dawgchaser

[dawgchaser]

Stinky Slobs

Erik and Vinny had always been a little proud of how well put together they were as a couple. Erik, the bigger of the two, had that clean-cut gym guy look with a broad chest, thick arms, and rectangular glasses that gave him a sharp, almost academic vibe despite his muscles. Vinny was the opposite: thin and stylish, with bleached streaks in his dark hair, earrings that glinted under the light, and a wardrobe filled with pastel sweaters and fitted jeans. Between Erik’s steady, strong presence and Vinny’s colorful charm, they looked like the kind of couple who had it all figured out. Their apartment reflected that too   spotless surfaces, candles on the counter, laundry always folded neatly in drawers.

But all that started to unravel one Friday night.

They’d both been lounging on the couch after dinner, a movie paused while Vinny scrolled through his phone. “Babe, you have to see this clip,” Vinny said, his voice bright. Erik leaned over, chuckling. As Vinny tapped the screen, a weird flash of static replaced the video, followed by a low, almost whispery voice.

“Why keep trying so hard? Just relax. Be normal. Be messy. Let go.”

They both blinked at the screen. “Uh… what was that?” Vinny asked with a nervous laugh.

“Some dumb ad?” Erik shrugged, but for some reason, the words wouldn’t leave his head. Something about letting go felt heavy and strangely inviting. He stretched his broad arms over his head, feeling the familiar tightness of his muscles, but instead of pride, a wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Man,” he muttered, “I’m sick of working out all the time.”

Vinny looked up at him. “Wait, really? You love that stuff.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Erik mumbled, slumping further into the couch. “But… I dunno. Feels like too much effort, y’know?”

At first, the changes were subtle. Erik rubbed at his chest and realized the lines of his pecs weren’t as defined. His muscles felt softer, his stomach just slightly less firm. He frowned but then shrugged. “Whatever. Who cares,” he muttered, scratching lazily at his side.

Vinny, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably. His jeans felt tight across his thighs in a way they hadn’t that morning. He tugged at them, confused. “Uh… Erik, I think my legs are like… thicker?”

“Thicker?” Erik repeated with a smirk. “Good for you, dude. Maybe you’re bulking up.” The word “dude” slipped out naturally, and he didn’t even notice how strange it sounded compared to the affectionate “babe” he usually used.

Vinny tried to stand, but his jeans pinched. With an annoyed grunt, he yanked them off and tossed them aside. “Ugh. Whatever. Pants are overrated anyway,” he muttered, plopping back down in just his underwear. Erik didn’t even tease him for it   in fact, seeing Vinny lounge around like that gave him a strange sense of relief, like they didn’t have to try anymore.

It didn’t stop there. The apartment had always smelled faintly of lavender from Vinny’s candles, but now the air felt heavy, almost stale. Erik’s shirt clung to his skin, damp with sweat from doing nothing but sitting on the couch. He sniffed his armpit and frowned, then shrugged. “Guess I’m kinda rank,” he said with a laugh. “Too lazy to shower though.”

Vinny wrinkled his nose, but the smell didn’t really bother him like it used to. “You are kinda ripe,” he said, giggling. Then, to Erik’s surprise, Vinny lifted his own arm and gave himself a sniff. “Huh… I guess I’m not exactly fresh either.” Instead of rushing to shower, they both just laughed about it.

Their tidy apartment started to suffer. Vinny dropped his sweater on the floor and didn’t bother picking it up. Erik kicked his sneakers off near the couch, leaving them in the middle of the room. “I’ll clean it later,” he muttered, but neither of them did.

By the next day, their transformation had only gotten worse. Erik woke up with his hair sticking up in every direction, and instead of reaching for his usual clean outfit, he pulled on the same sweatpants he’d worn the night before. They smelled faintly like his own sweat, but he didn’t care. Vinny, meanwhile, grabbed a baggy hoodie and sniffed it. It had that musty, unwashed scent, but instead of tossing it in the laundry, he shrugged. “Eh, it’s fine,” he muttered.

Their once carefully curated outfits were now replaced with old gym shorts, stretched-out shirts, and socks that didn’t match. Erik scratched his chest absentmindedly, feeling the skin slightly tacky from not showering. “We should get breakfast,” he said, yawning.

“Or, like, order pizza,” Vinny suggested, grinning. “Less work.”

“Yeah, pizza,” Erik agreed instantly.

By Sunday, their apartment was unrecognizable. Dirty plates piled in the sink, crumbs littered the couch, and a faint but undeniable stink hung in the air: a mix of old food, unwashed clothes, and the lingering musk of two guys who’d barely left the couch. Vinny sat cross-legged on the floor, eating straight from a pizza box, his hoodie riding up over his growing thighs. “Man, I don’t think I’ve showered in two days,” he said with a laugh.

“Same,” Erik said, scratching his chest and yawning. “We’re gross, bro.”

“Yeah,” Vinny said with a grin, “but, like, who cares?” He leaned back and let out a loud, unapologetic burp.

Erik cracked up. “Nice one. Bet I can top that,” he said, grabbing a soda and chugging it before letting out a burp that shook his chest. They both laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

Their hygiene habits quickly spiraled. Erik noticed that his armpits smelled even after he’d changed shirts, not that he was changing often anymore. “Guess I’m just… permanently funky now,” he joked. Vinny snorted. “Dude, I think I’m sweating through my hoodie, like, constantly.”

“Yeah, you’re kinda stinky,” Erik teased, but there was no judgment in his tone. In fact, he leaned over and exaggeratedly sniffed Vinny’s armpit, making a face. “Whoa, man, you reek.”

Vinny laughed, shoving him. “Like you’re any better!”

Erik lifted up his leg and shot out a reeking fart.

PPFFFFFRRRBRBBBTTTT

By the end of the week, the couple that once looked like an Instagram ad for style and fitness had completely disappeared. Erik’s muscle definition had softened; he had a slight pudge forming where abs used to be. His rectangular glasses were smudged, and his hair was perpetually messy. Vinny’s once-skinny frame had bulked up in all the wrong places, his thighs and hips thick and awkward, his sweaters stretched tight across his torso.

The apartment had transformed into a pigsty. Dirty laundry sat in piles on the floor. Half-empty soda cans and crumpled chip bags covered the coffee table. The air was warm and stale, carrying the smell of sweat, food grease, and just a hint of sour socks from Erik’s sneakers.

They didn’t even care anymore.

“Yo,” Erik said, leaning back into the couch cushions with a groan. “I don’t think we’ve cleaned anything in, like, a week.”

Vinny grinned. “Yeah. Just everything is so stinky…huhuh awesome.”

And with that, they both burst out laughing again, sinking deeper into the messy comfort of their new lives, two lazy, smelly college boys who couldn’t care less about who they used to be.

[dawgchaser]

just wanna get the stress out and be a fucking lazy guy with a rotten butt, keeps letting out low farts and scrolling on tiktok all day, with no real goals or problems

You stand at the edge of the crumbling old park, teeth clenched, trying not to scream. The summer air is thick with humidity and smog, your dress shirt soaked with sweat from another goddamn 12-hour shift. Your boss screamed at you for a typo in an email. You missed lunch again. And the cherry on top? Some kid on the subway called you “sir” and offered you a seat. You're thirty-four. Thirty-fucking-four. Too young to feel this old, too tired to even care anymore.

You glance down at your phone. Three unread messages from your idiot boss, two from your mom asking if you’re seeing anyone, and a Grindr notification from some faceless torso begging for nudes. Again.

Your thumb hovers, then you sigh and shove it back into your pocket. You’re done. Done with work, done with men who treat you like a body part, done with feeling invisible and exhausted and trapped in a life that just grinds you down every damn day.

You wander deeper into the park, away from the noise of the city. Your shoes squelch in the mud as you stomp through a half-forgotten path overgrown with weeds. That’s when you see it—a cracked, moss-covered wishing well, half-sunken in the muck, choked with vines and god knows what.

You stare at it, panting, sweat dripping down your temples. You laugh bitterly.

“Fuck it,” you mutter.

You fish a grimy quarter from your pocket, flick it into the dark hole, and without thinking, snarl:

“I wish… I wish life was fucking easy. No boss. No stress. No bullshit. Just… no problems. Ever.”

The air around you shivers.

There’s a deep, gurgling glurp from the well. You stumble back. Then it hits you—the smell. Rotten eggs, sour milk, week-old ass—a stench that makes your eyes water and your stomach churn. A thick green gas erupts from the well with a hissing hiss, slamming into your face and forcing itself into your nostrils, your throat, your lungs.

You gag, eyes streaming, coughing as the gas curls around your body like sticky fingers. Your knees buckle, and you fall on your ass in the mud.

And then it begins.

A crude bubbling sensation crawls through your gut, as if something inside you is swelling, warping, rearranging. You groan, clutching your stomach, but your hands… your hands are thinner, longer, the veins more visible. Your pale, hairy arms start to twitch, hair falling out in clumps, replaced by smooth, tan skin.

Your ass shifts against the muddy ground. And then—pffrrrrbbbt—a low, lazy fart leaks out of you. Loud, wet, and foul.

“What the fuck…” you rasp, mortified. But your voice… it’s off. Higher-pitched, cracking, full of lazy indifference.

Your belly gurgles again, and suddenly your butt swells beneath you—soft, jiggly, and massive. You grope at it in horror. It’s round, rotten-feeling, and radiating heat. You shudder, and another lazy blorp of gas escapes from it, the stench vile.

“Nah… dude, no way,” you mutter. Dude?

Your clothes sag around you now, hanging off a skinnier, lankier frame. You fumble to your feet, stumbling, your pants sliding off your bony hips, revealing the baggy grey boxers clinging to your farting ass.

You’re sweating buckets, shaking, your brain foggy, like you just woke up from a 24-hour nap. You scratch your stomach dumbly, your nails chipped, and your once-trim nails now bitten, dirty.

You burp—loud, crass, and accidental—and then pull your phone from your pocket. Your fingers, twitchy and clumsy, unlock it without thinking. You open TikTok. Autopilot.

And suddenly it’s just you, swiping, eyes glazed, watching some hot girl lip-sync to a dumb audio. Your mouth hangs open.

“Bro… she’s like… hot as fuck,” you mutter, hand sliding absently to your crotch.

You blink.

“What the… what the hell’s happening?” you mutter, panic bubbling beneath your slack expression.

A massive fart rips from you, and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You’re too busy scrolling, watching the next TikTok, and the next, your thoughts slow, sluggish, stupid.

Something’s wrong.

But thinking feels hard, and your body? Funky, gross, and lazy. Your old life? It’s fading, bro. Fast.

You wake up in your childhood bedroom. The walls are plastered with old band posters—some emo crap you haven’t thought about in years—and a stack of unopened mail sits on the dusty desk. The clock blinks 2:47 PM in ugly neon red. Your head pounds like a jackhammer and your mouth tastes like you’ve been sucking on rotten socks.

You glance down. You’re still in yesterday’s ratty hoodie and those loose, saggy sweatpants that hang halfway off your hips, showing off the waistband of your worn-out briefs. Your stomach protrudes slightly over the elastic, soft and doughy. You run a hand over your greasy, unwashed hair—your nails ragged, your skin sallow and blotchy. You look… lean? Yeah, lean all right. Like a skinny-ass teenager who barely eats but still manages to be gross.

Your ass itches. You shift on your crusty bed sheets and let out a lazy fart. The sound is wet and disgusting, lingering like a fart cloud hovering over a dumpster. You don’t even flinch.

“Whatever,” you mutter, scratching your bubble butt like it’s a goddamn itch you’ve ignored for weeks.

Your phone buzzes nonstop, but the only notifications you care about are from TikTok and Instagram. You scroll. You watch. You laugh dumbly at cringe videos. Your thumbs move on autopilot, and your brain feels like mush.

You try to remember what the hell happened last night. That stupid wishing well, the gas, the farting, the weird sinking feeling in your gut. But your memory is hazy, and the parts that come back feel like a bad dream—or a shitty TikTok challenge you regret doing.

You stumble to the bathroom. The mirror greets you with a pale-faced kid with dark circles under his eyes, a greasy mop of hair, and an expression that screams “I haven’t showered in days.” You run your hand down your face and catch sight of your bubble butt reflected behind you in the mirror. The sight almost makes you gag.

Your pants are baggy, the waistband stretched out, but your butt looks like it has a life of its own—big, soft, and kind of disgusting. You shift, and a low fart escapes. The stink hits you immediately—like gym socks left in a locker for a month.

You gag. “Goddamn, you’re nasty,” you say to your reflection, but deep down you know it’s not just the stink. You’re… different. The gas didn’t just change your ass. It’s like it rewired your whole goddamn brain.

You remember your job, your boss, the grind, but they feel so far away, like someone else’s life. Your biggest ambition now? To not have to get off the couch today, maybe get some snacks, scroll TikTok, and let rip a few farts whenever you feel like it.

You pull out your phone again and open Grindr Tinder You scroll past the usual guys, but the messages don’t even register. Instead, you tap on a “straight” filter just to see what’s up.

The profiles that pop up are all clean-cut, suburban kids—baseball caps, chains, blonde hair, chewing gum, dumb smiles. You laugh, a little bitter, a little empty. You know you’re not one of them, but the damn gas seems to be dragging you toward that dumbass world.

You drop the phone on your stomach and lean back on your bed, legs splayed out, your bubble butt hanging loose. Another fart escapes—long, wet, totally unapologetic.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your mom: “Are you eating? When are you moving out? Love you!”

You don’t respond. You don’t care. You’re stuck now—in your body, your dumb ass brain, and this smelly, lazy lifestyle.

