comaandot

[comaandot]

[comaandot]

Just a lil' sneeze and you know it's too late...

[comaandot]

Mardin Gevargiz. IG: @mardingevargiz

[comaandot]

[comaandot]

Strong like royalty.

Based on @occamstfs' story.

[comaandot]

Merry Christmas, bros.

Based on @devonpink's idea. (🔊 ON)

[comaandot]

Hey can you turn from this slim guy into more a dumb muscle himbo that has a big but still lean body?

Let's see...

In this new reality, your lithe physique has transformed into a chiseled, all-American meathead - the kind of dumb jock who excels at sports and lifting weights, but not much else.

Despite being leaner than your average bro, you've still got some serious mass going on - the kind of thick, vascular arms and thighs that make women weak in the knees and men jealous. Your ass is round and firm from countless squats, while your legs are tree trunks supporting a powerful lower body.

When you're not busy flexing for the mirror or lifting heavy at the gym, you probably spend most of your time partying with buddies, watching sports, and talking about nothing in particular. Intelligence isn't exactly your strong suit - but who needs brains when you've got a hot, sweaty bod like that? Just ask any of your bros!

How's that for a New Year resolution? New year, new you, or so they say :)

[comaandot]

I'd love to see what alternate versions of this guy there are.

Sure buddy. It wasn't easy tuning my machine this time, but I think I've found some interesting realities out there! Hope you like them :)

In an alternate reality not so different from our own, this bearish hunk has taken on a more muscular, less chubby form - transformed into a behemoth. Here, he's not just any old gym rat; he's a world-famous powerlifter and internet celebrity whose influence knows no bounds.

Young men from all corners of the globe look up to him as their idol, their motivation, their reason for living - especially when it comes to getting swole. They follow his every post, eagerly absorbing each tip on training and nutrition like gospel from a fitness prophet. And why not? With a physique like his, who wouldn't want to emulate perfection?

His pecs are massive, each one a study in taut, rippling muscle that defies the laws of physics. His arms bulge with thickness, as if carved from granite by some mythical sculptor. His thighs are tree trunks, powerful and unyielding, while his calves are chiseled masterpieces of human anatomy.

But his influence extends far beyond the gym walls. In this world, a new wave of ripped teens has become the norm, thanks largely to their idolization of this muscular beast. Gone are the days of skinny, awkward youth; now, every boy from puberty onwards is driven to get big and buff in order to measure up.

Parents worry about the health implications, but who can blame them for wanting their sons to grow up strong and confident like this fitness icon? And as for the young men themselves, they'd follow him anywhere - even into the depths of steroid abuse if it means achieving that perfect, chiseled physique.

In this world, there's no escaping his shadow - nor would anyone want to. For in the presence of such unadulterated muscle majesty, all other men are but mere mortals, forever relegated to the sidelines while he reigns supreme as the ultimate embodiment of human potential.

In another reality, our bearish hunk has been reborn as a towering Latin stud, the kind of papi that makes hearts race and loins stir across every continent. Hailing from Colombia, he grew up in a world where machismo is king, and his rugged good looks and powerful physique were destined for greatness.

Here, he's known as Papi Leche, a towering figure of masculine perfection with a body that could make even the most devout Catholic priests weep with lust. His skin is a rich, burnished brown that glistens with the sheen of oil and sweat after a long day at the gym.

But it's not just his physique that sets this Latino daddy apart - it's his legendary cum, renowned throughout the land for its unparalleled potency and addictive quality. Gringos from all over the world can't resist the allure of his Latin leche, once they've tasted its salty, intoxicating flavor.

He takes great pleasure in breaking them down, both physically and mentally, until they're nothing more than obedient little cumsluts desperate for another taste of his golden nectar. And he always delivers, pumping load after massive load into their eager mouths and throats until they're drowning in Latin dick juice.

And it's not just a physical addiction. They gradually change the more leche they drink. Their skin darkens, their features soften, and their accents change until they're speaking in perfect, melodic Spanish.

Before long, this Latino daddy has an entourage of half-Latino, half-gringo chicos who worship him and vie for his attention - all of them hooked on his leche like junkies on a fix.

