disciplined-cornfed

[disciplined-cornfed]

Forced In

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Malcolm Ryder strutted down the street with an obnoxious bounce in his step. His fluffy, chocolate brown hair bounced with each step, displaying his own self-confidence as he made his way down the hill to his neighbor’s home. The young man had his lightly-muscled body on full display underneath his basic white tank-top and running shorts. With his 6′4 stature, thin but built body, and flowing mane, he knew he was a handsome dish, and with the outfit he would be receiving in minutes he’d be even hotter.

With a fresh business degree and a starting position at a local marketing company, Malcolm had set off smoothly into the adult world. He worked, neither not enough or hard, and in most of his downtime he was spending all the money he earned partying. Luckily, his parents helped him out every time he reached a financial crisis, but it had given Malcolm a false promise of security, allowing him to believe there would always be someone to help pick him up. With that aside however, he was smart, attractive, and had a (mostly) promising future ahead of him.

About a week ago, Malcolm had been invited by a college buddy to a massive blowout in the city later that evening. His friend had been told by another source that it was supposedly held by a social media mogul, hopefully meaning a colossal turnout. While Malcolm was grateful for the invite and excited for the party, he also hoped to hook up with someone–or a few someones–by the end of the night. He’d already prepped himself hours ago–making sure to look appealing to his conquests–and was ready to depart when his friend realized he had forgotten to tell him one major detail of the party.

“It’s a costume party?” Malcolm’s lower tenor voice complained.

“I swear I told you that when I texted you last week.”

“I’m pretty sure I would’ve remembered!” Malcolm shot back, yelling into the phone.

“Calm down, we can just go shopping. I’m sure we can find something.”

“At this hour on a Saturday?” Malcolm questioned the phone. He sat there dwelling with multiple different emotions of confusion and anger. He had thought all hope was lost when a desperate idea popped into his head.

“Wait, I got something!” Malcolm responded.

“Ok, good! Let me know if it works out, and if not we can think of something else. You can always go Greek, dude. Talk to you soon.”

“Bye,” Malcolm replied after ending the call. The last thing he wanted to do was wear another bed sheet toga. Quickly, he typed in the number for an old family friend and prayed that his crazy idea would work.

Thankfully, that crazy idea of Malcolm’s had worked. Hours later, it’s what had driven him up the hill to an older neighborhood outside the city. Malcolm had parked on the road and was just now merrily guiding himself up the driveway, passing by a police car parked in the dirt driveway. Smirking, he noticed a tall, brutish looking man approaching him.

“Mr. Barrow!” Malcolm gleefully shouted.

“Malcolm! Great to see ya again, bud.” Mr. Barrow brought his huge arms around Malcolm and squeezed him into a good old fashioned bear hug. Sure, Malcolm had a well-developed body, but nothing as powerful as the beast of a man in front of him. He felt the bristles of an unshaved stubble scrape across his cheek before Mr. Barrow let go.

Mr. Barrow was a friend of Malcolm’s parents from way back in the day. The police chief had been neighbors with them before they’d had children, and the three had bonded quite well. Mr. Barrow had even stuck around to help with Malcolm and his siblings when they popped up. He’d been at their baptisms, babysat every one of them, and even attended their graduation ceremonies. He was kind of like an uncle to Malcolm; an older, stricter, and enforcing uncle.

Being the chief of the local police force, Mr. Barrow had always installed some of his work life into his at-home regimes. Although Malcolm had now grown to appreciate Mr. Barrow a little more, he had originally been a lot harder on him as a kid. He’d always want strict discipline and “Golden Days” behavior, which meant no electronics and all time spent outdoors. If it was raining, then Malcolm and his siblings were expected to do chores around the house, making it sparkly for his parents’ arrival. Still though, Malcolm liked Mr. Barrow, probably because the man could no longer boss him around.

“How’s it goin’, kid? How’s the big city treatin’ ya?”

“Oh I love it out there!” Malcolm replied honestly. “Got started at a great corporation near downtown, it’s a pretty sweet deal.”

“That sounds great,” Mr. Barrow responded. “Now, I know you’re cramped for time so I won’t bother you too much.”

Malcolm chuckled before rolling his eyes.

“Your uniform…I mean costume is in the trunk.” Mr. Barrow stuttered before making his way around the police car and popping open the back end.

“Mr. Barrow, thanks again for all your help,” Malcolm started. “Really, it’s so nice that you could help me with such short notice.”

“Of course,” Mr. Barrow said. “But once you put this uniform on, you’re going to have to call me Chief.” 

Malcolm thought it was a joke, but Mr. Barrow’s tone seemed serious.

“Here we are, this is what I’m lookin’ for. Catch!”

Malcolm eagerly responded as Mr. Barrow tossed a small metallic object at him. Reacting instinctively, Malcolm caught it in his hands. It was a badge, just a regular old police badge. However, Malcolm shuddered as his hand suddenly tensed around the badge. Incredible energy surged up his arm and spread through him. The feeling of the enchanted object was both frightening and exhilarating.