Because no matter how hard you try to fight it, you’re turning into the dumbest, grossest, straightest, laziest Gen Z loser you could possibly imagine.

You’re slouched on the couch in the basement, legs spread wide, one hand down your sweatpants, the other lazily scrolling TikTok on your cracked phone. Crumbs from Doritos cling to your hoodie. You haven’t changed clothes in three days. Hell, you don’t even know what day it is. Not that it matters. Every day’s the same now—wake up, fart, scroll, snack, fart again, maybe jerk it if you’re bored.

. Now, everyone just calls you Brody.

Your mom screams down the stairs: “Brody! Can you PLEASE take the trash out?! It smells like something died down there!”

You grunt. “Chill, mom, I’m doin’ stuff!”

You ain’t doin’ shit.

You let out a massive fart, the couch cushion rumbling under your soft, rotten bubble butt. You smirk. That one was nasty. The stink hits immediately—sour, cheesy, just wrong—but you don’t even flinch. Kinda proud, actually.

Your phone buzzes again. TikTok DM.

“Bro, u see that ass on that chick from chem class? 🔥🔥🔥”

You smirk, licking orange powder off your fingers, and reply with a sloppy selfie—your oily hair sticking out under a backwards cap, a smug, slack-jawed grin, and your tongue out like a moron.

“Lmao yeh bro she thick af 😮‍💨💦”

You send it without thinking, then shift, scratching your fart-prone ass.

You don’t work. Don’t go to school anymore. You dropped out, remember? Couldn’t focus. Too many lectures, too many rules. You hated that crap. Now, you’re just vibin’, as you like to say. Living at home, sponging off your mom, making dumb TikToks of you farting on random objects and rating the stink. People actually follow you for it. Like, thousands. They call you “BrodyTheTootGod” now.

Your room? Absolute wreck. Clothes everywhere. Empty soda bottles. Sticky socks. Crusty tissues. You don’t even bother cleaning. Who gives a shit?

Sometimes, late at night, you vaguely remember something—an office? Deadlines? A life before this? But those thoughts slip away the moment you let out another fart and dive back into TikTok.

You are Brody now.

19 years old, lazy, dumb as bricks, straight as hell, and nasty. You live for snacks, stinky farts, dumb memes, and scrolling TikTok for booty. You don’t care about jobs, the future, or your old life. That loser? He’s gone. Wiped out by a wish and a cloud of rancid gas.

[dawgchaser]

Empty Head, Happy Bro.

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

[dawgchaser]

[dawgchaser]

[dawgchaser]

Student Fare

“According to my system, you’ve booked a student fare in economy class. Also, the ticket says Mason, not Martin Harper. I’m sorry, but I’ll have to make a few adjustments.”

Annoyed didn’t quite capture what Martin felt in that moment. He had just wrapped up a successful but utterly draining week. All he wanted was a peaceful flight to Chicago — in business class. The idea of him, a senior executive, flying student fare in economy? Ridiculous. But he hadn’t booked the flight himself. His secretary usually handled that. She was on vacation. Her temporary replacement, clearly a disaster, would be looking for new employment come Monday.

“Give me your luggage, please. Technically, you should check in at the economy desk, but I’ll make an exception,” the ground agent said. Martin reached for his sleek Rimowa suitcase — only to find a battered gym bag at his feet. He stared in disbelief.

“I had to adjust your luggage based on your fare,” the agent said cheerfully. Adjust? Adjust? Martin nodded slowly, trying to keep his composure. He reached for his laptop bag — and froze. Gone. In its place: a ragged backpack with keychains and pins clinking on the zipper.

The agent handed him a boarding pass with a tight smile. “You should hurry. Security lines are long. “I use the fast lane,” Martin muttered. She smiled thinly. “Student fare.”

He slung the backpack over one shoulder, swearing under his breath, and headed for security. When was the last time I flew without priority check-in? Probably back when he was a student. He hated crowds. Flying, for him, had always been about escaping them — money buying silence, space, comfort.

Now he was shoulder to shoulder with tourists in Crocs and noisy kids with sticky fingers. He started sweating. He shrugged off his jacket and instinctively reached to loosen his tie—only to find none. In its place: a tacky beaded necklace with a seashell pendant.

What the hell?

He yanked off a backwards cap he hadn’t even realized he was wearing. His hair was soaked. Desperate, he tied the jacket around his waist. His sleeves were rolled up now, revealing tanned, hairy forearms and a dozen woven bracelets that reeked like a locker room. He sniffed one. Goddammit, they stink.

Security was finally in sight.

Martin—no, Mason—tossed his backpack into a plastic tray, followed by his belt and cap. No alarms went off, but a smirking security guard stepped forward. “I’ll need to pat you down,” the man said, eyes glinting. The tank top Mason apparently wore left his sides completely exposed. The officer’s hands slid up to his armpits. Mason clenched his jaw. Keep it together.

“Hey, college boy,” another officer barked, holding up the backpack. “That yours?” Shit. The weed. Mason froze.

“My bro’s clean. Let him pass!” shouted the Latino guard with the tight uniform and too-perfect jawline. Mason exhaled. And smirked. You’re gettin’ a kiss for that, papi. He blew him one.

Boarding had started. But Mason had priorities. He jogged to the restroom opposite the gate. At the urinal, a businessman in a navy-blue suit shot him a furtive glance. Mason caught it. His cheesy, uncut junk hanging out. The suit looked half horrified, half hypnotized. Mason grinned, gave a mock stroke. The guy mirrored him. Pathetic. Mason flexed his right arm, popped his sweaty bicep and shoved it under the man’s nose. “Enjoy, bro,” he chuckled. Normally, that’d cost ten bucks — or at least a beer. Speaking of which: Beer!

He dashed to a kiosk, stuffed two bottles and a couple protein bars into his backpack.

“Last and urgent call for Mason Harper, American Airlines Flight 241 to Chicago.” Mason jogged toward the gate, sloshing bottles and crinkling wrappers in his bag. Whatever unlucky sod ended up sitting next to him was in for a ride. Either heaven or hell.

The gate agent gave him a pained smile. “We’re overbooked, sir. The only seat left is in Business Class. Would that be alright?” Mason blinked. Business Class? Bloody hell! “Yeah, s’all good, mate.”

He climbed aboard, dumped his backpack in the overhead bin and cracked open a beer before even sitting down. Next to him: another navy-blue suit. Familiar face. He gave the man a wink, took a swig, and stretched his legs. Three hours to Chicago. Let the party begin.

Thanks to @deliciousrunawaydetective for saving this!

[dawgchaser]

The Hamptons Shift

You’ve worked weddings before, but nothing like this.

The tent was absurdly large—vaulted white canvas with golden tassels and strings of fairy lights that glittered in the soft dusk like some Disney fantasy brought to life. You’d been pouring drinks since three, and your white button-up was already clinging to your back with sweat, collar rubbing raw against your neck. The soft leather dress shoes pinched your toes with every damn step, but of course, you smiled through it. Tips were good here. Very good.

The crowd? Not your scene. At all.

Everyone was white, wealthy, and Christian, the kind of smug, tight-lipped Christians who looked like they’d tip well, then leave you a pamphlet about Jesus instead. They made polite small talk about stocks, baptisms, golf scores. And they kept looking at you—the help—with tight smiles. The men wore navy suits like armor. The women? Bare shoulders, pearls, fake smiles, and diamond wedding bands the size of your fucking ego.

You stayed silent. Hidden. You were good at that.

You’ve learned to keep the ‘gay’ to yourself at these gigs. Just a job, you told yourself. You’re 28, an aspiring actor, waiting tables and pouring drinks, just grinding, hoping for a break. In your head, you saw your name in lights. But tonight? You’re just Eric, anonymous bartender, serving lemon-thyme gimlets to people who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.

You were at the edge of the tent, watching them toast with your drinks, laughing that nasal, hollow laugh only old money can perfect, when she approached.

At first, you didn’t even notice her. She wasn’t loud like the rest of them. Just… there.

A soft click of heels on the wood floor.

“Hi,” she said, voice low, honeyed.

You looked up. Pretty. Blonde. Young. Hair in soft curls down her shoulders, pink silk dress hugging a slim, almost delicate figure. She held her vodka soda like it was an extension of her hand, poised, fingers perfectly manicured. Her smile was faint—not bubbly, not flirtatious—just… knowing.

“Uh, can I get you something?” you asked, standing a little straighter.

She shook her head, sipping. Her eyes didn’t leave yours.

“No. I just needed a break from the vultures.”

You offered a polite smile. “Tough crowd?”

She nodded slowly, glancing toward a table of older women in pastel dresses and tight blonde curls.

“They’re all over me,” she said. “My mom, my aunt, everyone. Asking when I’m gonna find a husband. Settling down.” She sipped again. “They think it’s urgent.”

You forced a little laugh. “Well… you’ve got time. No rush, right?”

Her gaze sharpened. Just for a second.

“Hmm.” She looked you over, head tilted. “Maybe. But you know, you’d make a great husband.”

That caught you off guard.

You laughed awkwardly. “Oh, uh… I don’t think so. I’m a gold star gay. Never even—well, let’s just say I’m not exactly in the market.”

You expected her to laugh. Maybe blush. Instead, she sipped her drink again, slow, deliberate.

“Gold star,” she repeated. “Right. That’s… cute.”

Something about the way she said it made your skin prickle. You looked away, clearing your throat.

“But hey,” you added, trying to lighten it, “I can still pour a mean martini.”

“Maybe,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly. “You just seem like someone who’s… got potential. You just need a little polish.”

“Polish?” You raised an eyebrow, smiling despite the sudden unease.

She nodded, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. Just some tweaks. Nothing big.”

You felt something tighten in your chest. Like your shirt had just gotten snug, right between your pecs. You tugged at the buttons absentmindedly, fingers fidgeting.

Her eyes flicked down—just briefly—then back up.

“Your posture, for one,” she said, voice feather-light. “You slouch. Like you’re hiding.”

“I—what?”

“Stand up straighter.”

It wasn’t a request.

You hesitated. Then, out of instinct—or obedience?—you pulled your shoulders back slightly.

Something popped. Not painful, just… odd. Your spine crackled softly as it shifted. Your shoulders pulled back tighter, chest pushing forward, head lifting.

“There,” she whispered. “That’s better.”

You blinked, breath caught in your throat. Your back ached, just a little, but it felt… firm. Right, in a weird way. Like this is how you should stand.

You gave a weak chuckle, rubbing your neck. “I guess I needed that adjustment.”

Her eyes gleamed. “You have no idea.”

Then, casually, like she was commenting on the weather: “Your jaw could be sharper too. You’ve got… a soft look.”

Your hand flew up to your face, fingertips brushing your jawline. It felt normal. Maybe. But now that she’d said it, you felt this weird tingling—along your chin, up toward your cheekbones. A faint tightness, like something pulling beneath the skin.

“What are you—?”

Her smile widened. Still small, but smug.

“I’m just saying,” she said, voice syrupy. “You’d look so much better with some angles. Masculine angles. You’re too… pretty.”

Your stomach twisted. Was she negging you? Was this some rich-girl flirting? You didn’t know. Your fingers kept running over your jaw, which suddenly felt… heavier. Square. The skin tight.

“Look, I should—”

“You’d be hot with a fade,” she interrupted, cutting you off.

You froze.

She stepped in closer. “Short on the sides. Clean. Tight. Get rid of this…” She gestured vaguely at your hair. “Floppy little theater-boy thing. You’d look like a man.”

You tried to speak. Tried to laugh. But your scalp was tingling now. Itching.

You scratched behind your ear, and—holy shit—was your hairline receding? No, no, not receding. Just… sharpening. Pulling back tight on the sides. You could feel it. Your fingers ran along the edge. The hair there was shorter. Clipped.

“I think I need to go,” you said, voice cracking. You stumbled backward, heat pulsing under your skin.

But she just smiled, one brow raised.

“You’ll come find me later,” she said. “You won’t want to leave.”

Your heart thumped—hard.

And then you were stumbling out of the tent into the sticky night air, shirt tight across your chest, scalp crawling, jaw aching—and nothing felt normal anymore.

The night air hit your face like a slap—hot, humid, thick with salt from the Atlantic nearby—but you barely noticed it. You stumbled away from the glowing tent, down the path that led toward the back garden, lungs gulping air like you’d just run a mile. Your hands were shaking.

You pressed your fingers to your jaw again—still sharp. Still wrong. You could feel the change now. Not imagined. Solid. Defined.

And your hair. You reached up again, pulling at it, but it was shorter now. On the sides, it felt stiff, buzzed, the kind of short cut you’d never get unless you were some jock with too much testosterone and no imagination. You tugged at the front, hoping to find the messy blond fringe you’d spent years perfecting—but even that felt thinner, coarser.

Your reflection in the garden mirror, hung obnoxiously on a tree for some rustic aesthetic, nearly made you gag.

Your face… was changing. The softness was gone. Your cheekbones popped sharp under your skin, and your jaw looked like it had been chiseled by a gym-obsessed barber. Your lips, once full and pouty, seemed thinner, pressed in a tight, neutral scowl. Your eyes—still blue, but darker now—held something else. A little deadness. A little cockiness. You didn’t like what was staring back.

“Just stand up straighter.”

Her voice echoed in your ears. That’s where it started. The little suggestion. Then the jaw. The haircut. You didn’t know what she was doing or how, but something was happening. And you had to get out.

You turned, almost running back toward the staff area, but your pants pinched, tight across your thighs. You stumbled, nearly falling over. You grunted—wait, that grunt, low and rough, wasn’t yours. It sounded… thicker, like it came from someone with a meatier neck.