So if you ever find yourself in Colombia, make sure to keep an eye out for this hulking bear of a man - but be warned: once you've caught sight of him, there's no escaping his gravitational pull. You'll be drawn in like a moth to a flame, helpless to resist the allure of his latin leche until you're nothing more than a mindless, cum-addicted shell of your former self.

Finally, in yet another reality, our bearish hunk has been reborn as a cocky, wealthy young Arab stud - the epitome of Dubai's high-flying elite and a player in every sense of the word.

Here, he's the king of the scene, with a body that's equally at home on the beach or in the boardroom. His skin is a flawless, golden brown, his features chiseled like marble from the hands of a skilled sculptor.

As a member of Dubai's elite social circle, he moves through life like a prince among paupers - except instead of a crown, he wears a gold-plated watch on each wrist. He cruises the city in his gleaming black Lamborghini, with a string of adoring twink boys piled into the backseat for good measure.

These young men are just playthings for him to use and discard, their tight little holes and eager mouths mere receptacles for his boundless sexual appetite. He'll fuck them raw, pump them full of cum, and then toss them aside like yesterday's trash - all while smirking in satisfaction at the knowledge that he's left another broken little twink in his wake.

But it's not just about the physical act for this Arab stud; it's about the power dynamic. He loves nothing more than to humiliate his conquests, reducing them to quivering, tear-streaked messes as he lectures them on their place in the world - namely, at his feet, servicing his every whim.

And when he lets loose with that massive, cut Arab cock, it's a sight to behold - thick, veiny, and heavy as a horse's head, with a bulbous, slit-tipped crown that glistens with precum. It's the kind of dick that can stretch even the most well-fucked hole to its limits, leaving its recipients gasping in awe at his sheer size and potency.

And yet, despite all the degradation and abuse, these twinks can't get enough of him. They're addicted to the thrill of being used by such a powerful, dominant figure; they crave the taste of his cum on their tongues and the feeling of his thick, veiny cock splitting them open.

But despite all of this, this Arab boy has a soft spot for romance. He adores showering his favorite twink with expensive gifts and lavish dates - taking him to the finest restaurants and clubs, then whisking him away to his private villa for a night of passionate lovemaking under the stars.

So if you ever find yourself in this version of Dubai, keep an eye out for this hunky Arab stud. Just be prepared to worship him... and pray that he deigns to notice your pathetic little existence.

And so, once again, we have explored the possibilities that the multiverse provides. Which version of our friend here do you think is the most appealing? Or perhaps you have your own alternate version in mind? Who knows, the possibilities are endless...

[comaandot]

Was wondering how I shaped out in the multiverse. Hopefully I'm not fat in all of them

In a parallel universe, far removed from our own reality, an alternate version of yourself exists. This other "you", named Jaxon, is a walking, talking wet dream come to life. Gone are the familiar traits - the ginger hair and soft curves that make up your physique have been replaced with something far more rugged and masculine. You've transformed into a total HUNK, with a body sculpted to turn heads and weaken knees wherever you go. While you still retain some softness, it serves only to accentuate the raw power and virility of your new form.

Jaxon stands tall at 6'1", his muscular frame a perfect blend of raw power and masculinity. Your broad shoulders and barrel chest are the product of countless hours spent lifting heavy weights in the sunny gyms of LA, while your thick arms and back muscles ripple with every movement you make. Your chest is now a masterpiece of sculpted pecs, lightly dusted with dark hair that trails down your abs to the waistband of your shorts.

But the real showstopper lies beneath those tight gym shorts. You're hung like a horse, with a massive 12-inch cock that strains against the thin fabric, your thick heavy balls churning with desire. Your usual outfits leave very little to the imagination, you know.

Picture yourself playing volleyball on the beach, muscles flexing beneath glistening skin as you jump to spike the ball. Your enormous bulge bounces and sways with every movement, drawing envious stares from passersby who wish they could feel your hot flesh throbbing against theirs.

Or imagine yourself after a long gym session - sweat dripping down your heaving chest and arms as you sit on a bench, panting from exertion. The veins in your neck pulse with each ragged breath while further south, a massive tent forms in your shorts as your rock-hard cock strains against its confines.