“Um…” Malcolm muttered, ignoring the strange surge of energy. “and the rest of the costume?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Barrow sneered, his kind demeanor suddenly evaporating. “It’ll all come on it’s own, just like the new you will.”

Before Malcolm could question the comment, his legs gave out and he fell to his knees with his fingers still firmly grasping the badge. Malcolm was immediately terrified by the developing situation but at the same time engrossed in the power rapidly bubbling throughout his body. Finally after what seemed like hours, his fingers unclenched and dropped the badge to the floor, but the damage had been done. Malcolm collapsed and let out a long moan as his body began to change.

“You’ve always been quite the little brat, Malcolm,” Mr. Barrow looked down on the young man as his body began to writhe. “For 25 years you’ve never been the kid that your selfless parents deserved.”

Malcolm’s legs compressed painfully, slowly hiding away more and more of his thighs behind the running shorts. Likewise, his arms pulled back into his body while his entire torso was compacted inwards, stripping Malcolm of his lanky appearance. 

“What’s ah…are you talking…about?!” Malcolm groaned as his cock hardened to full mast.

“What am I talking about?” Mr. Barrow impersonated Malcolm’s anguished, whiny tone. “You were always an ungrateful little twat! Your parents are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met and as a kid you leeched every dollar you had out of them.”

Malcolm’s muscles fluttered and twitched all across his body, causing him to once more cry in agony. Tendons and ligaments grew across his arms, bulging from his biceps and triceps as his shoulders grew wider, becoming wider and broad and destroying the straps that just barely held his tank top up. His defined pecs slowly protruded further from his bony chest, growing larger and dense. Malcolm’s precious abs sunk in along his stomach to make way for a rock-hard muscle gut. His legs surged with strength, allowing copious amounts of muscle growth in his thighs and calves. The sudden spurt caused his running shorts to split at the seam and fall to the ground, revealing a wet, hard, bulging jockstrap underneath. Behind him, his flat butt began to press outward, growing bigger and rounder to match his thick, muscular thighs.

“I was…just a kid…all kids…disobey-”

“That may be true,” Mr. Barrow growled. “But you never stopped. No matter what I did, what I told you’re parents, you never changed. I’ve watched you grow up, Malcolm, and as far as I can see you still act like a spoiled little boy.”

Malcolm panicked as he realized couldn’t help himself, clasping desperately at the exposed muscle while hairs darted across the surface. Much to his surprise, he soon found himself grabbing at fabric. Refocusing his eyes, he watched on stunned as his tattered clothes repaired and reshaped into the uniform of the local precinct–the precinct under Chief Barrow’s control. His bulging arms and defined chest easily strained the new shirt, while his quadriceps, bulge, and rear did the same to his pants. His jockstrap bloomed into a pair of worn boxers, leaving room for his schlong and balls to breathe. Even a bulky, heavy belt complete with a radio and utilities now pulled down on his waist, not only adding to his uniform but pulling up his legs another half of an inch.

“Ngh! How can…there be…more!” Malcolm grunted, bucking his hips involuntarily. Throwing his head back, he moaned as soles stretched against the rubber of his slides. Hairs erupted along the tops of his toes as they fell over the ends of his sandals, yet the problem was quickly fixed when the streetwear rapidly bloated outward into a pair of heavy Size 14 leather boots. A pair of generic, starch white socks quickly enveloped his feet as well, climbing up to the mid-calf. However, by the time they had reached their destination, their white color had been replaced with a buttery yellow due to overuse, allowing for a sweaty, potent stench to slowly crawl out from within the boots.

“Even now you just barge on over, asking me for a uniform after almost a year of absolute silence.” Mr. Barrow’s tone was incredibly demeaning, forcing Malcolm to feel an increasing amount of guilt. “You’ve always thought that you could get anything you ever wanted, Malcolm–deserved it in fact! That’s why I agreed to help you, because I wanted to give you more than just a uniform.”

Malcolm clambered to his feet slowly but surely, clutching his head from the sheer amount of pain. In agony, he felt as his curly mane was rapidly yanked away from his scalp, leaving his hair short and tidy. Not only that, but Malcolm unfortunately noticed how some hair even vanished completely from his temples, leaving him with the drastically receded hairline of a man just under Chief Barrow’s age. His fingers cracked as they began to slide longer across his scalp, pushing through the neat, handsome cut of hair. Still in shock, Malcolm held the stretching, trembling hands in front of him, gasping as he watched them swell into huge and meaty sausages.

“I wanted you to learn about respect, dignity,” Chief Barrow enunciated harshly. “I wanted you to understand how a man can provide everything for himself without draining the wealth of others.”

“Must be… some way to s-stop this…” Malcolm groaned, his eyes widening at the sound of his gruffer, completely unfamiliar voice. 

“Luckily, there isn’t,” Chief Barrow replied. Painfully, Malcolm’s features broadened and enlarged. A strong chin and sharp jaw pressed out of his face and light stubble sprouted from the skin. Malcolm frantically scanned his surroundings, looking around to see if somewhere, anywhere, there was someone to help him stop this. While searching, he caught a glimmer of his new reflection in the police cruiser’s window. Malcolm’s wide, handsome jaw fell open at the sight. Not only did he look easily 20 or more years older, but he looked completely different. He looked more like a friend of Chief Barrow than the son of one.