You grabbed at your thighs. Holy shit. They were swollen, tight with pressure. The black slacks strained across them, seams groaning. You could feel the muscle—solid, hard, hot under the fabric. Your calves, too. The way they filled out your socks—they were like fucking tree trunks. Your ass—God, it felt huge, rounded, bouncing with every desperate step.

“No, no, fuck—what is happening?” you hissed, staggering behind the bar.

You found the employee bathroom again, locked the door, and stared into the mirror.

Your chest had swollen.

Your shirt barely closed now. Each breath pulled it tighter, buttons gaping around your pecs. Your nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric—hard, pointed. A thin dusting of chest hair peeked through the collar, darker than your natural blond, coarse and itchy. You clawed at it, pulling the shirt open.

You gasped.

Your abs—were real. Not the faint hint you used to have, but deep, solid slabs of muscle. Six, maybe eight. Your torso was soaked in sweat, and not the nervous kind—the rank, salty kind that stank of work, of iron, of testosterone. You reeked. Musky. Raw.

And fuck, it was turning you on.

Your cock—now thicker, hanging heavy in your tight briefs—twitched as you ran your hand down your stomach. The hair below your navel was growing too, thicker, darker, trailing downward. Your legs throbbed, constricted by the pants.

You fumbled to unbutton them—but your hands.

They were meaty, knuckles thicker, nails cut short. Your fingers looked like they belonged to a mechanic, not a twink. Veins snaked down your arms, bulging. You yanked at the pants. The button popped off, clattering to the tile. The zipper strained and split, revealing your stretched, sweat-soaked briefs underneath. Your cock strained the fabric—huge, meaty, thick as your fucking forearm.

You panted, sweat dripping down your nose.

And then—her voice again.

“You’re looking better already.”

Your head snapped toward the door.

She was outside.

You didn’t even ask how she got there. How she knew.

“I told you. Just a little polish,” she said, voice silky. “Now look at you. Thick. Strong. Smelling like a man.”

You backed away from the door, heart racing.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” you barked—but your voice…

It was deeper. Husky. That bro tone. Casual. Slight rasp, like you’d been yelling over music at the gym or screaming at a game.

“Just helping you,” she said sweetly. “You were… soft. Lost. Confused. But this—this is who you’re supposed to be.”

You shook your head, veins popping in your neck.

“No—I’m gay. I’m an actor. This isn’t me.”

Her laughter was soft. Dangerous.

“Oh honey. You were gay. You were an actor. But gay little actors don’t look like that,” she purred. “Not with those arms.”

You looked down. Your biceps pumped, heavy, swollen, corded with veins. You flexed—instinct—and the muscle bulged. Your cock twitched again.

“You wanna be seen, don’t you?” she whispered. “Not for your little monologues or drama class tears. But for your body. Your gains. For her eyes on you.”

You gripped the sink, breathing heavy.

“No—fuck—no…”

But even as you said it, you were flexing in the mirror.

Watching yourself.

Admiring.

And you didn’t know why, but you liked what you saw.

Your sweat. Your size. Your dominance.

And God help you… you wanted more.

You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the bathroom.

The mirror was steaming, fogged with your breath and body heat. Your shirt was long gone, pants torn at the seams, briefs soaked in sweat and stretched tight over a cock that refused to soften. You were panting, growling under your breath, unable to stop flexing, admiring yourself.

Your traps rose like fucking mountains into your thick neck. Your chest — fuck, your pecs — were massive, broad and firm, nipples jutting through coarse hair that now coated you from shoulders to abs. Your arms, roped with muscle, pulsed with each movement, and your biceps sat high and proud, begging for attention.

And you gave it to them.

“Fuckin’… alpha,” you muttered, not even thinking, just saying it, low and primal. You grunted, cock twitching, the stink of your own arousal filling the bathroom.

You tried — tried — to remember who you were before this. Your name. Your life. Something about acting? A city? Men?

But it all felt like a dream. Like some faggy, pathetic dream you used to have before you grew up.

Before she found you.

There was a knock at the door. Light. Controlled.

“Husband,” came her voice — calm, certain, like it had always belonged to you. “Come out.”

You blinked.

Husband?

You felt a sharp sting in your chest, like a rope pulling tight around your heart — and with it, something snapped inside.

You knew your name.

“Brad.”

You whispered it. Then again — louder.

“Fuckin’ Brad.”

You growled it, owned it, felt it swell in your chest like a new set of lungs filling for the first time.

Brad didn’t act. Brad didn’t pretend.

Brad lived.

Brad lifted.

Brad fucked.

You grabbed the bathroom handle, flung the door open — and there she was. Your woman.

She smiled when she saw you. Not sweet. Satisfied. Like someone admiring her work.

You stepped out, shirtless, stinking, body bronzed from head to toe. Your tight black boxer briefs clung to your monster cock, which throbbed visibly with each step. Her eyes lingered on it, and you grinned — cocky, hungry, ready.

She stepped close, running her fingers along your chest. “There you are.”

You huffed through your nose, nostrils flaring. “Damn right.”

Her touch made your cock leap. You wanted her. Needed to breed her. Your balls ached, heavy, full, ready to fill her up.

“God,” you groaned, grinding against her. “You fuckin’ did this, huh?”

Her nails dug lightly into your skin. “Mmm. You’re so much better now.”

You smirked, flexing your chest.

“Fuck yeah. Ain’t no fag actor now. Just Brad. God’s fuckin’ soldier.”

She laughed, soft and pleased. “And what do good Christian men do, Brad?”

You didn’t even pause.

“Breed.”

You lifted her — effortlessly — her dress riding up as you pressed her against the garden tree. Her legs wrapped around your waist, your cock grinding against her soaked panties.

“Gonna put a fuckin’ baby in you,” you growled, rutting against her. “For God. For us. For fuckin’ America.”

She gasped, breathless. “Yes. That’s my husband.”

The reception was still going strong—rich white guests swaying to some acoustic country bullshit, drunk on overpriced wine and family legacy. The Hamptons night was soft and warm, the tent glowing with golden light, laughter spilling across the manicured lawn.

You didn’t give a shit.

You had your girl pinned in the coat closet behind the tent, lights off, door locked, the air thick with musk and sex. The scent of expensive wool jackets mixed with the raw stink of your body—sweat, cologne, and the musky tang of your leaking cock.

You were still in that tight white button-up, but the sleeves were rolled high, sweat stains soaking the pits. The shirt strained against your chest, the fabric barely holding on over your swollen pecs. Top buttons ripped open—who cared? Your abs were carved, sweaty, flexing as you thrusted, hips pounding against her ass.

You’d shoved her up against the coats, one hand gripping her throat, the other clamped on her hip, holding her right where she belonged.

“Fuckin’ mine now,” you growled, voice low, gravelly, cock slamming deep, again and again, sweat dripping from your brow onto her back.

She moaned, breathless, body trembling.

“Brad—fuck—what if someone—”

You grinned, cocky as hell, rutting into her harder.

“Let ‘em fuckin’ hear, babe. Let ‘em know I’m claimin’ you, right here, where they can smell my cum on you all fuckin’ night.”

You reeked—like sweat, testosterone, and dominance. Your gold chain swung with every thrust, slapping against your hairy, muscled chest.

You looked down—your cock was huge, veined, soaked in her slick. Your balls swung heavy, swollen with your next load. You’d already bred her once earlier, in the garden, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

“Gonna fill you again,” you snarled, gripping her ass, slapping it hard. “Put a fuckin’ baby in you, right next to this goddamn coat rack. Ain’t gonna wait for marriage, ain’t gonna wait for nothin’. We own this place now.”

She whimpered, moaned, her legs shaking.

You pounded into her — and every thrust erased more of who you were. You couldn’t remember your old name. Couldn’t remember acting, couldn’t remember men, couldn’t remember why the fuck you’d ever cared about anything but this.

Her tits. Her tight pussy. Your cock. Your gains. Your God.

You flexed in the mirror behind her, watching your massive body dominate her petite frame. You looked perfect. Tanned. Jacked. Alpha as fuck. This wasn’t acting—this was real.

You weren’t a waiter. You weren’t an actor. You weren’t even gay.

You were Brad Turner, 29, fitness influencer, Christian conservative, and breeder.

You roared, balls tightening, cock exploding, spraying her full again, thick hot cum dripping down her thighs, your breath heavy, sweaty, triumphant.

You didn’t pull out. Fuck that.

You stayed buried in her, flexing, panting, smirking like the cocky bastard you were.

“Fuck, babe… that’s how a man claims his girl. Not with rings. Not with vows. With cum.”

You grabbed your phone from the coat pocket, snapped a pic of her dripping on your cock.

“For the bros,” you muttered.

Caption: “Bred her good. #GodsPlan #FitnessAndFaith #AlphaForLife”

Send.

You came hard — with a roar that shook the trees — flooding her, filling her. Claiming her.

When you pulled back, sweaty, panting, glowing with pride, she cupped your face.

“You’re perfect now,” she whispered.

You zipped up, no shame, buttoning your sweaty shirt half-assed, your chain glinting.

You walked out of the closet first, strutting, your girl limping behind, legs sticky, dress clinging to her soaked thighs.

People looked up. The air was thick with your stink.

You winked.

“Just makin’ memories,” you said, loud enough for the whole damn tent to hear.

And they all knew—Brad fucking Turner had bred his girl.

Right there.

You smiled, rubbing your sweaty, musky pits proudly.

“Fuck yeah. Brad’s the fuckin’ man.”

You looked down at your body — jacked, filthy, soaked in sweat and sex.

“Let’s go home, babe. I gotta hit the gym in the morning. Then church.”

And as you walked away, her hand in yours, you never once thought of your old life.

Brad didn’t look back.

Brad had everything he needed.

And he’d never be that weak little fag again.

[dawgchaser]

You Approve This Message: Domino

The buzz spread around the campus like wildfire, enabling the most toxic personality traits and thoughts of each students to the surface and molding them into an entirely different human being as reality shifted to adjust to the changes that happened

---

The dorm adjacent to Cas' experienced the most immediate impact. The soft-spoken and well-mannered Howie noticed the stink that his body produced as his sister pointed out about how his hair looked better when it's left growing and his physical transformation despite only been away for a year. That's when Howie realized that he no longer wears shirt and his long trainers already turned into a rather colorful short he would never pick up from the store. Looking at his screen and himself in horror, Harley is unable to stop his transformation into a long-haired stoner-skater that squeezed into the uni because his parents already sick with him and leveraged their donation to practically exile him away from the rest of the family. As the reality shift continues, the call also redirected from his sister to a fellow sophomore that he's been seeing for the past three weeks, when in reality the girl barely knew Harley. Yet, the message corrupted that reality and made sure Harley's seductive lies and toned skater body drive her wild and wet, she cannot think straight and simply fall to the temptation as she'll make the walk to Harley's dorm and let his 9 inchers monstrosity to wreck her hole

Harley's roommate also quickly affected by the message and as Harley turned around to tell his mates that the girl he's been seeing on and off is about to come by, all three of the now-stud just stared at Harley and scoffed

"And? Everything that walks through that door is ours to share bro, remember that?"

And Harley just grinned as the message coupled with the statement from Mario corrupted him even further as memories of them passing around girls that walked into their dorm room intensified in his brain, pretending to be real memories that Harley couldn't even decipher as mere manipulation of the corruptive message. Instead, he found his cock swells to its longest state, already leaking pre and ready to pounce as soon as she walks through the door

---

In the other room, Thomas the fat fuck lost his stubborn belly fat and his chubby face as his phone electrocuted him as soon as the message hit. As his eyes glitched after the fall and he tried to balance himself, reality shifted around him as his neatly organized room turned into a typical messy dorm belonged to an aspiring collegiate athlete with inconsistent discipline filled with cheat days, parties and all the good things that a charming jock can get just by using his face and his body. His form altered drastically from 6'2, 290lbs that mostly comprised of fat and water into a 5'11, 189lbs with merely 12% body fat.

His roommate Dexter and Joshua also got their fair share of transformation, both Political Science students getting a bit of an adjustment beyond their physique and mentality as their political ideology somehow corrupted by the message. The two climate activist recently dabbled into the kind of thinking more associated to the libertarian when it comes to the protection of Earth's from climate change. Yet, the message skewed that recent exploration into something much more sinister as the message turned them into full-blown libertarian with the foundational belief that government should not interfere with anything about private matters. Government should stay away from trying to mitigate climate crisis. Government should stop policing free speech. Government should stop trying to control gun ownership. Everything should involve government as little as possible, and Dax found it to be very easy to sell this idea to uninformed college jocks that has shaky political allegiance and can still be molded further into their cause. Dax got Josh to join the cause and now they are targeting Tommy to join their movement next, they just need to keep up with Tommy's insatiable lust for partying, fucking anything that moves and working out with his teammates, something both of them can definitely do as they are blessed with the right type of physicality and charm to blend in with Tommy's fit and a little bit airheaded crowd.

---

Spread further in the building, an innocent fit check in the bathroom by the preppy honor student Lukas turned into a thirst-trap sesh as he developed a set of rippling abs that looked like it's been carved by Michelangelo himself.