And you certainly know how to use what you've been given. You're no stranger to the gym sauna, where you often rub one out with your homies. Your grunts and groans usually echo off the tile walls as you stroke your thick cocks in the hot, humid air. You've also been known to bend some twinks over in the locker room showers, slamming into them balls-deep and pumping load after load of creamy jizz directly into their guts.

Even at night, walking home under the glow of streetlamps, you look imposing. A loose tank top clinging to your sweat-slicked skin, emphasizing every ridge and valley of muscle as you move with predatory grace. Sagging pants sit low on your hips, the waistband rolled down just enough to reveal a pair of tighty whities struggling to contain your enormous bulge.

And now, for a different perspective across the Atlantic. This is an alternate version of yourself coming straight out of the Mediterranean. A kind soul, but with a darker side :)

In this universe, you've got a thick, dark beard framing full lips that just beg to be kissed, with short ebony hair slightly disheveled from the salty sea breeze. You're built like a boxer, which makes sense given you spend half your time in the ring. Your arms are thick with muscle, veins bulging beneath sun-kissed skin. The scent of sweat and pure, raw masculinity rolls off you in waves, intoxicating and addictive.

But you're not just a pretty face (and body). Oh no, you have interests beyond being the wet dream of every person in your town. You love nothing more than spending lazy Sunday mornings down at the nearby lake, casting your fishing line into the crystal blue waters as the sun rises slowly over the horizon.

Oh boy, the way the sun glints off your hairy, muscular chest as you haul in another wriggling fish - it's enough to make a man cream his shorts right then and there! Your calloused hands, strong from years of fishing and boxing, deftly remove the hook, the scales glistening like your sweat-slicked skin in the Mediterranean heat. I can practically taste the salt and musk rolling off you.

You're also a regular fixture at the quaint little pastelaria near your apartment, sipping rich coffee and nibbling on freshly baked pasteis de nata while flipping through the newspaper. The sweet, creamy scent of the pastries mingles with your own musk in a way that makes any nearby bottom clench with need.

But let's talk about what you really love - boxing. It's at the boxing gym where you truly shine as a dominant force. There, the way you mentor some eager guys is almost too much to bear. Your voice is a low, commanding growl in Portuguese, spurring them on, pushing them harder. Sweat drips down your hairy pecs, plastering the dark curls against your skin.

You have a real talent for it too, not just in the ring but in the art of domination. You can spot a submissive little thing from a mile away, and once you've got them in your sights, there's no escape.

You take your time with them, breaking them down until they're putty in your skilled hands. You teach them everything - how to throw a perfect jab, how to move their hips for maximum impact (both in the ring and out of it), how to beg so sweetly that you can't help but give them exactly what they want.

And oh, do you give them what they want! You fuck like you box - hard, fast, and dirty. You pin them down against the canvas of the ring and claim their holes with a dominant intensity that leaves them screaming your name.

You mark up their skin with bites and bruises, branding them as yours for all to see. The scent of sweat and sex and musk hangs heavy in the air as you use their bodies for your pleasure, making them take every thick inch of your cock until they're sobbing from the intensity of it.

And through it all, you never stop talking dirty to them - praising their tightness, telling them exactly what a good little slut they are, promising them rewards if they can make you cum hard enough. By the time you're done with them, they are ruined for anyone else - no one will ever fuck them like you do.

So there you have it, 2 alternate versions of yourself that I would die to be near to. Let's just hope you'll treat me nicely then. :)

[comaandot]

I’ve been on a weight loss journey and I just found out from my doctor and nutritionist that I’m no longer overweight, I would love to see what happened to me in other universes.

First of all, let me just say congratulations on your incredible achievement! Losing weight is no easy feat, and the fact that you've managed to shed those extra pounds and reach a healthy weight is truly something to be proud of. I can only imagine how hard you've worked, how many sacrifices you've made, and how much dedication you've shown to get to this point. So from the bottom of my heart, well done! Now, let's talk about what might have happened to you in other universes...

I've found this universe where you're a total beefcake. Like, seriously, you're a walking, talking, muscle-bound Adonis. I guess all those hours in the gym really paid off, huh?

