, tradition, and conservative values sink deeper into your soul, their grip tightening. Your once-fluid thoughts solidify into a single, clear vision: the need to build and protect a traditional family, to raise children who embody the values you now hold sacred. You feel an intense pull to your roots, to a simpler life, to the values of Kentucky, to the community and life you were meant to protect.

And with this transformation, an even deeper calling takes shape. The words "family values" now echo in your mind, and the need to run for office pulses in your chest. The vision is clear: you must take the Senate, make your mark, and steer this country back to its rightful path. You feel the weight of responsibility as the desire to impart your truth grows stronger, to spread the teachings of conservatism, to secure a future that holds firm to its Christian, patriotic foundation. The ideals of Republican values now flow through your veins like an unstoppable current, and your smile widens, cold and sure.

As your grin stretches, you feel an immense pride. The weight of being a true patriot settles on your shoulders like a mantle, heavy but right. Your family—your perfect Christian wife and your two loyal boys—are the embodiment of everything you've come to represent. They are the cornerstone of your mission, the legacy you will leave behind. You feel a deep sense of satisfaction, of completeness, of purpose. You are on the right path, and with your strength, your belief, and your vision, you will reclaim this country for the values you hold dear. You step up to the podium, a surge of power coursing through your veins. The audience before you is a sea of faces, eager to hear your words of wisdom and disdain for the woke liberals who threaten everything you hold dear. As you begin to speak, your voice booms out across the room, filled with conviction and venom. "Let me tell you something," you growl, "the so-called 'progressives' are nothing but a bunch of weak-willed cucks who can't even defend their own beliefs without resorting to name-calling and emotional manipulation." The crowd murmurs in agreement as you continue your tirade against the perceived enemies of traditional values. "They want to tear down our great nation with their divisive rhetoric and radical ideologies," you sneer. "But we won't let them! We'll fight back with every fiber of our being because we know deep down that our way - the Republican way - is superior. The Red Wave Rapture is upon us"

[azrerad]

I was out with my boyfriend and a few of our friends at a nice quiet bar in town. We are both in our 40s so we like the quieter parties. My phone buzzed with some sort of red link. My finger slipped and clicked it. I felt dizzy then felt like I was younger and more full of energy.

As you click the link, you're immediately flooded with a barrage of boobs, tits, breasts, you name it. An unfiltered parade of bouncing tits, up and down and up and down. Hypnotizing you into a trance. Your eyes grow wide, unable to look away. The relentless tide of perky tits, each pixel a sharp reminder of something you're too disoriented to place just yet. Your thoughts, once fragmented and unorganized, begin to slow, like a train losing speed until it comes to a grinding halt. A cool breeze enters your mind, and with each gust, every thought is gently erased, leaving a vacant, empty space where clarity once reigned. Your mouth slackens, your eyes unfocused, as the rage builds inside you, surging through your veins like a current that can’t be controlled.

The room around you—the quiet bar, the soft murmurs of conversation, the clinking of glasses—suddenly feels like the most banal, insignificant place in the world. It's suffocating, like the very air is oppressive, and the noise in your head escalates. It starts as a low hum, but soon, it's louder than you can bear: the clanking of weights, the raucous sounds of a frat party, and the dull drone of Fox News—all of it crashes into your skull, each noise compounding the next, pushing you to the edge. You grit your teeth, your stomach churning. You try to blame the beer, the hangover, but something isn’t right. Your body aches in ways it never has before, and it’s not just from alcohol. The voice in your head roars, reminding you of something you can't quite name, something visceral: You love beers. You crave this.

And as that voice echoes, something inside you begins to change. Each muscle in your body spasms, twitches in pain, and then starts to stretch and swell. Your skin tightens and shifts, almost impossibly, and you can feel your body reshaping itself. The muscles in your arms thicken, becoming bulging lumps, almost doughy but still unmistakably strong, veins pushing against your skin. Your chest expands, your shoulders broaden, and your back feels wider with every passing second. It’s an unbearable pain, but it’s also oddly satisfying, the discomfort somehow confirming the transformation.