The snap he recently captured then found its way into the phones of the girls he used to have a crush on yet never dared to reach out, all zapped by the memory-altering selfie as all of them hit with the false memories of getting bred by Luke's uncut cock in their respective dorm. Now, with their long acrylic nails, they typed as fast as they can to be the one replying the first to Luke and get the privilege to be tossed around like a ragdoll by the swimming champion

In the other bathroom still in the same building but different wing, Shaun's preppy Ralph Lauren Oak Bluffs piece vanished into thin air and replaced by a tight black tank top that hugged his now massive pecs. His now-massive arms added some sense of dominance in his imposing stature, a testament of hard work that he put in the gym all throughout the years and he will only get bigger from now on. Memories of countless nights he spent solving math equation and physics formula replaced with brutal workout imposed by his wrestling coach in high school until he gained the full-ride scholarship to attend this uni. He of course chose Business Administration as his major, that's the easiest one to handle with his aspiration to become an Olympic wrestler for his beloved US of A by the time he graduated uni. But this is off-season now after a stellar first year here and he's interested to spend his nights out with some chicks that's been popping up in his DM's.

---

The entire occupants of the rec room stared at each other awkwardly as the message entered their inbox. The collective realization of the impending danger to their identity caused the message to respond with even more intensity, their entire surrounding vanished before they found themselves reappearing in the campus gym. Percy and Gerard flexed for a snap they sent to the cheerleaders that now they called as their girlfriend, informing them about their pump and how the girls better prepare their holes for a wild ride that will last all night long as both boys just got this experimental drug from the Coach that makes them horny as fuck!

In contrast to the boisterous nature shown by Perry and Gary, Giovanni and Samuel acted a bit more subtle in their approach. A nonchalant lean and a stoic expression while their muscle looking at its tip-top condition, the selfie ended up in their IG story that can only be accessed only by the people dumb enough to subscribe to their IG, desperate to have access to the more private views and visual of the two jocks. They shown the base of their cock once, teasing their mindless followers enough to send them to a frenzy, but only the most loyal and the one that they deemed hot enough have full access to worship their godly body. Calling themselves godly when both of them took minor in Religious Studies were ironic, but those were their old identities and they are no longer associating themselves with that past lives. The only thing that filled Joe's and Sam's mind now is how much money they will rack by the end of the month and what kind of things their devoted followers will buy for them so they don't need to use those cold, hard cash they earned for stuffs that their followers will get them.

These boys never resisted their message, what about you? What is the benefit of resisting the message other than missing out the fast lane to a life only you could dream of? If the message appears once more in your inbox, will you succumb to it and let it mold you into your ultimate, repressed desire? Or will you stupidly resist it once again?

---

Thank you @vindictivenerdcels for the input and one sub-plot here, appreciate your support that push me through to finish this draft that's been sitting since April and went through so many revisions.

[dawgchaser]

Bro, I’m not sure what’s happening to me. I’m a 38 year old Civil Engineer and I’ve been going to psychologist for my anxiety. He’s been giving me psychological. Drugs and treating me with hypnosis to relax a little more. I’ve been feeling better. One day I went to my Instagram and there were all of these photographs of someone one who looked like me bust staying stuff like ‘gain’s and ‘hit your macros, bros’. He looks like a younger, more muscular me. I have no idea what’s happening bro? Can you help me?

You’ve always been a man of control.

At 38, you’ve built a solid, respectable life. Civil engineering doesn’t allow for chaos — every line, every measurement, has to be exact. You bring that same precision to everything: the way you dress, the way you speak, the way you live alone in that spotless condo with your organized bookshelves and your glass decanter of scotch you rarely touch.

But lately… something’s been off. Slipping. Like a thread pulling loose that you can’t quite find.

It started with the anxiety. The chest tightness. The late nights lying awake, your mind racing. That’s why you found yourself in Dr. Haddon’s office — highly rated, expensive, discreet. You didn’t expect much. Maybe a prescription for something light. Maybe a breathing technique or two.

You didn’t expect the tea.

Or the hypnosis.

Or the way your reflection’s been looking… different.

It happens on a Tuesday morning. You’re sipping coffee, trying to clear the fog from your brain, when you casually check Instagram — something you do once, maybe twice a week.

And there it is.

A photo. Posted from your account.

It’s you, but it’s not. The man in the photo is younger. Thicker. His chest bulges, glistening with sweat. His smirk is wide, almost dumb, with that flexed arm and cropped gym shorts showing off tree-trunk thighs.

The caption reads: “Hit ya macros, bros 💪💦 #AlphaGrind #NoDaysOff.”

Your stomach clenches. You didn’t post this. You don’t talk like that. You don’t look like that.

You scroll frantically. Another one. Then another. Dozens of likes. Comments from strangers: “Beast, bro!” “Looking juicy af 🔥”

Your fingers tremble as you delete them, heart pounding. You check your sent messages — nothing. But still, the photos came from your phone, your account. Your face.

Except it doesn’t feel like your face anymore.

It’s only then that you notice the time. You’re late for your appointment. Again.

Lately, time seems to slip past you. You’ll blink and hours vanish. You’ve missed meetings, forgotten appointments. Sometimes you find yourself standing in a room with no memory of walking there. Your brain feels… clouded. Slow.

Your clothes feel too tight today. Your slacks tug at your thighs. Your shirt clings to your chest. You must’ve gained a few pounds — odd, since you haven’t changed your routine.

You hurry out the door.

The waiting room is too bright. The lights buzz faintly, almost beneath your hearing, like static crawling along your skin.

You feel a dull pressure at your temples. Not quite pain, but building.

Dr. Haddon greets you with that usual calm. His voice always seems too even, his movements precise, measured. There’s something unsettling about his eyes — something hungry, though you’d never say it out loud.

“You seem agitated,” he says, stepping aside. “Come in. Let’s get started.”

You move to the chair you always sit in — that massive leather seat. As you settle into it, something feels off. Your legs press wider than normal. The leather squeaks. You adjust, and realize your thighs feel… thicker. The fabric of your slacks pulls, uncomfortable at your crotch. You shift again, spreading your legs without thinking — manspreading.

Why are you sitting like this?

“Tea?” he asks, already holding the cup.

You hesitate, but nod. Your mouth is dry, your head pounding. You need something to ground you.

You take the cup. That familiar, bitter smell hits your nose — earthy, pungent. Like mushrooms and metal.

You sip. It’s hot. Your throat tightens, but you swallow. Your stomach gurgles.

“You’ve been feeling disconnected,” he says, returning to his chair. “Losing time. Seeing… odd things?”

You nod slowly. Your hands tremble. Your palms feel… sweaty.

“There’s something wrong,” you mutter. “I think someone’s messing with me. I’ve been seeing things. Photos. Myself, but not. Like—bro, I—”

You freeze. That word. It slipped out, like it belonged. Like your tongue wanted it.

“I—sorry,” you stammer. “I don’t know why I said—bro. I meant—fuck. I don’t talk like that.”

“It’s perfectly natural,” Dr. Haddon says, his voice calm. Soothing. “You’ve been anxious for a long time. You’re beginning to release. Letting go.”

He picks up his spoon. Starts stirring his tea.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

You wince. Your head pounds. You stare at the tea in your hands, swirling slowly. The light catches the surface just right, and you swear you see your reflection. Younger. Smirking.

“You’ve done so well,” he says. “Would you like to get rid of all those pesky anxieties, once and for all?”

His voice echoes — not loud, but it reverberates in your skull.

You want to say no. To ask what’s in the tea. To demand answers. But your lips move on their own.

“Y-yeah… brah…” you whisper. Your eyes go wide.

“I—no—I mean yes. Fuck—sorry—I don’t know what’s—”

He keeps stirring. Clink. Clink. Clink.

“You’re letting go,” he murmurs. “You’re becoming.”

You shift again. Your ass creaks against the leather. Your crotch is tight. Your thighs pulse — like they’re swelling. You can feel your shirt sticking to your chest, damp with sweat. You smell something.

Yourself.

Musky. Rank.

You never smell like this.

Your fingers twitch. Your teeth grind. You grunt — low, involuntary. You feel pressure in your gut. A sudden, hot fart slips out — loud, wet. You freeze, humiliated.

“Fuuuck, that’s ripe, bro…” you mutter. Then your heart stops.

What did you just say?

Dr. Haddon just smiles.

“Excellent progress.”

Your fart hangs in the air — thick, humid, rank. The smell hits you immediately. You gag softly, horrified, shifting in the chair to escape it — but the leather’s slick with sweat under you now. Your sweat.

You never sweat like this.

You want to apologize, to stammer out some excuse, but your throat won’t cooperate. There’s a thick pressure rising from your chest, pressing behind your eyes, making it hard to think. The lights seem brighter. The air, thicker. Your limbs feel… heavy.

Dr. Haddon doesn’t move. He just watches, spoon still stirring in slow, endless circles. Clink. Clink. Clink.

Your body shudders. Something pops in your spine — a subtle shift, but real. You arch forward with a soft grunt, gripping your knees.

“Hhhhnnngh…”

A dull, warm ache blooms in your thighs — not pain exactly, but deep and insistent, like after a brutal leg day at the gym. Except you don’t go that hard at the gym. You’re lean, not big. You’ve always avoided getting too bulky.

But your pants are tighter now. The fabric is straining — across your thighs, your crotch, your glutes. You shift again, your ass grinding into the sweaty leather. You can feel it — thicker, meatier. Your belt bites into your waist, and you reach down, fumbling with the buckle.

“Uncomfortable?” Dr. Haddon asks, voice calm.

“Y-yeah… feelin’… uhh, tight, bro,” you grunt — another slip. “Shit — I meant, yeah, it’s just — I dunno, dude, I feel… big.”

You wince again. Your voice sounds off. Lower. Looser. The words sloppier.

And then it happens — another pop, this time in your jaw. Your mouth falls open involuntarily. You press a hand to your face. Your jawbone feels… stronger. Squarer. You blink rapidly, eyes watering as sweat beads down your temples.

Your skin feels hot. Damp. Itchy.

You rub your chest through your shirt. The fabric is wet, clinging. You feel… more. Your pecs press against your hand. Not flat. Not like usual. Firm. Dense. You press harder — the flesh doesn’t give like it used to. You feel the ridges of a developing six-pack beneath the sweat-slick shirt.

“What’s—happening, man?” you gasp.

“You’re finally relaxing,” Dr. Haddon says smoothly. “Letting go of all that tension. All that control.”

You shake your head, but the movement feels sluggish. You’re so… warm. So dull. Like your brain is wrapped in cotton. You feel a flutter of panic, but it’s hard to hold on to it.

“Need to… get out… I—fuck, I gotta go, dude.”

You try to rise, but your legs won’t obey. They spread wider, involuntarily, planted firm and heavy. Your feet ache inside your shoes — toes cramped. You glance down and see your socks stretching, heels bulging. You groan, tugging at your collar.

Your armpits are soaked. You stink — raw, animal. You can’t ignore it anymore. Your nostrils flare. Musky, almost sour, vulgar. And somehow, it’s… not completely unpleasant.

You sniff again. Deeper.

“Ugh, bro… that’s, like, strong as hell…” you mutter, blinking. “Smells, like… good, man.”

Your stomach growls, but not with hunger — more like need. A heavy, low, pulsing need. Below your belt, your cock stirs, swelling in your tight briefs. You gasp — it’s heavier than usual, hot. Your pants feel like they might burst.

You grip your crotch. The pressure eases, just a little. You let out a long, low grunt.

“Hrrrrghhh…”

You shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t you. You’re a professional. You’re—

“Civil… engineer…” you whisper.

“What do you do?” Dr. Haddon asks, watching intently.

“I—I’m a c-civil engineer,” you say louder, gripping your head.

“Are you?”

You freeze.

Your brain searches, but the words don’t come. Instead, all you can think about is lifting. The gym. Protein. Gains. You see flashes — images — of yourself, shirtless, flexing, sweaty, laughing with your bros.

You grunt, louder this time, as your shirt collar tears slightly, your traps thickening. Your sleeves pinch at your biceps. Your pecs are pushing the buttons of your dress shirt.

“I—I lift, bro…” you mutter, breath ragged. “Like… heavy shit, dude. Like… gainin’. Gotta… hit macros, bro.”

Your heart thuds. That didn’t sound like you. It sounded…

Stupid. Crude.

You fart again — loud, wet. You snort, laughing dumbly.

“F-fuck, dude — hahahaha, nasty!”

You clap your thigh, laughing hard, breathless.

Then you freeze.

What the hell did you just do?

Dr. Haddon leans in.

“Good, Chadd. You’re doing very well.”

Your cock throbs. Your head swims. You don’t remember giving him your name.

But he knows it.

You’re sweating through your shirt.

The leather chair beneath you groans with every twitch of your growing frame. Your body isn’t just bulking — it’s evolving, twisting into something obscene, massive, and hungry. You barely remember how you got here. All you know is that it feels good to grow. To stink. To spread.

You grunt, legs wide apart, pawing at your chest. Your shirt’s soaked through, plastered to your skin — you can see the dark outline of your pecs stretching the fabric, nipples jutting out, hard. Your biceps are so pumped they throb, veins snaking across them. You flex instinctively, dumb pride bubbling up.

“F-fuck yeah, bro…” you groan. “Look at these fuckin’ guns, bruh.”

You rip your shirt open — buttons pop, flying off. Your pecs burst free, thick, dense, the kind that look like they’ve been carved out of meat. Your abs ripple beneath them, deep grooves running down your torso, glistening with sweat.

You stink.

Your pits reek, musk pouring off you like steam. You sniff, eyes fluttering.

“Ughhh—smell that alpha stank, bro… heh… fuckin’ nasty…”

Your mind flickers. A memory tries to claw its way up — engineering plans, something about municipal codes — but it’s drowned under a wave of protein macros, bench press stats, and titty pics. You shake your head hard, like it’ll knock those thoughts loose.

Instead, something cracks in your neck. Your traps swell, stretching the skin. You moan, grabbing your crotch — your cock is hard, pulsing, leaking through your straining slacks.