“Almost done,” Chief Barrow chimed in. “If you’re going to be a man, you’ll have to have the materials to play the part too.”

Malcolm didn’t have time to register what the Chief had meant before his hard cock downstairs ached for touch. It stretched down the leg of his pants while his balls swelled larger. The python continued to slither south, thickening and lengthening against his muscular leg. Malcolm couldn’t contain himself anymore, quickly pulling the fly on his new pants down and fishing his swelling cock out. As it flopped into the open air, he couldn’t believe how big it had already gotten, almost double what he was used to–and he was average before.

Although Malcolm was reluctant to do so in front of the Chief, he was unable to resist as he gripped the sausage in his hand and pumped, growling loudly with every stroke. He was too busy relishing his increased size and virility to realize his mind was being stuffed with policing skills and years of experience. Before he knew it, Malcolm had a nine-inch weapon in his hand, and the knowledge of how to use it among other things in his head. Seeing things were about to wrap up, the Chief decided to make his final move.

“Your selfish life is almost gone, Malcolm,” Chief Barrow seductively whispered into his ear. “All you have to do is let go.”

With stubborn arrogance, what was left of Malcolm’s resistance began to fight back. He wasn’t some almost 50-something, tight-laced, muscle-gutted daddy-cop! Malcolm was an energetic, lanky yet toned young adult.

“Blow your load,” Chief Barrow demanded. Malcolm’s mental defenses fought back even harder, delicately slowing his pumping speed. 

“That’s an order.”

Instantly, Malcolm screamed in ecstasy as an explosion of semen erupted from his cock. Once the post-orgasmic fog lifted, he blinked his empty eyes rapidly and brushed a large hand through his shorter hair, dazed and bewildered. All he could think about were his policing skills, authoritarian desires, and traditionalized traits. The muscular officer slowly regathered himself and tuned back into reality, discovering Chief Barrow standing right in front of him. Looking up, the 5′11 man’s face was lifeless.

“How you feelin’, Officer Morgan?”

Roland shook his head one last time to regain focus. Apparently old age had been getting to him.

“Just fine,” Roland responded. Roland’s straight face didn’t show any emotion. He was a man who believed he always had to be in command of the situation. He contained his emotions, believing that men were better suited to appear calm and in control at all times in order to gain obedience. And as a police officer, obedience was one of his strongest demands.

“Ready to head out, Chief?”

“If you are, old man,” the chief coyly responded. “Anyway, I got a tip that there’s going to be a huge social gathering downtown later tonight. If we’re lucky, it will hopefully be just a bunch of dumb kids doing whatever they do these days. But, I’m assuming there’ll be underage drinking and some substance abuse, so I made sure to have backup on standby just in case.”

“Sounds great, Chief; I’ll follow your lead.”

The Chief grinned, overjoyed that the once annoying, rebellious brat had become a straight-laced, rule-following gentleman–and a still rather fine looking one at that.

[disciplined-cornfed]

Wanting Everything

Peter was enjoying his cigarette break from his job as a financial adviser. It was for one of the more prestigious firms in the city and he enjoyed the allure it gave him. No woman could resist Peter Sanders when he came into a bar. He was a chick magnet and he knew it.

Yet some people who were close to him knew that he never stopped complaining. He was always going on about how the fucking waiters at his favorite restaurants couldn’t do their jobs and the fucking gardeners, pool boys, and landscapers who worked for him could never really please him. He was always seeing fault in things. He played by his own rules and he was master of his world. People should try to please him, he often said, because he was smart enough to have a real job that paid real money. “People should treat me differently,” he would say to his friends. “I am different. I’m better”.

Peter’s intelligence was very fierce but his compassion for others was notably low. He would often complain of the Mexican problem in this country.

“Hey man. How’s it going?” asked Steve, a co-worker. They started walking back into work.

“Fine. Except my fucking pool boy didn’t do everything that I asked him to. These fucking beaners come to this country and they don’t even speak enough English to goddamn listen to what I’m telling them to do. I’m paying them. I shouldn’t have to speak their godawful gibberish language just so they can do one simple task. He left the net out and a bunch of other equipment. Said he had to go home early for some family emergency. Don’t they all have a hundred relatives? I fired his beaner ass. I need to find a white guy to clean my pool. One who can understand simple directions and won’t be full of excuses.”

“My sister has a great pool guy. She raves about him. He’s Mexican but pretty fluent.”

Peter sighed, so hellbent on appearing a martyr. “Fine. Send him my way. But if he fucks up even a little I’ll can him. They just aren’t as good as white workers, you know? They don’t work as hard, they just come here and take over and just soak up all of the benefits. I’d like to see a beaner do THIS job. Something that requires actual thought.”