Your stomach swells slightly, a round, soft belly forming beneath you, the faintest outlines of abs lost under a layer of warmth and fat. You watch as your face, once worn and aged with the quiet wisdom of experience, smooths out. The wrinkles vanish, replaced by a look of youthful confusion, a faraway expression almost too vacant to describe. Your jaw tightens and your brow furrows in frustration. What was once a sign of maturity has been replaced with the aggression and tension of a younger, more primal self. Your messy hair, pushed back from your forehead, drips with sweat as you try to focus, your mind a maze of conflicting thoughts. The energy you feel radiates from your newly formed body, thick and imposing, but beneath it all, you’re unaware of how others see you. You’re just... there.

You rub your temples as a thought presses its way into your mind, and suddenly, your view of the world shifts in ways that are sharp and unsettling. Those past notions, the liberal ideas, those fantasies you once had—they seem weak, inconsequential. They seem... basic, tired, unworthy of your attention. The lifestyle, the relationship you thought you wanted, all of it falls away like dead weight. Your obsession grows. You can feel it taking root. Your image, your country, the strength you’ve gained—it all matters now. Every flex, every calorie consumed, every set at the gym is no longer just an exercise. It's a mission.

The political ideas that once seemed foreign or even offensive to you now make perfect sense, like a puzzle piece sliding neatly into place. You feel your allegiance shift, your mind narrowing as you latch onto power, strength, and ideals that once seemed distant but now are a beacon. The need for authority, for clarity, for control over every aspect of your life intensifies, and you start to crave the approval of those who share your newfound beliefs. The idea of being the face of this world—the poster child of something fierce, unyielding, patriotic—becomes your obsession.

The world around you seems to fade, your focus entirely consumed with this singular pursuit. Your muscles ache, but it’s not the pain of transformation anymore. It’s the pain of change, of something new and powerful emerging from within. You want to be seen. You want to be admired. You want to become that image, that embodiment of power and pride, until nothing else matters but the next lift, the next step in building the version of yourself you’ve now become. As your mind clears of any lame liberal thoughts, you find yourself suddenly in a loud and noisy sports bar - just how you like it! Those fucking pansies as 40-something losers you were with are a distant memory. The energy is electric, with the roar of the crowd and the clinking of glasses filling your ears. You quickly grab the attention of the waitress by hollering loudly for another drink. Your eyes can't help but roam down to her perky tits straining against her tight shirt. You think to yourself, "Man, those would be so much fun to motorboat." The idea sends a shiver down your spine. Your head throbs with each swig of beer, the liquor burning a path straight to your brain like a wildfire. The pain only seems to intensify your rage towards those liberal pricks out there. "Fuckin' snowflakes," you growl under your breath as you scan the bar for some eye candy. Spotting a hot chick in a low-cut top, you can't help but ogle her ample cleavage. "Damn, look at that rack!" your inner bro voice exclaims proudly. "I'd love to get my hands on those titties." You imagine cupping them in your palms, feeling the soft flesh yield to your touch before giving them a hearty squeeze. As you burp loudly, your mind is consumed with the most vile, sexist, and homophobic thoughts. "I'd love to grab that hot chick's ass right now... maybe bend her over the bar and give it a good smack," your inner voice sneers with lustful intent. Your eyes lock onto the stunning blonde across the room - curvy hips, big tits spilling out of her low-cut top, full lips painted red. You can't stop staring as she laughs at something her friends say. "Damn, would I ever hit that," you think depravedly. "Probably have to hold back from cumming too quick just looking at those titties bouncing." Your flaccid attempt at flirting with nearby girls only makes them roll their eyes in disgust. But you don't care - all you crave is getting laid by some hot piece of ass tonight. After another round of beers, you pull out your phone and start typing up a rant on social media. "Can't believe the fags at the bar tonight," you scream into your phone furiously, ranting and raving on TikTok. "Thinks they're so cool with their tight jeans and stupid haircuts. Newsflash - real men don't wear that crap." You post it along with a photo of yourself flexing in front of the mirror, showing off your bulging biceps. Your next rant targets all the stuck-up bitches who've rejected your advances: "And don't even get me started on these uptight cunts who think they're too good for a real man like me," you seethe into your screen. "I need someone to put me first, not some entitled princess looking for Mr. Perfect." You sign off each post with #RedWaveRapture, feeling proud to be part of this movement championing traditional masculinity.