“Need to score, dude,” you grunt. “Need some tight pussy, man, fuhhh…”

You stand — or try to. Your mass fights back. Your thighs swell thicker, your ass juts out, straining your pants until the seams rip. You stumble, grunting, pawing at your belt, tearing it off.

Your pants fall.

Your legs are tree trunks, powerful and veined, covered in a light dusting of hair. You’re wearing red athletic shorts now — when the fuck did you change? Beneath them, compression underwear clings to your fat, musky package.

You turn — mirrors line the wall. You stare.

You don’t recognize yourself.

Your skin’s tan, glowing with a golden-brown sheen. Your jaw is thicker, your lips full, smirking. A thin beard shadows your face. Your eyes are dark, intense — cocky as hell. A backward cap perches on your buzzed head.

“Daaaaamn, lookin’ tight, papi…” you mutter, running a hand down your abs. Your voice is Latino now, heavy accent slurring the words. You flex, pecs bouncing. “Mmm… yeah, I’d fuck me, bruh…”

You reach under your shorts, scratch your sweaty balls, and sniff your hand.

“Fuuuuck, I stink, bro. Hell yeah. Chicks love this alpha funk.”

You laugh, loud, crude, dumb. Your brain is static. You try to remember your old life — but it’s gone. Wiped out. Nothing but lifting, eating clean, posting gains, and smashing pussy.

Dr. Haddon steps up behind you. You barely notice. You’re mesmerized by your own reflection.

“How do you feel, Chadd?” he asks.

You grin.

“Fuuuckin’ alpha, dude. Big, dumb, horny... I gotta lift, bruh. Then I gotta fuck. Can’t think right unless I pump some iron and bust a nut in some chick.”

You fart — loud, greasy. You snort, laughing like a moron.

“Yo, let’s hit the gym, papi. Time to grind.”

You grab your phone. You’re already live streaming, shirtless, flexing, thrusting.

“What’s up, my bros!” you yell. “Chadd here, just slayin’ the gains today, ya feel me? Ain’t no excuses, baby — hit them macros, lift heavy, and eat that pussy, bruh!”

Your followers explode in the comments. You don’t care. You’re not smart anymore. You’re jacked, dumb, and alpha as fuck.

You’re Chadd now. And Chadd only needs three things: Gains. Stank. Pussy.

[dawgchaser]

The Shades

You didn’t plan to go inside. You were just walking, aimlessly. The sun was too bright, the streets too crowded, and your head throbbed faintly with that familiar cocktail of loneliness and caffeine withdrawal. It was late afternoon, a dull Tuesday, and you had wrapped up another shift at the Midtown Alliance for Housing Equity, or as your co-workers called it, Misery HQ. Another day of gray cubicles, polite email chains, endless reports nobody would read.

You weren’t unhappy, exactly. Not outwardly. Thirty-six, single, civil, and carefully forgettable — you’d spent most of your life making sure you didn’t offend, didn’t attract too much attention. You wore neat slacks, sensible shoes, and sweaters year-round, even in the muggy heat of August. You weren’t ugly, just ordinary, though the occasional Grindr date reminded you of what you weren’t: exciting, hot, or worth texting back.

So when you passed Sunset Thrift — a little dump of a store, squeezed between a liquor shop and a vape lounge — you turned inside without thinking, hoping to waste time. The air inside was musty, thick with the scent of mildewed cloth and dust baked in old heat. You ran your fingers along cracked leather jackets, chipped mugs, racks of clothes from forgotten decades.

It was the accessories bin that caught your eye.

There, buried under a pile of tangled belts and beaded necklaces, was a pair of sunglasses.

But not just any sunglasses.

These things were obscene.

Bright neon-orange frames, thick plastic that looked warped by years of sun and sweat. The lenses were mirrored gold, but smudged, as if someone had been pawing them with greasy fingers. The sides had weird little designs, vaguely tribal — like something you’d find at the gas station attached to a beach bar. They practically screamed douchebag.

You picked them up, grimacing. They felt warm in your hand, weirdly sticky, like someone had just worn them — like they’d been ripped off the face of some shirtless moron who reeked of Axe body spray and cheap beer. You turned them over, half expecting a crack, or some brand name — but there was nothing. Just plastic. Smudged, scratched, and pulsing with an odd kind of presence.

You should’ve put them down.

Instead, you slipped them on.

And time stopped.

The thrift store mirror across the aisle shimmered. Your breath caught in your throat.

Because staring back wasn’t you.

Not entirely.

It was… a version of you. Or rather, a version of something you hated. Someone you’d cross the street to avoid. A frat bro.

Tanned, stupidly tanned, like he’d baked himself under a tanning bed and then oiled up for good measure. His hair — your hair? — was buzzed tight on the sides, styled into a thick, messy quiff under a backwards cap. His face was smirking, cocky, with a square jaw, light stubble, and lips parted just slightly like he was always on the verge of saying something crude.

But it was the body.

Your sweater was gone. Instead, a tank top — tiny, skin-tight, stretched over muscles that didn’t make sense. Thick arms, veiny forearms, bulging pecs with the faintest sheen of sweat. His — your? — chest rose and fell with slow, lazy confidence, the kind of posture that said “I run this place.”

And the eyes — hidden behind those gold lenses — you couldn’t see them. You didn’t want to.

You yanked the sunglasses off, panting. The mirror showed you again: pale, thin, unremarkable.

But for a second, you’d felt something. Not just seen it — you’d felt the heat of the sun, the weight of those swollen muscles, the tug of testosterone in your blood, something cruder, heavier in your body. It had felt… filthy.

You shook your head, heart pounding, cheeks burning. What the hell was that?

You looked down at the glasses in your hands. Still warm. Still smudged. You should’ve put them back.

Instead, you heard yourself ask, softly, “How much for these?”

You stepped into the blinding afternoon sun, the shades tucked in a little paper bag, your hand clammy around them. The heat hit you like a wall — heavy, damp, invasive. You wiped your brow, annoyed. The store’s air-conditioning hadn’t done you any favors.

The sunglasses pressed against your side inside the bag, as if waiting.

You hesitated.

Then, without fully thinking, you slipped them back on.

And everything changed.

The world looked… off. Like someone had tinted reality. Everything was brighter, sharper, but also lower, like the volume of the world had dropped, except for certain sounds — the rev of a car engine, the bass thump of music from a passing car, the laugh of a woman walking down the street.

You looked at her.

Tight jeans, crop top, long legs, hair in a messy ponytail.

“Bet she loves gettin’ railed,” your brain whispered.

You froze.

What?

You didn’t think that.

She walked past, and you turned your head, eyes locking on her ass.

Your throat tightened.

“Daaaamn, baby’s got cake,” your inner voice groaned, unbidden, “Bet she knows how to bounce it.”

Your stomach turned. You ripped the sunglasses off, hand trembling.

Your vision blurred for a moment, and everything snapped back. Normal color. Normal noise.

You gasped, heart racing.

What the fuck was happening?

You stumbled home, sweating through your undershirt, the sunglasses clenched in your pocket like a cursed relic. Every few steps, you could feel them — radiating heat, pulsing against your thigh.

You tossed them on your kitchen table the moment you got inside. Slammed the door, locked it.

You sat on your sagging futon, staring at them.

They stared back.

You cracked a beer. It tasted off — metallic, sour. You couldn’t focus. The TV played, some PBS documentary on the Stonewall riots, something you normally cared about. But your eyes kept drifting to the table.

To the glasses.

And slowly, you started to sweat.

Your skin itched. Your neck felt tight. You stood, tugging at your collar, and caught your reflection in the TV screen.

Something looked… wrong.

Your arms.

The sleeves were snug. You pushed one up, squinting.

Had your biceps always been that… firm?

No. Impossible.

Your hand trembled. You reached for the sunglasses, fingers hovering.

Just one more look.

Just for a second.

You slipped them on.

And there he was again.

But now, it wasn’t just the mirror.

You saw yourself — shirtless, sweating, standing in a suburban driveway under the sun, your chest puffed out like it could knock down a wall. Your hands held an energy drink, dribbling down your chin, soaking your tan, flexed torso. Every part of you was massive, swollen, obscene. Your shorts hung low, barely hiding your junk, and your thick fingers scratched your crotch without shame.

You smirked.

You belched, loud and unapologetic.

And you loved it.

You yanked them off, gasping.

Your shirt was soaked. Your hands smelled. Your thighs ached.

You stared in horror as you realized you were hard — throbbing, leaking — and not thinking of men. Not thinking of tenderness or romance or dates.

You were thinking about tits.

Big, bouncing tits.

You staggered back, knocking over a lamp. The room seemed to spin. Your chest heaved.

You weren’t that man.

You weren’t him.

But deep inside, under your skin, something had begun to stir. And it wasn’t going to stop.

You wake with a start.

Your first breath tastes wrong—stale, thick, almost meaty. You sit up, confused, and immediately feel it: your skin is drenched, your sheets slick with sweat. Not the usual kind, not night sweats from anxiety or bad dreams. This is rank, animal sweat. Sticky, clinging, like your body’s been baking in your own stench all night.

Your fingers touch your chest—expecting skin, maybe a damp t-shirt—but your hand presses into flesh.

Firm flesh. Heavy.

You blink in the morning gloom. It’s too dark to see properly, but your hands explore—groping your own body with growing horror. Your chest is thicker. Your nipples—larger, swollen, rubbing uncomfortably against your sheets. You wince as you shift—every motion feels weighted, your limbs not quite yours.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and groan.

Your legs feel like they’ve been hit with sandbags—heavy, sore, like you ran a marathon in your sleep. You look down.

Your thighs are huge.

Not fat—muscle. Dense, meaty, covered in dark hair you don’t recognize. You used to be hairless, kept yourself trimmed, clean. Now, coarse black hair mats your legs, curling against skin that looks darker, tanned, greasy.

You try to stand. Your knees crack, your lower back pops, and your feet thud to the floor with unfamiliar weight.

You catch your reflection in the mirror across the room.

You freeze.

What. The. Fuck.

Your torso—bigger. Not massive, not yet, but clearly bulking. Your pecs sit high and swollen, round, and... they bounce slightly when you shift your weight. You stare in disbelief at the faint shadows of abs pushing out against the soft skin of your stomach, like they’re forcing their way through.

But your face—

You stumble closer.

Your jaw is subtly different—blunter, wider. Your cheeks seem puffier, with a hint of color that wasn’t there before. You lean in. Your eyes—still yours—but... not right.

There’s a glint in them.

A cocky glint.

Like you’re mocking yourself.

You reach up, fingers trembling, to touch your hair.

It’s damp, slick, and your scalp itches like hell. You rake your fingers through it—and immediately recoil.

Grease.

Your hair is greasy, clumped into a messy, sweat-soaked quiff. You sniff your fingers and almost gag. Rank, like you spent the night partying, grinding, fucking—but you didn’t. You were alone.

You stink.

Your armpits reek, pungent and earthy, almost sour. You lift your arm to smell, and the muscle under your skin twitches.

Your biceps are tighter. Your arms—thicker.

You grab your phone to call someone—anyone—but your fingers struggle with the buttons.

Your fingers are too thick.

The screen smears with sweat as you fumble, and when your phone buzzes with a message from Ben—“Hey, wanna grab brunch today?”—you stare blankly.

Ben. Your co-worker. Nice guy. Maybe a crush?

Your cock twitches.

But not at Ben.

At the thought of brunch.

“Fuckin’ brunch is for pussies,” a voice growls in your mind.

You freeze.

You didn’t think that.

Yes, you did.

No.

You stumble to the bathroom, your body heavy, your skin itching. Every step is awkward. Your thighs rub together in a way they never used to, your feet slap on the floor, almost too big for your slippers.

In the mirror, under the harsh bathroom light, you see everything.

Your neck is thickening, your shoulders slowly widening, your collarbones vanishing under muscle. Your skin glistens, not with health—but with grease, sweat, testosterone.

You try to speak.

“Help…”

But your voice cracks, dropping a full octave.

“Fffffuck…”

You grab your throat. It’s sore, your Adam’s apple swollen.

You burp.

Loud. Wet. Vulgar.

It echoes in the tiny bathroom. Your breath smells, like protein powder, cheap beer, and unbrushed teeth. You cough, spit into the sink, and stare at the yellowish slime.

Your stomach gurgles. Loud. Obscene.

You fart—loud, wet, vibrating your thickening ass—and moan as it reeks.

Meat. Sweat. Rot.

You drop your boxers.

Your cock is hard.

Veiny, thicker, pulsing. Your balls hang low, heavy with sweat. Your crotch stinks—rank, primal.

You groan.

Your hand moves on its own.

Grabbing.

Stroking.

Fast. Crude.

You try to stop.

You can’t.

Your brain splits.

Half of you screams. The other half moans, lost in pussy, tits, ass—images flood your mind. Not men. Not romance.

Just raw, filthy fucking.

You climax, hard, grunting, spraying the sink, your body twitching as your legs wobble.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, gasping.

Your face is red.

Smirking.

Your nipples throb.

Your name—

You can’t remember it.

All you remember is the glasses.

They’re still on the table.

Calling you.

The sun blasted through the blinds, slicing golden bars across the room, igniting every bead of sweat that coated your skin like a second, greasy layer. You woke to a thick, heavy heat clinging to your body, sticky and suffocating. Your muscles ached, but it wasn’t soreness from exertion—it was the dull throb of something new, something wrong. Your skin felt slick, like you’d been doused in cheap tanning oil, that sickly sweet plastic smell rising up to curl in your nostrils.