Steve smiled and walked away. The next day Peter got a call from a man who introduced himself as Alejandro Zamora. The guy had a bit of a typical Hispanic accent, but Peter didn’t mind that. The guy seemed like he spoke enough English for Peter to deal with him. And it turned out the guy was willing to do yard work as well.

The next weekend Alejandro came over. Peter had work to do in his living room, but when he took a cigarette break outside he noticed the man to be pretty decent at his job.

“This is a real nice place, man,” Alejandro told him.

“Yeah, worth every penny. It’s my dream pad.”

“Bet the ladies appreciate it.” Alejandro smiled wolfishly.

Peter laughed. “Oh, they don’t mind it.”

“Hey, Peter, so what is it you do, man? It seems pretty important.”

That’s more of an interest than any of my other help ever paid to me, he noted.

“Financial expert. I recommend investments.”

Alejandro whistled. “Sounds pretty impressive. Money is a fascinating thing. Maybe when I have enough saved up I’ll come to you, huh?”

Dream on, Peter thought. You could never afford my services.

“Well, I better get back inside. I have to finish up some portfolios tonight.”

“Cool, man. Hey, do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Oh no, that’s cool. There’s no poolhouse yet, but I’m thinking of building one.”

Suddenly he woke up and it was deep evening. It had been 3 in the afternoon just a few moments ago! A couple of empty beers and an open whiskey bottle lay on the $3,000 coffee table he had recently purchased for the living room. Well, that explains it, he thought. Must have been more tired than I thought. Peter had completely forgotten about Alejandro and didn’t even give him a second thought that night.

“Eh, what time is it? 9 PM? Fuck. Good thing it’s Saturday.”

Peter flipped around some TV channels getting bored, until a channel caught his eye. It was the Spanish speaking channel and they were having some sort of pool party with hot chicks everywhere. Only thing this station is good for, he thought, and drifted off watching the Spanish conversations of some soap opera. Before drifting off to sleep he could almost swear that he understood what all the characters were saying…

In another week, Alejandro visited right on time.

“Peter! How’s it hangin, my man?”

“Great, man. I got a lot of work for you today. The yard needs to be cleaned up. I’m having a party here in a couple weeks. It has to be spotless. I want all the hedges trimmed…”

He found himself inside dozing on his $8,000 couch. He saw what was left of his scotch on the rocks and laughed. Man, I am really living Saturdays up lately, he thought.

Alejandro came inside the house. “Well Mr. Sanders I’m all finished for the day. That entire list has been taken care of.”

“Spectacular.” He said, still feeling a little inebriated.

“You sure you don’t need any help with anything else?”

“No, not unless you can do my job for me as well,” Peter said, almost wishing Alejandro could.

“You could always make a wish,” Alejandro said. “There’s that meteor shower tonight.”

“Ha! Wish upon a falling star?” He walked outside. Sure enough, a few meteors were burning through the atmosphere. “I WISH THIS GUY HERE COULD DO MY JOB INSTEAD OF ME! HAHAHAHA! Oh man, I gotta lay off the booze on weekends.”

“Hey man, what do you think weekends were invented for?”

“I like you, Alejandro. Same time next week?”

“Sure thing, boss. See you soon.” Alejandro said, tucking an unidentified object into his pants pocket. Something wooden. Peter shrugged it off and went back inside, to watch telenovelas. Something about a woman whose boyfriend was cheating on her. How the hell do I know what they’re even saying? he thought as he drifted off.

The next week was fairly hectic for Peter. He made errors he didn’t normally make. Simple fax mistakes that only a rookie would even think of making. He mixed up a few clients names and got pretty embarrassed but managed to laugh it off. And for some reason he kept watching the Spanish speaking channel every night. It was weird, he never felt addicted to any television like this, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was like every other channel was just becoming a haze of gibberish.

The next Saturday Alejandro called Peter to tell him he would be late.

“Oh what? Man I have a million guys off the truck that would be happy to do your job!” Peter said, while watching some game show from Mexico.

“Peter, I got caught up with something. I’ll be there in no time.”

“I should fire you, you know. I rarely tolerate people being late.”

“Peter? I really don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

Suddenly Peter felt truly bad. Maybe he was being harsh.

“Now Peter, I think you should apologize to me,” Alejandro said slowly.

Peter shook his head. It was so hard for him to ever admit when he was wrong.

“Just get over here as quick as you can. I’m sorry I yelled at you, man.”

“That’s more like it.” Alejandro said, a little angrily, and hung up.

When Alejandro came over Peter was hard at work on some mathematical ratios, and establishing scenarios for potential investment boons. But after Alejandro showed up he found himself unable to concentrate. God, he just wanted to kick back for once. He pictured himself in the midst of a pool party, showing off to everyone, with lots of beautiful women admiring him. Maybe a few of the studs from the office showing off while shirtless. Man, this party was going to be great.

“Boss, you okay?”

Peter was startled. “Huh. What was I doing? Que es lo?”

Alejandro smiled warmly. “That’s cute. Learning a little bit of Spanish on me?”

“Spanish? Me? Un pequeno. Tu sabes,” he said. Man, what the hell? I must be picking up words without even knowing it from that TV channel.