[azrerad]

Ever since the 2016 election, political differences have made it hard to connect with my conservative blue collar mechanic dad to the point where we barely talk anymore besides birthdays and holidays. Out of nowhere though, he randomly sent me some Red Wave site and said that after I looked at it, I would finally be able to understand where he was coming from. He keeps pestering me about it and asking if I looked at it yet, so maybe if I just check it out he'll leave me alone and I won't have to keep dealing with his nonsense anymore...

As you open the link your father sent, you're greeted with what appears to be just a typical dumb beer ad, it's a simple, yet oddly captivating image: a cold, amber bottle of beer, condensation dripping down the glass, set against a dusty old pickup truck with the setting sun in the background. At first, you think, "What the hell is this?" It’s just a damn beer commercial—nothing new. You’d rather talk about something that actually mattered, something that connects you to him more than this obvious attempt to push a product.

But then, as you watch the beer settle in the glass and a smooth, confident voice narrates about a man’s right to enjoy the simple things in life—like a cold beer after a long day—the urge hits you. You feel your lips tingle with an unexpected craving. It’s just a beer, but damn, now you need one. Your stomach growls as if it knows, as if your body is already on a track you can't get off. You shift in your seat, leaning closer to the screen. Something in you stirs. The more you watch, the more your mind begins to fog, your eyes glazing over, thoughts starting to slow down and fade into a haze of need.

And then, suddenly, you let out a loud, thunderous fart. PFFFFFFFFFFFFFTTT It’s not a little one either—it rattles through the room like a truck backfiring. You freeze, the moment shocking you, but then, as the stink fills the air, a strange warmth floods your chest. You laugh. Not just a chuckle but a full-bellied laugh like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You can’t help it. The sound of your own bodily function, the rippling waves of absurdity washing over you, feels right. This is it.

In that moment, your mind starts to melt away. The progressive ideas, the thoughts of voting for AOC, the careful, progressive stances you once held—all of it slips into the fog. Instead, the image of your father’s rugged, thick-set figure, with his booming voice and deep-set wisdom, takes over. You can almost hear him now. "Get to work, boy. This is how men are made. Muscles don’t build themselves."

Your biceps twitch, as if remembering the countless hours spent lifting heavy tools with your father in his garage. Your stomach aches slightly, a deep muscle ache that grows stronger with every breath, like your body is remaking itself. The discomfort shifts, the ache slowly turning into something else—a deep, primal power. You feel it. Like a muscle tearing and rebuilding beneath your skin. You flex your arms unconsciously, the tension and strain in your forearms palpable. A warm, deep sensation floods your chest. It’s not just strength—it’s raw, bone-deep strength.

Your body shifts, expanding, thickening with muscle. You feel your neck thickening, veins pulsing as they twist up from your shoulders. Your back broadens, your chest broadens, thick slabs of muscle pushing out as if your ribs are being reinforced. Your stomach tightens, the soft layer of fat pulling away, replaced by something solid, something unyielding. The tightness spreads down into your legs, your thighs bulging like tree trunks, calves swelling until your jeans start to strain at the seams.

You begin to smell it now—the sweaty, bitter scent of beer and musk, like an after-work drink spilled on a hot day. Your nostrils flare and burn as the smell fills your senses, making your head spin in a way you can’t quite explain. But it feels right, like it belongs there. Your skin, now weathered, feels like it has absorbed years of work—grease, sweat, and dirt embedded beneath the surface. It’s rough, cracked in places, just like the palms of your hands, calloused from too many years spent working on trucks and lifting heavy tools.

Your face changes too. It tightens, becoming rougher. Your jaw thickens, your nose slightly crooked, your lips curling into a permanent, rugged smirk. It’s not a smile—it’s a grimace. An expression that says you’ve fought for everything you’ve earned and you’re proud of it. Your eyes narrow, sharp and a little wild, like someone who’s spent a lifetime working hard and playing harder.

Then, your mind shifts. The loudmouth, boisterous voice of a proud, southern redneck mechanic fills your brain. It’s like he’s always been there, in the back of your mind, guiding you. You can almost hear him now: "Ain't nothing better than a cold beer and a truck that runs. Forget all that fancy city nonsense. Get in the shop, and put in the work. That’s how you make something of yourself."