Your mouth was dry, cracked at the corners. You swallowed, throat rough and raw, and a thick, guttural rasp tore from deep in your chest—not your voice. You cleared your throat, but only more rasp came out, heavier, lower, like a bruise turned sound. Your Adam’s apple bobbed in the mirror as you swallowed again, trying to recognize the stranger staring back at you.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and your feet hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud. The bed frame creaked under your weight. You blinked against the harsh light and shuffled over to the mirror hanging crooked on the wall.

Your reflection wasn’t yours anymore.

A square jaw jutted sharply beneath a scruffy layer of dark stubble, rough as sandpaper. Your once-neat hair was now a mess of oily spikes and tousled curls, plastered down unevenly as if styled with motor oil instead of gel. The skin on your face was bronzed, deeply tanned in an unnatural, sun-fried orange that glistened in the light.

Your lips—thick, almost swollen—twitched into a lopsided smirk that oozed swagger and stupid confidence. Hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, your eyes shimmered with a cocky, lazy arrogance. You could feel them sizing everything up, weighing every passerby like a prize to be owned.

You pulled off the cheap cotton shirt tangled around your torso and exposed what was underneath.

Every inch of your upper body was sculpted to absurd excess: thick, swollen pecs bulged under the greasy sheen of tanning oil, tiny droplets sliding down in slow, oily rivulets. The veins in your biceps throbbed visibly, thick cords pulsing like they had a life of their own, running up to arms that looked as if they’d been carved from marble but somehow also pumped full of steroids.

Your abs were sharp, deeply cut, carved like a six-pack made for magazine covers—but your skin glistened, sweaty and sticky. You flexed, watching the muscles ripple and swell as your veins throbbed with the effort, every movement screaming look at me.

Your hands lifted an aluminum can—a bright, glossy energy drink you hadn’t noticed before—its logo screaming with aggressive fonts and bright reds. You popped the tab open with a practiced flick and tilted the can back without hesitation, tipping it straight into your open mouth. The cold liquid gushed down your throat, but far more of it spilled over your chin, dribbling down your thick neck and onto the gleaming surface of your chest. You barely noticed. This wasn’t about hydration; it was a fucking performance.

You laughed—a loud, obnoxious bark that echoed in the small room. Your mouth hung open, and you flexed again, your silver chain bouncing lightly against your collarbone, gleaming as much as the oily skin beneath it. The sound of the laugh was deep and guttural, proud and brash, the kind of laugh that demanded attention.

A bright blue baseball cap was perched backward on your head, a perfect match for the shiny sports car parked outside that you could see through the window—the whole scene as curated and deliberate as a thirst trap. The cap’s fabric pressed against your scalp, framing your thick, sweaty quiff that poked out arrogantly from beneath.

You stood tall, chest puffed out like you owned the entire cul-de-sac. Every step you took felt like you were stomping down a runway, your boots hitting the pavement with swagger that screamed alpha. You ran your hand through your hair again, slicking it back with the same oily sweat coating your skin.

You caught sight of your reflection in a car window as you passed outside: a dumb, smug, deeply tanned meathead who oozed confidence, arrogance, and ignorance with every flex of his thick, veiny arms.

You noticed neighbors’ heads turning, eyes lingering—some with envy, others with thinly veiled disgust. But you didn’t care. You owned the attention, basked in it like a goddamn king.

Every drink you took was a protein shake in disguise, every glance was an invitation for admiration. Your grin was loud, obnoxious, absolutely deliberate. You were the embodiment of every frat bro stereotype, but you embraced it fully, like it was your true self finally waking up.

Your conversations were already starting to boil down to the usual nonsense: girls, gym, how much you bench, and politics—loud, crude, vulgar, and homophobic. The words came easier now, slipping off your tongue without thought or shame, and each one made your chest swell with a fierce, stupid pride.

You looked down at your massive, veiny arms flexing by your sides and smiled wide, teeth white and perfect. This was who you were now. No subtlety, no second guessing.

Just a dumb, loud, oiled, stinking, MAGA-loving, homophobic, sexist, protein-chugging, pussyhound meathead.

You laughed again, threw your head back, and slammed the empty energy drink can onto the driveway with a loud clank—more for show than anything.

[dawgchaser]

Graduation Trip Transformation

You had just graduated and you were going to Cabo with a bunch of kids you went to school with on the unofficial “senior trip”. You were excited but also nervous, only some of your friends were going, most of them were staying home. You knew that for the whole trip you would pretty much just be hanging out with your friends. Most of the other students who had gone were the super popular kids. You always found them obnoxious but to each their own. You and your friends weren’t ever popular, most of you were thin twinks who kept to themselves.

Boarding the flight you and your friends were looking at the seats you all had and were happy that you were going to be next to or at least near each other. From what conversations you heard from the other students it seemed like most friend groups made it a point to sit near each other. Once on the plane and settled down you were relieved that you and your friends found yourselves near the front of the plane while it seems like most of the students you found the most obnoxious were towards the middle. As it seemed like everyone had filed onto the plane you were expecting to begin the flight soon when the flight attendant came over the intercom and informed the passengers that the plane had too many people in the front and almost nobody was in the back. They needed a handful of people to volunteer and move to the back of the plane. After what felt like a lifetime of waiting for anyone to volunteer you decided to be benevolent and seperate yourself from your friends to go sit in the back. As you took a middle seat in a row in the very back of the plane you saw two meathead jocks from your school begin to advance down the aisle toward you.

“Oh God please don't sit near me” You thought to yourself and almost as if you had just jinxed yourself the two jocks came right up to you asile and said “Huhuh hey lil man can we huhuhuh sit with you?” They obviously were telling you that they were going to sit here but they were jokingly asking for your input as if it mattered. “Oh ummm sure I guess” you muttered a little timidly, you couldn’t think of any reason other than to pester you that they would feel inclined to sit with you. As one pushed past you to take the window seat you caught a whiff of his unwashed ass, it was rancid but not surprising that this straight jock was unhygienic. He sat down next to you, you recognized him from your school, his name was Tripp.The other jock who you also recognized sat down in the aisle seat, his name was Noah, he was a total douchebag and you knew it personally given that he would constantly tease and abuse you and your friends. A good handful of people shuffled to the back of the plane but no one had come within 4 rows of you and your new “friends”, you knew that the next three hours were going to be hell.

(Noah and Tripp)

At first they weren’t the worst to sit in between, they just constantly talked about the most vapid things ever and constantly chuckled and guffawed at anything and everything said but as the flight went on it got progressively worse and worse. At a certain point you could smell a horrible scent wafting through the air and you realized that both boys had taken off their flip-flops and each had propped one of their legs up on their other leg. It smelled so bad that you got up and shifted your body past Noah and slinked away into the bathroom. When you got back to your seat, you saw that the boys had each set up their flip-flops on your seat and had “dozed off”. You squeezed back to your seat past the large meathead in the way and begrudgingly reached out to move the heavily used flip-flops. as he reached down to grab the shoes, you caught another whiff of their stink, the smell invaded your nose again and you found a part of your brain growing just a bit fond of it. You took the flip-flops and placed them down on the floor in front of the boys, you watched as Tripp “woke up” from the cat nap you didn’t believe he was actually talking. “Hey bro you are back huhuh” Tripp dully spoke, “Think you can do Tripp a favor?”, you thought it sounded douchey for him to refer to himself in the 3rd person but you didn’t want to be rude so you asked what the favor was. “I need something from my bag but I'm too swole to bend over to get it huhuhuhu” You agreed and bent down towards Tripps bag under the seat in front of him when you saw a blur move towards you. Suddenly you were face to face with Tripps rancid feet reeking of fermented cheese, you quickly tried to pull your head back but was met with a hand holding your head down as Tripp and Noah began to laugh at your struggling.

You could feel yourself getting more and more light headed as you breathed in more and more of Tripp’s fragrant feet. Breath after breath your struggle to get away weakened as your thoughts clouded over and slowed to a snail's pace. The only thought you had was how disgusting these himbo’s are but that was slowly changing. The longer you were being forced to whiff the funk that constantly exudes from Tripp’s always unwashed feet, the more you found it appealing. You felt as Noah pulled you away from Tripp’s feet and as you began to come back to reality and off of your “stench high” you were starting to realize how truly disgusting that entire experience was. And right as you began to try to get up and escape, you were met with Noah’s flip-flop hitting right in the face. Somehow the flip-flop smelled so much worse than Tripp’s feet, your slowly recovering brain was sucked right back into the dull, stink induced state it was just in. As you huffed Noah's malodorous flip-flop your mind became so empty that you simply couldn’t conjure up a single thought, you could barely even comprehend what was happening. That's when you started to change…

You felt an odd sensation in your feet, your entire body felt like pins and needles, everything felt tender. Your arms and legs began to inflate with muscle like a balloon, your semi-flabby stomach turned into a set of rock hard abs that ladies would drool over, you felt your ass begin to grow and you rose just a little bit higher as you ass mow acted like a cushion. You also grew taller, taking you mere 5’7 to a solid 6’2 and the same transformation was happening below the belt, from an average 5” to 8.5”. You soon felt your hair growing longer atop your head, turning it into a bit of a messy mop. You also began to feel something fuzzy brushing against the foul smelling shoe forcibly suffocating you, it was a nice stache growing out of your upper lip. As it brushed against the flip-flop it began to be infused with Noah’s manly foot aroma. Hair also began to sprout out all over the body from a light amount topping of your shoulders to the forest that grew down your legs. As hair began to make its way to the tops of your feet you felt the itchy feeling associated with the rapid hair growth but also the feeling that the Converse you were wearing were far too small. As both feelings grew more intense you felt as your feet began to free themselves with force, your feet strained and strained against your shoes until they were torn into shreds of cloth and rubber on the floor. You heard Tripp say “Ooooof oh boy do his feet reek!” and you felt the gentle air of Tripp fanning his nose barely reaching you. Noah took in a deep breath of the newly minted odor that you were producing and simply said to you “Brooooo huhuh you stink real good!” Leaving the shoe glued to your face for just another minute Noah made sure that you were truly one with the stench before letting you get some of the “fresh” air surrounding you.

As you and your bro’s were off the plane you sauntered off in the nice leather flip-flops Noah brought for you to break in. You saw a group of nerdy virgins you went to school with waiting for someone to walk off the plane. As you and your two best bros walked away you could hear them questioning where their friend was. The next week was amazing as you spent the whole time in Cabo drinking beers, banging chicks, and kicking back with the bros in the hotel room your parents bought. Although it was a little weird to you that everytime you said something semi-smart or did some quick mental math for how much your tab was at the resort Noah would quickly shove his flip-flop in your face. Eh whatever, it made your brain feel tingly and simple for a few hours after it was like you were getting high off of his foot funk, and it was even nicer that your stache kept the stench trapped under your nose making the “high” last for hours.

[dawgchaser]

Today's lunch was delicious! Full video, call me in PM!

[dawgchaser]

Please please write a story where someone gets transformed into like a super smelly version of charles leclerc like hes still hot and lean and charming but constantly sweaty and reeks of sweat and farts and is way dumber

It was a slow Wednesday afternoon, and you were hiding at your desk again.

The low hum of the office mingled with the click of keyboards and the occasional throat clear from Accounting. You’d long since abandoned your actual work—those quarterly reports could wait. Your eyes flicked to your phone. No new messages. Of course not. You sighed and adjusted your pale blue cardigan, smoothing it nervously, almost compulsively. The office AC made your hands cold.

You glanced left, then right.

No one watching.

You opened a new browser tab and typed, “Charles Leclerc Monaco GP 2024 helmet cam.”

Your cheeks warmed slightly. You weren’t even into racing. You just... liked watching him. The control, the focus, that rakish grin. The way his toned body seemed barely contained by the race suit, especially when he peeled it off after a long race, face glistening with sweat, hair matted, voice hoarse...

You gulped.

You clicked a thumbnail that looked promising.

“CHARLES LECLERC — HOTTEST MOMENTS (UNCUT, SWEATY COMPILATION)”

The video didn’t play.

Instead, your screen flickered. Just once.

Then again.

Your browser froze—then the entire monitor blinked off.

“Goddamn it...” you muttered, tapping the keyboard. A nervous glance at your coworkers. Still oblivious. You reached for the mouse—and felt something wet.

Your palm. Sweaty.

You pulled your hand back and stared.

Your fingers were moist. Slick with perspiration. That was weird. You wiped them on your slacks, heart thumping slightly harder. It wasn’t hot in here.

A crackle came from your AirPods.

“Tu veux devenir lui, petit cochon?” a voice murmured.

You froze.

“What the hell?” you whispered. Your screen lit up again—only now it wasn’t showing YouTube.

It was showing you.

Or—someone in your seat. The camera angle was impossible, like it was taken from above, looking down at your desk.

But the man sitting there wasn’t quite... you.

His skin was darker, flushed with a light tan. His hair—yours—was shorter now. Darker. Damp? And his shirt—

You gasped.

There was a wet patch under one armpit. A dark stain spreading slowly across the cotton. And beneath it, the faint outline of muscle. You could see it stretching the fabric slightly, the arm beneath looking thicker than yours should be.

You raised your own arm to check.

Damp.

A dribble of sweat rolled down your side. You shivered.

No. No, no, no. You grabbed a tissue from your desk drawer and wiped your pits, hands trembling. The tissue came away soaked.

And the smell hit you.

Thick. Pungent. Like old gym clothes. Like man. Your eyes watered slightly.

You bolted up from your chair. The room tilted. A wave of heat surged over your body. You could feel your skin getting slick. Your breath came in short, stupid little gasps.

“Wh-what’s... happening?”

Your voice sounded hoarse. Raspy. Your tongue felt heavy.

Your waistband suddenly dug into your hips.

You stumbled to the bathroom, heart racing.