“I’m working on the topiary hedges today. You said you wanted them retrimmed in a certain shape?”

“Oh yeah, here let me show you…”

He led Alejandro outside but for the life of him couldn’t remember the project he had for him.

“It was going to be like…all of them had some shapes. Different shapes.” He looked puzzled.

“Well, what we could do is give these here half domes and then these over here, we could do a graduated pyramid shape.”

“Oh yeah! That sounds magnifico!”

Alejandro smiled again. “Why don’t you help me out?”

“ME? Alejandro, I’m paying you to do a job,” Peter said, suddenly annoyed by Alejandro’s nerve.

“No disrespect intended boss. I just thought it might loosen you up. Detached work makes the mind work easier. You know?”

“Maybe it would help,” Peter agreed. Alejandro showed him the techniques he used to trim the bushes. Peter decided that he was going to sweat a lot doing this so he took off his dress shirt, which he wore on weekends because all of his clothing had to be expensive, just in case someone showed up unannounced.

Hours passed and Peter got a good workout in while Alejandro looked on with arms folded proudly.

“And THAT, my man, is how you do it!”

“Nice work, Peter! You did it!”

He high fived Alejandro without even thinking about the fact that he had done nearly all the work that day.

“Why don’t we go inside and chill out a little bit?” Alejandro asked.

He’s the help for fuck’s sake? Where the hell does he get off? Then again, he has been doing a great job lately.

“Yeah, sure. But just for a little while. I have work to do.”

“Like what?”

“You’re really interested in what I do, aren’t you?”

“To be honest, I really want to do what you do some day,” Alejandro admitted. “I’ve been going to college for the past year with an emphasis on economics.”

“Really? You never told me. Hey man, I’m gonna take a shower. Make yourself at home in the meantime.”

Make yourself at home? What the hell am I even saying? I don’t want to give this fucking roughneck the impression I think we’re equals. He began lathering up. Man, he had gotten quite a tan today working out in the yard. Bet it would make him all the more appealing at that pool party. Wait til the guys at the office saw him, he thought.

He came out in a bathrobe to find Alejandro going through his papers!

“What the hell are you doing? Those are confidential.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. I was just noticing you were recommending a company that doesn’t exist anymore?”

“What? Where?”

“Right here, see?”

“How the hell could I have made a mistake like that?? I need to lay off the cervezas.”

“You know, I could really make a few suggestions. First…” Peter listened as Alejandro filled him in on all his ideas, and even showed Peter that he could analyze data as well as any pro.

“Where did you learn all this? You’re a pool boy for crying out loud.”

Alejandro winced. “Let’s just say I pick things up fast. And you could take advantage of that?”

“How is that?” Peter turned on the TV, searching for something cool. He settled on a movie about a couple on a romantic getaway to Puerto Vallarta, although it was hard for him to follow the plot.

“You could make me your assistant.”

“Assistant? That requires years of experience. For a firm like mine? Sorry, amigo. No, si no podemos.” How the hell do I know these words? he thought as he impatiently turned the TV to a telenovela he could follow.

“Well, you could help me out with that. Say I have years of experience in your field.”

Peter thought about it. It wasn’t a half bad idea. Alejandro wasn’t like all those other wetbacks. He actually had a brain.

“Let me think about it.”

“Are you sure? Come on, you know me well enough. I can do this job as well as…well, a lot of guys.”

“Okay. Let’s do this thing.”

“Really??” Alejandro was beaming.

“Yes,” Peter said, happy to make Alejandro so happy. “But under one condition. You have to help me get the pool party ready. We need to do some fucking celebrating.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.” Alejandro smiled.

Peter spent all of Sunday putting together a fake resume for Alejandro. He gave him an Ivy League background. Called a few people and called in a few favors so people could act as false references if need be. Alejandro came over Sunday night to go over the job details for the following week. As a personal assistant, Alejandro would assist both at home and at work. He would be at Peter’s beckoned call. This was the stipulation that came with the job. It was important and prestigious and would pay a far more handsome salary than pool boy. Alejandro had to earn it.

“What about clothes? I don’t have many nice ones.”

“That’s not MY problem.” Peter said, annoyed. Jeez, am I not doing enough for this guy already?

“I mean, I just want to make you look good. Can I borrow some outfits? Until I get that first paycheck? Come on, we’re colleagues here,” he said convincingly.

“Alright, alright. Right this way.” Peter helped Alejandro into some of his outfits and they checked him out in the mirror.

“Do you want to try my clothes on while we’re at it?” Alejandro smiled.

Peter scoffed. “Yeah, right. Those jeans are ripped up and covered with paint. Not to mention the sweat stained old polo shirt that quite frankly smells.”

“Come on. Just do it. For me. I want to see what you look like.”

“Ah, what the hell. I am curious myself.” Peter undressed in front of Alejandro without a second thought.

“Nice package. Didn’t know you wore boxer briefs.”

“Yeah, you like that? Check this out.” Peter got into Alejandro’s clothes. They walked over to the full length mirror in the bathroom, which was quite spacious.