The thoughts in your head blur, becoming more focused on the gym, the truck, your father’s voice echoing in your ears as your body adjusts to the weight of pure, brute strength. The progressive ideas you once clung to are distant memories, replaced by the singular focus on working hard, lifting heavy, and living loud. Your mindset shifts, your thoughts narrowing to the singular importance of building muscle, working on trucks, and embracing the loud, proud identity of someone who has no time for politics outside of working hard and staying true to who you are.

You think back to your father, the man who always told you the world was tougher than you thought, and maybe, just maybe, he was right all along. You laugh again—a loud, throaty laugh. Yeah, he was right. All that other stuff doesn't matter.

You find yourself standing next to your father in the garage, the sound of tools clanging against the worn metal of the beat-up pickup filling the air. The car’s hood is raised, the engine exposed like an old war wound, and your father is elbow-deep in grease, his hands big and rough, muscles bulging as he works with a practiced ease. The smell of oil and sweat hangs thick in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of rust and gasoline. His shirt is stained with dirt and sweat, and his hair, thick and graying, is pushed back under a battered old baseball cap.

He’s ranting, like he always does after church, but you’ve stopped tuning out. The words are like a steady hum in the background now, as familiar to you as the sound of his wrench turning bolts. “Preacher went on and on today about that damn liberal agenda,” he grumbles, tightening a bolt. “He’s talkin' about love and forgiveness, but these folks don’t know a damn thing about hard work. You can’t just pray your way outta your problems. You gotta earn your way out. My daddy always said—"

You know exactly where he’s going with this, but you don’t mind. The words spill from him like a river, as constant and steady as the hands that work on this truck. He's been fixing it for hours, but there's no rush. Your father doesn’t work on a timeline. He works when it feels right. His eyes narrow, and his lips curl in that permanent, tired smirk. “And I don’t know how many times I gotta tell folks, the good Lord didn’t make you to be weak. You got two hands and two feet. Use 'em. Ain’t no preacher gonna save your soul if you ain’t willing to put in the work. That’s the gospel truth, boy.”

You’re not even looking at him anymore. Your eyes are on the truck, and your brain’s in sync with every tool he might need. Sure enough, a few moments later, you hear the slight frustration in his voice. “Hand me that 9/16th wrench, will ya?”

Without a second thought, you reach for the tool on the wall, your hand grabbing the exact one he needs without hesitation. It feels instinctual, like you’ve been doing this for years, and in a way, you have. You slide the wrench across the workbench, watching his massive, calloused hand snap it out of the air without even looking up from his work. It’s as though the two of you are in perfect sync, a machine running smooth with no wasted motion.

He gives a quick nod of approval, then continues his tirade as his big, rough hands work steadily, tightening the parts of the truck like it’s the most important thing in the world. "Hell, all these kids today, thinking they can get by on talking. Talking 'bout equality and justice. I got news for 'em, son. You can’t build your life on talk. You gotta build it with your hands, just like this truck." He jerks the wrench one last time before tossing it back on the bench.

The engine hums, the old metal grinding and clicking as your father leans back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He gives a satisfied grunt, and you know he’s proud of the work he’s done, no matter how small or big the job is.

"That's the thing," he says, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "You take care of what’s yours, you put in the sweat, and you get results. That’s the real gospel. Work hard, take care of your family, and God’ll take care of the rest."

He's reminiscing about his time at church, mentioning a girl named Chaisty who sang in the choir. You shake off the thoughts that creep into your mind - no way are you interested in women like that. You you---you were into dudes. You shake off the intrusive thoughts quickly, outraged at how easily they appeared. No way are you into fucking dudes like that! The very idea makes your stomach churn with disgust. But your old man is always right. Your old man, he's always going on about that hot little piece in the church choir, Chaisty. He can't stop talking about her ass and tits whenever you're around. You remember how she looked back in high school - blonde hair like spun gold, a face like an angel but with curves that'll make your head spin. She was the perfect chick for you to tap when you were balls deep in college. But now you're back home after flunking out of freshmen year, and all bets are off. You've got time to get your life together and maybe even score with Chastity if things go right. The thought of tangling the sheets with her again makes your dick twitch just thinking about it. Your pops keeps dropping hints about getting closer to God through prayer and faith...but really he's just trying to get his fat tongue down that sweet young thang's throat again too. "Thanks again for showing me the way pops," you say to him, as you begin texting Chastity. Hope to score tonight. "Don't thank me son. Thank God and the Red Wave Rapture"