Inside the office restroom, you gripped the sink and stared at your reflection.

Sweat beaded on your forehead, trickling down your temples. Your skin was definitely darker now—like you’d spent a day in the sun. But you hadn’t. You were indoors. And your hair—

You touched it.

It was damp. Matted. And shorter. Clumping slightly with sweat, hanging across your forehead.

You sniffed.

God.

That smell. It was you. Your armpits reeked. Your crotch itched. Your back was soaked. You turned to the side and gasped.

Your ass looked... smaller. Tighter. Your slacks, which had always clung a little snugly to your modest, gym-trained glutes, now looked looser. But your thighs... thicker. More defined. The fabric clung weirdly, like it didn’t quite fit anymore.

You whimpered, leaning forward, trying to process. And then you farted.

Loud. Hot. A deep brap that echoed off the tiles.

You moaned in shame. The stench was immediate. Heavy. Sulfurous. Like old eggs mixed with something musky and ripe.

And worse—

You got hard.

Throbbing. Your cock pressed heavily against your briefs, now damp with sweat. It wasn’t right. You weren’t like this. You hated smells. You were the clean one. Always showered. Always polite. You never farted in public.

You groaned again. Your voice cracked.

“Putain...”

You blinked. That wasn’t English.

You gripped the counter. Your hands—bigger. Veins rising along your forearms. Hair thickening along your wrists. You looked up at the mirror—

And Charles Leclerc’s face stared back at you.

No. No. Not completely. Not yet.

But your jaw—sharper. Your nose—more defined. The hazel in your eyes creeping in at the edges of your irises. Your cheeks—slick with sweat, sun-kissed, already reddened like you’d just finished a long drive under the Monaco sun.

You moaned.

It was starting.

And it wasn’t going to stop.

You stank. You drooled. And deep in your skull, behind your panicked thoughts, a slow, dumb grin was forming...

...And it was his.

You stumble back from the mirror.

Your breath is heavy, fogging the glass. Your skin... it’s glistening. Drenched. Your undershirt clings to your chest like a second skin—tight, damp, sticky.

You’re soaked in your own sweat.

Your chest rises and falls, each breath more shallow, your nostrils flaring, catching more of that man-stink you’re leaking. God, your pits are rank, and it’s so strong you can taste it now.

And... and it’s turning you on.

Your cock throbs again in your wet, sticky briefs.

No. Focus. You lean back on the sink. Try to think. Try to remember your name.

It’s... it’s...

You blink.

A sharp, sudden pop echoes in your spine.

Your posture lurches, your back straightening. You grunt, and another fart bubbles out—louder, hotter, this one wet-sounding.

The stink is unbearable.

And you moan through it, cock twitching again, as pleasure and shame mix. Your body is betraying you, and now your abs are showing through your soaked shirt, clinging to each taut, lean muscle.

You reach for your phone—hands shaking—and glance at your lock screen.

It doesn’t unlock.

Your thumb... it doesn’t register. You try again.

Still locked.

You glance down—your hands aren’t yours. Long, tanned fingers, nails dirty, veins prominent, thick sweat beads dripping from your knuckles.

You stink.

Your phone buzzes.

Text from “PR: Monaco”

“Charles, the presser starts in 5. Please, PLEASE don’t be shirtless again. And please, no post-race fart jokes this time. Cameras will be on.”

You drop the phone. It clatters on the tile.

Your heart races.

You pant, stumbling to the wall, pressing your sweaty back against the cool tile.

Your reflection grins at you.

No. Not you. Not anymore.

Him. Charles.

Hazel eyes.

Sweat-slick skin.

A smirk.

And that mop of damp, light brown hair, messy, flattened to your brow, smelling of helmet musk, grease, and testosterone.

You retch, overwhelmed by your own reek, but instead of vomiting, your brain short-circuits.

“Uh... I gotta drive, no?” you murmur, voice low, thick with a French accent, lazy, dull.

You blink.

“Wait... what?” Your eyes widen. “N-no, that’s not—I'm—"

Your name.

It’s...

Gone.

Replaced with:

Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc.

You gasp, mind reeling, but the stink of your pits and the fart that escapes your ass as you bend over to catch your breath, grounds you.

Grounds him.

Your lips curl. You sniff the air. You smile, dumbly.

“Mon dieu... smells like... victory,” you mutter, chuckling stupidly, hand scratching your bare stomach. Your shirt’s gone. When did it come off?

Your abs glisten. You’re jacked, but lean—cut like a driver, not a bodybuilder. And fuck, you’re sweating like you just finished a race.

You stagger to the mirror. Your reflection grins wider.

And you talk back.

“C’est moi, bro. Charles... the man, non?” you giggle, dumb, cocky. Your cock tenting in your soaked briefs, leaking.

You grab the waistband and snap it, letting your junk bounce. “You wish you were me, no? I smell fuckin’ incredible.”

You fart again, this one loud, vibrating, and you laugh, snorting.

You can’t even think straight. Your head is fogged. You want to race, to fuck, to fart, to smell like this forever.

You will.

Because you’re not who you were.

Not clean. Not gay. Not smart.

You’re dumb as shit.

You’re Charles.

And Charles stinks.

You smirk at the mirror and wink.

“Presser time... but first I fart again, yes?”

[dawgchaser]

My college roommate and I couldn’t be more different I’m an introverted gamer and he’s a good ole country boy the star tight end on the football team and a member of Pike. One day while I’m gaming with my D&D group online he comes up behind me and plops a cowboy hat on my head.

You’re deep into your D&D session, headset snug against your ears, eyes glued to the flickering screen. The pixelated dungeon glows in the dark of your dorm room, your little sanctuary. You’re nestled in your usual uniform—baggy sweatpants, an oversized Legend of Zelda tee, socks pulled halfway up your calves. Your glasses are slipping down your nose, as usual, but your fingers are moving too fast on the keyboard to adjust them.

“And that’s a nat 20, bitches,” you mumble triumphantly, grinning at the sound of your party groaning through your headset.

“Goddammit, Eli,” someone groans in Discord. “You always clutch.”

You smile. Eli. That’s your name, and online, that’s who you are—smart, strategic, fast with your fingers, and—okay, maybe—a little socially awkward. But you’ve got your friends, your games, and your peace.

Until the door behind you creaks open.

You hear it, but you don’t flinch. You already know who it is.

“Well, would ya look at this lil’ nerd all tucked in with his dragons an’ shit.”

It’s Cal. Your roommate. Six-foot-four, broad as a barn door, tan, loud, always shirtless, always sweaty. He’s from some tiny town in bumfuck Texas you’ve already forgotten the name of. The two of you couldn’t be more different—he’s Pike, football, country music, beer; you’re games, anime, EDM, iced coffee.

You glance back for a second. Yup. He’s shirtless again, wearing just some loose gray shorts, his cowboy boots on the wrong feet, and a six-pack of Bud in his hand. Sweat glistens on his chest, and he’s scratching at his abs like he’s got fleas. He gives you a lopsided grin, the kind that reeks of trouble.

You turn back to your game. “Hey, Cal. Can you not narrate my life? I’m in a boss fight.”

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, you hear the heavy creak of his boots behind you.

And then—plop—something soft but weighty lands on your head.

“What the hell?” you mutter, lifting your hand up.

It's rough, stiff felt. The brim curls around your vision. A cowboy hat.

“Oh no, dude, get this off me,” you whine, trying to lift it, but the moment your fingers touch the brim, something pulses—hot—through your scalp.

You freeze.

“Hell yeah, now ya look like a real man,” Cal laughs. “Welcome to Texas, partner.”

You open your mouth to snap back, but something... fuzzes in your skull. Like static.

Your headset starts to feel tight, too tight, and your fingers go clumsy on the keyboard.

“Uh... guys... give me a second,” you mumble, fumbling to pause the game.

A low, weird throbbing begins to spread under your scalp, crawling through your skull like your brain is bubbling, thick and slow, like molasses.

“What the...?” you mutter.

You lift the hat again—but your hands are sluggish, and your arms feel heavy, like you just benched too much. Your vision blurs.

You stumble to the side and catch your reflection in the mirror above your desk—and you swear your ears look bigger. Redder. Like they’re sunburnt or something.

“Ugh, it’s hot in here,” you mutter, but your voice—it's lower. Not much. Just enough to feel wrong.

You pull at your shirt, and it sticks. Damp. You lift it and sniff—

Jesus. That’s you?

Your pits are soaked, and the smell hits you like a locker room in August. You never sweat like this. You're clean. Neat. Always carry deodorant.

“What the hell, Cal, what’s in this hat?” you demand, but the words come out slurred—lazy. Almost a drawl.

Cal’s laughing his ass off. “Damn, Eli, you already sweatin’ like a hog at the county fair!”

You try to yank the hat off completely, but your fingers twitch—your hands aren’t obeying. Your nails look... thicker. Your wrists broader. Your knuckles cracking like they’re being stretched.

“Something’s wrong,” you say, but it comes out weird again: “Summin’s wrong...”

Panic surges, but so does... something else. A heat. A pressure behind your eyes and between your legs. Your crotch shifts in your sweatpants—bulging. And you feel it. Not like before when it was just a random morning wood. This feels... constant. Heavy. Like your cock’s bloated and itchy. And fuck, it’s hot in here.

“Ughhh,” you groan, tugging at your waistband and scratching at your balls. Sweat sticks your fingers to your thighs. You feel a shiver down your spine—and then a sudden, hot, pop inside your skull.

Your thoughts scramble—names, dates, memories, what’s 7 times 8? You can’t—wait—dude—what? You blink dumbly.

“Dude…” you mutter, “I... I can’t think straight, bro.”

“Yeah you can’t,” Cal laughs, clapping your shoulder. “C’mon, grab a beer. Ya done gamin’ for the night. Time for some real fun.”

“But... but I was gonna run a campaign—” you start, but your tongue feels thick. Campaign? Why’d you say that? You meant party. Like, with beer pong, right?

You stumble to your feet. Christ, your legs feel different. Longer. Tighter. You glance down. Your calves are... hairy. And your thighs are filling out those saggy sweatpants—lean muscle stretching the fabric.

Cal’s already popped a beer and shoved it in your hand.

You stare at it like it’s an alien object. You don’t drink beer. You hate beer. Except...

You sniff it. Kinda smells good. Malty. Cold. You chug half before you realize what you’re doing.

Your stomach growls. Loud.

Your brain... feels lighter. Less full. Like there was too much crap in there anyway. All those books, those math classes, your queer theory notes. Stuff for dorks. Fags. Wait—did you just think that?

“Dude,” you slur. “I feel... weird... like... dumb.”

Cal grins, nudging you. “You are dumb, Tex. Always been. Ain’t that right?”

You pause.

Tex?

“...Yeah,” you mutter, blinking slow. “Yeah... I guess that’s right.”

Your reflection catches your eye again—and this time, your hair looks lighter, blonder. A tuft sticking out under that cowboy hat. And your face... jaw’s thicker. Stubble dusting your cheeks. Freckles gone. That baby gay look replaced by something rougher. Rudder.

You groan, scratching your nuts again. Feels good. Real good. Fuck it’s hot.

“Yo, Cal,” you mutter, your voice deeper now, unmistakably Southern, “what time’s practice tomorrow? Coach’ll be pissed if I’m late again.”

Cal slaps your back, nearly knocking the beer out of your hand.

“That’s my boy! Don’t worry, Tex. You and me—we’re gonna wreck some fools. And then hit the bar, get some pussy. None o’ that game shit.”

You grin dumbly.

Yeah... fuck games.

“Hell yeah, bro,” you mutter, eyes glazed, cock twitching hard in your sweatpants. “Fuck... I’m hungry.”

And somewhere in your foggy head, your old life—the games, the queerness, the smarts—are drifting away like dust in the Texas wind...

You wake up to the smell of sweat, beer, and something else—rank. Your nose wrinkles, but your body doesn’t move right away. You’re sprawled out on your mattress, flat on your back, ass half hanging off the edge, your boxers bunched up, your cowboy hat still glued to your messy head of hair.

Your mouth tastes like ass and Bud Light. You groan.

“Shit…” you mutter, scratching your pit with one hand and your balls with the other, “...what fuckin’ time is it?”

It comes out slow. Drawled. Dumb.

You blink at the ceiling. Wait. What day is it? You don’t even remember. Who cares?

The dorm is a mess. Empty beer cans. Pizza boxes. Some chick’s bra on the floor. You stare at it, confused for a second. Did you...? You grin like an idiot. Hell yeah you did. You remember now—a blur of blonde hair, giggling, and your cock pounding like a fuckin’ jackhammer.

You scratch your balls again. Fuck. You’re always itchin’ down there now.

“Yo, Tex!” Cal’s voice thunders from the other side of the room. “Git yer ass up, boy, Coach said we got weight trainin’ in twenty! You ain’t skippin’ again!”

You sit up, head pounding. Sweat slicks your back. Your tight white tank top clings to you like a second skin, showing off your lean chest, a faint dusting of chest hair now always visible. You reach up to take off the cowboy hat but—nah. Feels right there. Real natural now.

You stagger to your feet, every movement exaggerated, loose, like your brain’s lagging behind your body. Your reflection catches your eye in the mirror.

Damn.

You look like a fuckin’ tool. Tall, tan, scruffy. Your jaw’s broad now, sharp, with that light brown douchey stubble. Your eyes are dull but cocky. Your teeth? Big, white, perfect for that dumbass smirk you wear constantly now.

You flex absently. Six pack’s tight. Arms are lean, wiry, all that football payin’ off. You fart—loud—and laugh like a moron.

“Phew! Damn,” you mutter, waving your hand in front of your face. “That’s nasty.”