“Fuck, if no one knew us they’d say you were the big shot of the house and I was the servant.” The two of them certainly looked that part. Their mirror images suggested Peter was some uncouth laborer and Alejandro was the refined owner of a palatial mansion.

“I think that’ll be good. Let me try on some other outfits. Bring me the blue suit. Over there.”

Peter obliged. After Alejandro had taken 20 of Peter’s best suits, he had Peter bring them to his car while he talked to someone on his cel phone. Alejandro must be a popular guy, Peter thought.

“I gotta go. I’ll be there bright and early tomorrow morning so you can introduce me to the staff. And uh, you can keep those,” Alejandro said happily, getting in Peter’s expensive sports car. Peter didn’t even give this a second thought. He walked back inside and looked at himself in the mirror with his torn jeans and faded, sweat stained polo shirt. Yeah, I look like a real stud in these, real workin man. Man, I should work out in these. I bet I’d look super hot. Peter had a club membership but he also had some weights he’d put in the garage. He walked there with a cocky walk and took off his sweaty shirt and lifted weights for about an hour. He checked himself out in the mirrors back in the house. He couldn’t help himself. He started thinking about the gym and all the guys that worked out there and what a testosterone fest it was. Fuck yeah! Peter whacked off numerous times, disgustingly wiping his cum off on the ripped up jeans. He passed out with a Don Equis in his hands.

He woke up the next morning with a huge headache. He had to take the pickup truck to work since Alejandro had borrowed his car. Whatever, he thought. Long as it gets me there.

He got to work. Alejandro was there waiting for him. He looked much better in a suit, that was for sure.

Peter introduced him as his new assistant to everyone, and there was more than one shocked reaction. Maybe there’s just surprised to see a Hispanic guy in the office for a change, he reasoned.

Going through the day’s procedures was difficult. He had to show Alejandro the ropes as well as do his own job, which was very difficult with his headache.

Before he knew it, he was standing in front of the mirror at home, admiring his tan. The week seemed to float by. Alejandro soon became known as the new go getter around the office and people took to him quite well. Peter could be proud of his choice of adding Alejandro to the staff.

On day five, Peter found himself near the park around the corner, taking a cigarette break when Alejandro approached him.

“Boss, you’re needed inside. What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m taking a break!”

“You already had lunch. And after that presentation, I think everyone wants you to say something.”

“What are you talking about?”

"The presentation you gave. You just muttered half of it, and stood there like you’d never done it before. And quite frankly, it was really uncomfortable to watch. Look, I only say this because we’re friends, but people really need to be reassured here.

“I don’t…was it really that bad? My life ees so difficult, choo know?”

Alejandro smiled warmly. “I do know. I know you work so hard for what you have. I hate to see you toss it away.”

“Geez, I didn’t know it was that muy mal.”

“Look, why don’t you go home early? It looks like you really need it. I’ll handle the rest of the accounts for the day.”

“The way you’re speaking. It’s so…did you change your hair recently? There’s something about you that’s different.” Peter didn’t realize that their vocalizations had slowly been switching all week long. Peter had now developed a slight Hispanic accent and Alejandro’s accent was a completely American one.

“There’s nothing wrong with my voice and no, I haven’t made any changes. But thank you for noticing how good I look,” Alejandro cupped Peter’s chin in his hand gently, affectionately. “Now you run on home and get dinner started. I’ll take care of those accounts. No matter how delicate they are, I think I can handle it.”

It took me years to learn how to do this job, Peter thought sourly. But he’s right. He remembered the presentation now and the confused look on people’s faces.

“Oh, and can I have me the keys to the car, por favor?”

“What are you talking about baby? You gave it to me? And I gave you my pickup?”

“Si, but…I like mi car. Ees so pretty.”

“Look, Peter, go home. I have a lot of work to do,” Alejandro said, sternly.

Peter felt ashamed of all the work he was making Alejandro do for him. He obliged and took the pickup back home. But once he got there he just didn’t feel right. He did some vacuuming and that made him feel better. He did some sweeping outside but he felt that there was so much to do he didn’t have time for all of it. He did some dusting and even scooped the leaves out of the pool. He admired his reflection and all of his newly tanned muscles.

That night Alejandro came home agitated but got in a better mood when Peter proudly showed him all the work he had been doing. Starting with dinner, he fussed over Alejandro’s napkin and presented him with the roast that he had made himself, followed with some spicy Mexican side dishes which Alejandro praised.

“Your mole sauce is excellent.”

“And that’s not all.” Peter showed him all the work he’d done around the house and yard. He beamed as Alejandro took it all in.

“That’s very good. I’m proud of you, Peter. Thank you.” He reached over and embraced Peter and began kissing Peter’s neck. “I’m very thankful for everything you’ve given me.”

Before Peter knew what he was doing, he was on his knees. He was dressed in the ripped up jeans and soiled shirt that Alejandro had brought over for him to wear.

“YEAH, SUCK MY COCK YOU LITTLE WETBACK!” Alejandro roared as he shoved his beautiful smooth cock into Peter’s eager mouth. Peter loved it when Alejandro got this turned on by him. It had always been so hot between them.