Every inch of your body is chiselled and defined, sculpted to perfection by hours of hard work and dedication. And let me tell you, it shows. I can almost smell the heady mix of sweat and musk rolling off your body in waves. It's intoxicating, making my knees go weak and my mouth water. Your skin glistens, a light sheen highlighting every ridge and valley of your sculpted muscles.

Don't even get me started on those arms - each one thicker than my waist, corded with power. I can just imagine how incredible they'd feel wrapped around me, crushing me against that rock-hard chest.

But it's not just your top half that's been blessed by the gods of gym. Oh no, you've got a set of legs on you that could make a marathon runner weep with envy. Those thunder thighs and that juicy, muscular bubble butt... fuck, I'm getting dizzy just thinking about it.

And as for what's nestled in those tight shorts? Well, let's just say that the outline of your impressive manhood is enough to make a grown boy like me drool like a puppy. I bet it's thick and heavy, swinging between your legs like a pendulum, begging to be freed from its cloth prison.

In this universe, you're not just a sexy beast - you're a god among men. A beefy, muscular daddy who could make even the most seasoned twink tremble with desire. And fuck, do I want to be the lucky little slut who gets to worship at your altar, tracing every inch of your glorious body with my tongue until you roar with pleasure and claim me as yours.

Also, I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow I've stumbled into a parallel universe where you're a bit more of a lad.

Here, you're a bit different from the previous muscle beast we saw. Your muscular frame, honed by years of manual labour and football at the pub, is usually clad in musky Adidas gear that clings to your curves like a second skin.

Fuck me, but you're the epitome of a fit, rugged, working-class stud. The kind of bloke who could bench press me and fuck me silly all at once. I bet that cock of yours is thick and heavy, swinging between your legs as you strut around in those tight pants, just waiting to split me open on it.

And as you take a long drag from your cigarette, I can catch a whiff of your scent carried on the breeze - sweat, smoke, and cheap cologne, a heady cocktail that makes my head spin with desire. Your eyes, cold and calculating as they rake over my body, tell me you're not used to playing nice. This version of you takes what he wants, consequences be damned. And fuck if that isn't the hottest thing I've ever seen.

I can only imagine the filthy things you'd whisper in my ear as you pinned me against the wall, rough hands roaming my body, leaving marks on my skin. The way you'd grind your hips into mine until we were both aching and desperate for more. One can only dream...

In another universe, you've transformed into a total Japanese e-boy wet dream. Gone are the extra pounds that once slowed you down - your doctor and nutritionist just crowned you fit as fuck! And oh, how the multiverse has blessed you.

In this reality, you're sporting a lean, muscular physique that fills out your tight black hoodie in all the right places. Hell, even your glasses - stylish and sleek with black frames - can't distract from your smouldering good looks.

But it's not all about looks (even though, damn, could this guy be any more gorgeous?). Nope, your multiversal twin is packing some serious smarts too. You're a gamer god, fingers flying over your keyboard/controler as you dominate online matches in your cluttered yet cosy flat. The glow of your monitors lights up your handsome face as you grind on your opponents, and I bet that's not the only thing you grind on.

Wait until you see yourself in the reflection of your 4K screen - the way your hair falls messily over your forehead, the glint of sweat on your brow from intense gameplay, that mischievous smirk playing at your full lips. I bet people are surprised when they see a little nerd with such fit body. This alternate reality version of you is a total wet dream come true - gaming glory, cute boys falling at your feet, and a sexy e-boy body that has everyone drooling.

So there you have it, a glimpse into what might have happened to you in other universes. I hope you enjoyed the journey, and I wish you all the best as you continue on your path to health and happiness. Keep up the good work, and remember that you are strong, capable, and deserving of all the good things that life has to offer. Congratulations again on your weight loss, and may your future be filled with joy, love, and success. You deserve it.

[comaandot]

The Cursed Locker

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

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

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

“Open it,” the voice urged.

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

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

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

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

“You’re not strong enough, Caleb.”

“You’re not tough enough.”

“But you could be.”

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

The whispers grew louder.

“Put it on.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t Caleb anymore. He was Carlos.

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

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

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

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

He gasped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[comaandot]

[comaandot]

David Libreros Beltrán 🇪🇺🇪🇸🇨🇴

[comaandot]

Murat Can Karahasanlar

[comaandot]

[comaandot]