Cal’s stompin’ over in his jorts, no shirt, chewing a fuckin’ toothpick, flexin’ like the hillbilly god he thinks he is.

“Bro,” he grins, “you reek like ass.”

You grin. “Hell yeah, bro. Good. Gotta smell like a man.”

You fist-bump, both of you shirtless now, sweaty, stinkin’, dumb and loud.

“Dude,” you mutter, “I gotta nut or somethin’. I’m so fuckin’ horny.”

Cal nods, serious. “Ain’t nutted since... what? Midnight?”

You both bust out laughing like it’s the dumbest joke in the world. You don’t remember much of the party last night except slamming beers, grabbing tits, and screaming about “FUCK YEAH PIKE RULES!”

Your phone buzzes.

You squint at it.

It’s a text from your old D&D group. "Hey Eli, you okay? You haven’t logged on in days."

You stare at it.

Eli. That name. Feels weird now. Wrong.

You frown, burp, and send back: “LOL who dis? Git gud, nerds.”

You toss your phone aside, grab your jockstrap from the floor, and slap Cal on the ass.

“Let’s fuckin’ GO, bro. Time to pump some iron an’ score some poon!”

He roars with laughter, and you two stomp out the door—loud, smelly, horny, and proud.

Just two dumbass Texas boys, living the dream, balls itchin’, brains empty, ready to wreck some dweebs on the field—and maybe, just maybe—take a few more chicks for a ride on the ol’ cowboy saddle.

YEE-FUCKIN-HAW, bro.

[dawgchaser]

Travis Transformed

It started in the gym locker room. We weren’t supposed to be there that late. Travis had begged me to come with him; his new routine had him lifting heavier, pushing harder. I never questioned it. He wanted to bulk up. I loved him for everything he was: sweet, soft-spoken, loyal. A little on the skinny side, sure. But his heart? Massive. That night, I was waiting for him to change, sitting on the bench near his gym bag. He peeled off his shirt, hair damp with sweat, and smiled at me. It was quiet. Comfortable. Until the door slammed open.

Derek and Blake the worst kind of jocks swaggered in like they owned the place. Derek, tall and tanned, dripping sweat and confidence, lifted his arms and stretched, unleashing a greasy burst of body odor so thick I gagged. Blake followed behind, shorter but wider, hairy, shirtless, and somehow even riper. His pits were dark with sweat, and the front of his gym shorts bulged indecently.

“Yo,” Derek said, his voice soaked in smugness. “Didn’t know this was faggot hour.”

Travis stiffened. I stood up immediately. “Back off.”

Blake let out a thunderous fart and laughed. “Damn. That pre-workout’s hittin’. You little fairies ever smell real man-stink before?” The air turned pungent. I covered my nose, eyes watering. But when I looked at Travis… he wasn’t gagging. He was staring. His jaw was tight. His hands balled into fists at his sides.

“You okay?” I whispered.

He nodded too fast. “Yeah. Fine.”

But I saw his nostrils flare again. He sniffed. That was the first crack.

Derek walked past us, shirtless, swiping a towel across his hairy chest. “You lookin’ to bulk, bro? Or just tryin’ to impress your lil boyfriend?”

Travis opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“He ain’t gotta answer,” Blake chuckled, lifting one foot and planting it on the bench near Travis, his nasty, sockless sneaker squelched from sweat. “Let him get a whiff. That’ll teach his nose what real masculinity smells like.”

I was about to say something when Blake yanked off the shoe. The smell hit like a punch. Vinegar. Cheese. Rotting meat. It was primal, filthy, and thick. I reeled backward, choking. But Travis… froze. He looked like he’d been slapped. His pupils dilated. And before I could stop him, he took a shaky breath in.

“…Travis?” I whispered.

He blinked rapidly. His cheeks flushed.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he mumbled. But his voice cracked. His knees wobbled slightly, like the stench had short-circuited his brain.

Blake grinned. “See? He likes it. Bet you never gave him anything that ripe, huh princess?”

“Shut up,” I hissed, stepping forward.

But Derek grabbed Travis by the shoulders casually, like a coach hyping a player. “Come on, bro. You smell that, don’t you? That’s what it means to be a real man. Not perfume and soft hands. Just musk. Just dominance.”

Travis shook his head. “No, I'm not like you.”

Blake leaned in, farting again long and wet. “Not yet.”

I tried to pull Travis back, but he wouldn’t move. His legs had gone soft.

“I’m ” he gasped, eyes locked on Derek’s pit as the jock pulled him closer. “I’m not…”

“You wanna be,” Derek whispered. “That’s why you’re still here.”

And then Derek lifted his arm. He pressed Travis’s face directly into his pit. Travis thrashed at first. I screamed, lunging forward but Blake held me back, laughing, his sweaty gut pinning me in place.

“Let him breathe it in. Let the stink sink deep.”

And Travis… stopped struggling. He stopped moving. His nose twitched once. Then again. His breath came in shallow gasps. I could see the fight happening inside him his mind pushing against the fog. But Derek held him there. Sweat dripping. Musk soaking into Travis’s skin. And slowly, his fingers unclenched. He pulled back, gasping. His lips were slightly parted. He looked dazed. Confused. Like something had shifted.

Derek smiled. “That’s it, bro. You took your first breath. That shit’s gonna live in you now.”

Blake shoved me to the ground and tossed a crusty gym sock on my lap. “Better get used to losing him, pretty boy.”

And I stared up at my boyfriend. He was still Travis. But his shoulders had dropped just slightly. His breath reeked of Derek’s pit. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine. And I knew…The stink was inside him now. And it wasn’t done. Travis staggered back from Derek’s pit, gasping like he’d just surfaced from underwater. His face was soaked in jock sweat. His lips slightly parted. His eyes, foggy. He looked like he’d forgotten where he was.

“Yo,” Derek laughed. “You good, bro?”

“I ” Travis blinked rapidly. “I don’t know.”

I rushed to him, grabbed his wrist. “We’re leaving. Now.”

But he didn’t move. His skin felt clammy. And his legs… trembling. He looked down at the gym floor like it was spinning beneath him.

Blake stomped his foot beside us. The slap of his bare, sweaty sole echoed through the locker room. “Nah, man. We ain't done yet. You smell that?” He lifted his other foot and peeled off his crusty sock like it was glued on. “He’s only had one sniff. Just one.”

“Travis,” I said, firmer. “Don’t listen to them.”

But his nostrils were twitching again. And then Blake pulled the fleshlight out of his gym bag. It was worse than before. Dripping. Oily. Foul. The air thickened instantly cum, sweat, and something fermented, like it’d been left in a jock’s locker for weeks. Travis backed away instinctively, but Derek caught him by the shoulders again, holding him steady.

“You don’t have to touch it,” Derek said, grinning. “Just feel it. Just... see what it does.”

Blake crouched in front of Travis, holding the thing like an offering. “You ain’t gotta jerk it. We’ll take care of that.”

“No,” Travis said barely more than a whisper.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t fight when Blake reached out and pressed the disgusting toy against the bulge in his shorts. Travis gasped loud. His hips jerked back, but Derek gripped him tighter, locking his arms down from behind.

“Relax,” Derek murmured in his ear, the stink from his pits and breath washing over Travis’s face. “Just let it happen.”

Blake slowly started working the toy against him through the fabric at first, letting the slickness soak into Travis’s shorts. He moaned. A tiny, high, broken sound that cracked me open inside.

“No,” Travis choked. “I I don’t want this ”

“But your cock does,” Blake said with a grin. “It’s already twitchin’, bro. It knows what you are.”

“Stop it!” I shouted, lunging forward but Blake slammed me back with a sweaty foot, pinning me to the bench with nothing but his stink and weight. I gagged, eyes burning.

“Watch,” he growled. “This is where he changes.”

Travis whimpered, eyes squeezed shut. His arms were still locked behind him in Derek’s hold. He wasn’t consenting and yet his cock was hard, clearly outlined, straining against his shorts as Blake rubbed the fleshlight over it. The stink clung to everything. To Travis’s thighs. His stomach. His face. And I watched the fight in him start to slip.

Blake yanked Travis’s shorts down with one wet schlick, and Travis yelped but didn’t resist. His cock slapped out, throbbing, already leaking. I couldn’t look away.

“Time to help our boy dump out the last of that old identity,” Blake said.

And then he slid Travis into the fleshlight. Travis screamed. Not in pain, just overstimulation. Confusion. Terror. His whole body seized. His toes curled against the tile floor. Derek kept him steady, breathing down his neck, while Blake pumped the toy slowly, rhythmically grinning like a pervert while the stink of the locker room surrounded us all. I watched the love of my life pant and tremble and lose ground. His thighs slapped against Blake’s arm. His mouth hung open. His moans grew lower. Less human. Less... Travis.

He wasn’t thrusting… not yet. But his hips twitched. His breath came in shallow gasps. His face was a mess of shame, arousal, panic.

“I can’t… I can’t cum like this,” he said, shaking. “If I do if I do ”

“You’ll be free,” Derek whispered, grinding his pit harder against Travis’s cheek. “Free of all that weak queer shit. Just meat. Just stink. Just jock.”

Each time Blake pumped, a little more of the old him seemed to drain away.

“You’re doing great, bro,” Derek said. “Let that fuckin’ loser melt outta your cock.”

“I…I don’t want to ” Travis groaned, but his hips started moving.

Not fully. Not willingly. But his body was giving in. Responding.

Blake’s grin widened. “There he is. We’re almost there.”

“No,” I whispered. I tried crawling forward, still half-dizzy from the jocks’ stink. “Please, Travis, fight it. You’re still in there.”

He looked at me. Just for a second. Tears in his eyes.

And then Derek leaned in and spat into his ear. “Forget him. He ain’t your bro anymore.”

And Travis thrust. Once. Twice. Moaning deeper. Sloppier. Like a drunk frat boy humping a couch cushion. His breath reeked. His skin glistened.

Squelch… splurt… squelch

The toy kept bouncing up and down on him.

The locker room reeked now. A heavy, greasy fog of boy-stench lingered in the humid air, like it had soaked into the cinderblock walls and bench wood. Travis was trembling, hunched forward on the bench, dripping with sweat. His back rose and fell in erratic breaths, the fog inside him thickening with every inhale. My eyes were wide, locked on him. My boyfriend. My sweet, thoughtful Travis. Still fighting. Still in there. But barely.

Blake leaned in behind him, grinning wide and stupid. “Bro… c’mon. Stop holdin’ back. You liked that. You needed that,” he said, voice low and slurred like his thoughts barely connected. He ran his hand down Travis’s slick back. “Feel how loose you are now? Bet your brain’s finally chillin’ out, huh?”

Travis’s fingers dug into the bench. “I’m not like you…” he whispered. But his voice cracked halfway through.

“Not yet,” Derek smirked, squatting beside him with pits bared like a trap. “But you’re stink-soaked now, man. You feel that, don’t you? Skin’s buzzin’. Thoughts slowin’. We’re not gonna make you finish changing. You’re gonna want it.”

A low, wet thup echoed through the tiles as Derek dropped his soaked jock onto Travis’s lap. The reek was immediate. Like sour cream left in a locker over summer break. Travis recoiled but only for a second. Then he froze. Breathing deep.

I watched his lips part, nostrils twitching. Eyes fluttering. That sharp intelligence I loved in him…it flickered, like a TV screen shorting out.

“Yeahhh…” Blake said, grabbing Travis’s chin from behind and turning it toward his pit. “Just sniff, bro. Ain’t no shame in admittin’ your place. You’re a locker room boy. A real one.”

Travis whimpered. “I don’t…”

Blake cut him off by stuffing his ripe, hairy pit against Travis’s nose.

He struggled, but only for a moment. His thighs stopped tensing. His hands loosened on the bench. And then… the sound. That slow, barely-there moan. Like something deep inside him was unclenching.

Like his old self was loosening its grip.

He stayed buried in Blake’s pit for too long.

When he pulled away, his eyes looked… wrong. Less focused. Droopy. Like his brain had been swaddled in used gym socks and left to ferment. His mouth hung half open, glistening with sweat and spit. One hand dropped down to rub the inside of his thigh. He looked at Derek. Then at me. Derek thrust the toy down on him hard and Travis let out a moan that could have been mistaken for a scream and suddenly the boy I loved was shooting his load into the air.

The locker room was heavy with silence. The stale, thick musk of sweat and unwashed bodies clung to every corner like a second skin. Flickering fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting sickly shadows across cracked tiles and battered benches. I sat against the cold wall, heart pounding in my chest, unable to move. The man I loved was no longer the boy who’d come in here hours ago fighting, trembling, trying to hold on. Travis was different now. He lounged nearby, sprawled out on the bench, chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. His skin glistened with a sheen of sweat that reeked of musk and stale armpits. His eyes, glazed and dull, barely acknowledged me as he scratched at his pits and sniffed his fingers, an unconscious, filthy habit. His broad shoulders sagged with a careless, lazy weight. The cocky smirk curling his lips wasn’t mine anymore. It belonged to the jock, the meathead born from hours of stink and submission. Blake and Derek laughed quietly, exchanging smug glances as they packed up their bags, leaving their mark behind like a storm. I swallowed hard, a knot twisting in my gut. Travis didn’t look at me. Didn’t say a word.

He was gone.

And in his place was something else, something I couldn’t reach anymore. The locker room air felt thicker now, heavier with the scent of lost battles and broken promises. I stayed rooted, watching him breathe in the stink that had claimed him. The new Travis was here to stay. Travis got up, stood by his bro’s, let out a massive fart, and looked at me with a dumbass expression on his face…he was gone.