Alejandro came buckets inside Peter’s mouth. The taste of cum was unfamiliar to him for some reason, even though he remembered liking it a whole lot. He swallowed every drop like a good boy, which Alejandro kept calling him. Good Boy.

After a long passionate lovemaking session where Alejandro licked his muscles and ass and then introduced his waiting ass to his plump eager cock, which just couldn’t get enough, Peter was in heaven. He grunted for an hour as Alejandro thrust inside him, repeatedly.

“Baby, that was great. Run me a shower, would you? I had such a hellish day at the office, that was just what I needed.”

Alejandro then commanded that Peter follow him in the shower so they could fondle each other a little bit more. Then they came into the living room. Peter turned on a telenovela while Alejandro did statistical analysis.

“Baby, you know I hate this shit. Turn it to something else.” Alejandro took the remote control and turned it to a legal thriller. Peter couldn’t understand the plot but the guys were all hot. He tried to snuggle up to Alejandro, but he was too wrapped up in his work to notice.

Alejandro gave him a written list then.

“This is a list of all the things you need to do tomorrow. Do every single one of them. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter said playfully. They kissed for a little while longer.

“Alright. I’m going to bed. You coming?”

They spent the night together in what Peter thought was his bed. But no, that wasn’t right. It was Alejandro’s bed. He had a dream that night that he was in his office doing important work when some people came in and told him to get the hell out. He was to move some boxes downstairs. Then he found himself in a room where Alejandro was at his desk. Doing his work. He didn’t work there anymore.

In his dream, he went back home with Alejandro driving him in HIS sports car. But no, it was never really his. Alejandro let him drive it sometimes. As a reward for doing such a good job.

The next morning he was groggy and Alejandro was already dressed.

“Gotta go, baby. I have things to do. I’ll meet you in the park later after your list is done.”

“But wait, I have to do the work. For the accounts. The project for la energia.”

“I think maybe you were dreaming,” Alejandro said condescendingly. “I do the accounts around here. Now you get to work and make me happy.”

As Alejandro left Peter thought it was funny that he had brown hair. But no, his lover had always had brown hair. Hadn’t he?

That day Peter busily called the caterers, picked up the food, cleaned the rest of the pool, set the tables, swept some more, and set up the music and drinks. Everything looked perfect. Guests would not arrive until that evening so he drove his pickup over to meet Alejandro at the park. His lover was waiting on the bench they met. Wait, was that right? Didn’t he meet Alejandro…when he HIRED HIM???

He was the one in charge, not him! And he didn’t even look the same!

“Hi, lover. Come and sit down.” Alejandro took a drag off his cigarette.

“Alejandro? What da hell ees going on here? Why do you look white? Why am I doing what choo want me to?”

The man laughed. “Alejandro? Do I look like an Alejandro to you? My name is Alex Moore you fucking dipshit and don’t you fucking forget it. Do you have any idea who I am? Well, no, you’re confused.” He smiled cruelly and took a drag, exhaled sexily. “You see, you gave me your life. I’m now cultured, white, and affluent. I have all of your skills and you have all of mine. And I deserve it. Because I’m better.”

“No…zees cannot be happening!”

"Oh you’ll get used to it. You’re remembering only what I want you to. I wanted to see the look on your face. Sorry. I just couldn’t resist. “What’s your name?”

“Mi llamo es…Peter Sanders.”

“WRONG! Your name is Pablo Suarez. Look at your license if you don’t believe me.”

Pablo looked through his wallet. Mexican ID, California driver’s license…no. “I have someone else’s wallet.”

“Look at your hands, dummy.”

Pablo looked at horror at his brown hands. “No es possible! I mean, it isn’t possible!”

“Anything’s possible, if you know how. Now look, you are my boy toy and I intend on taking good care of you. But you have to play your part. After you named me your successor a lot of people were taken by surprise so we have to put on a good show tonight. But don’t tell them you’re my boyfriend. I don’t want them to think less of me. Mmmm. Even though you are quite the treat now. I like you with a tan.” Alex started grazing his neck and fondling him…in a public park. They kissed a few times.

“Now let’s go home. You can follow me.”

The party that night was both fun filled and elegant. Alex introduced his “friend” and manservant, Pablo. People loved Pablo. He was so fun loving. And Alex was gracious and not at all like the arrogant Peter. When Peter had introduced him hastily to all his bosses, they were blown away. They didn’t expect him to be just as good as Peter so soon! But he picked up everything so nicely. Of course, what other people saw was what Alex wanted them to see; a glamor to make them both look white until the actual physical transformations were complete. Now they had switched and it was real.

Alex did have a cocky side to him and he flirted with several of the men in the office whose heads he had turned all week long. He swaggered over to Pablo, who was trying to understand all of the conversations taking place. He wasn’t quite as fluent as Alejandro had been in English so it was a little bit harder for him to follow.

“I think you should serve drinks now. Ask anyone if they need a refresher.”

For a brief instant, the old Peter surfaced and hesitated, and said “This is mine,”

“It was yours. You gave this house to me. Now go get me a beer.” He smacked Pablo on the butt playfully and swaggered over to a bunch of rich financial and office minded people who he related to.

That night after everyone went home, Pablo knew what his role would be from now on. He situated himself in a position on the couch and waited for Alex to come in.

“Well well. Hello, Pablo.”

“Hello, Meester Alex.”

“And have you been a good boy this week?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pablo, get over here,” Alex took out his cock. Pablo lovingly licked his boss’ cock.

“Mmmm, that’s right, boy. Take it all in.”

Pablo worked so hard to please Alex sexually that night. He was every part of the boy toy that Alex wanted him to be.

“Do you ever wish things could be different and you could do my job instead of yours?” Alex asked him.

“Que? No, baby. I’m happy with everything jus’ the way it is.” They kissed. Alex smiled proudly at his boy.

He finally had everything he wanted.

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]

today

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]

A popular drag queen books a gig at a know conservative bar despite their boyfriend being against the idea. Doing the show started off as normal. With them even thinking they could change sime minds. But instead the performer finds themselves thinking more like those straight air headed men.

Tessa Riot wasn’t nervous, but maybe she should’ve been.

The twenty-eight-year-old drag queen had performed everywhere from neon-soaked clubs to festival stages, but this gig? This one was different. The Copper Tap, a dive bar deep in Texas suburbia, sat right between a Bass Pro Shop and a church with a 20-foot wooden cross out front. The owner had specifically hired her as “part of a cultural outreach initiative,” and Tessa had convinced herself this was her chance to change some minds.

Her boyfriend, Micah, hadn’t bought it for a second.

“Babe, this is not the crowd for you,” he’d warned on the drive in, knuckles white on the steering wheel. “These guys wear ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ shirts unironically. I’m telling you, this isn’t safe.”

Tessa had laughed it off, brushing shimmering highlighter across her collarbone. “Relax. I’ve dealt with worse. We’ll do a cute lip sync, win them over, show them we’re not monsters. Who knows? Maybe someone here goes home a little less ignorant tonight.”

But now, standing in the cramped dressing room, she caught herself fiddling with the hem of her sequined mini-dress. Something about the energy outside felt thick. Heavy. Like the air itself was swollen with distrust, judgment, and Bud Light foam.

The bar was packed — camo hats, belt buckles, flags, and beer bellies everywhere. The sound system was terrible, the lighting worse, but she forced a bright smile as she stepped onstage.

The first song hit: a Beyoncé mashup, upbeat and defiant. At first, the crowd was stiff, skeptical. A couple of guys in MAGA caps leaned on the bar, arms crossed. One muttered something Tessa didn’t catch — probably “groomer” — but she powered through, twirling, working the beat, making it playful.

He lip-synched with practiced grace, hips swaying, arms flowing. For a few moments, he almost convinced himself it was working. A few women clapped along, a drunk guy even threw a dollar.

But the men at the bar jeered louder. “Shake them tits, boy!” one hollered. Another shouted, “Bet he still got a dick under there!” The laughter hit harder than the music.

Tessa twirled, beaming, trying to drown it out. But each step felt heavier, clumsier. His gown clung wrong to his thighs. His heels wobbled — and he never wobbled. A thought wormed its way in, hot and poisonous: God, do I look… stupid?

For the first few minutes, she thought she had them. A few women at the bar started cheering, some guys loosened up. She even caught Micah smirking proudly from the corner booth, his beer untouched.

And then something shifted.

It was small at first — the way her chest felt… tight. Like the bass had crawled under her ribs and was pressing against her lungs. Tessa stumbled slightly, recovering quickly, forcing a smile.

Shake it off. Nerves. Just nerves.

But then her inner monologue hiccuped — like a skipped record.

God, these men are cute— Wait. No. No, that wasn’t her thought.

She powered through the next verse, but the words on her lips started tasting… wrong. Sweet, but sticky. The lyrics blurred, replaced by strange, half-formed impulses. She wanted to wink at the guy in the camo hat. She wanted his attention — his approval.

By the third chorus, she started ad-libbing, voice higher, bubblier, giggling into the mic like a cheerleader hosting karaoke night.

The crowd started reacting differently. Where they’d been cold before, they were leaning in now — laughing, hollering, clapping. It felt good, intoxicating even. Every cheer landed like a hit of dopamine.

In the corner booth, Micah frowned, arms crossed. He mouthed something — “What are you doing?” — but Tessa just winked at him without meaning to. Her hips popped on beat in a way that wasn’t part of the choreography.

Halfway through the second song, the stage lights shifted from cool blues to warm amber, bathing everything in gold. That’s when the voice in her head started getting louder.

They like you better this way. Softer. Sweeter. Less of a fighter. More of a… good girl.

Tessa’s hand twitched on the mic. She forgot a line, giggled, and chirped out: “Oops, silly me! Guess y’all got me nervous up here!”

The crowd roared. Someone shouted “Atta girl!”

And her chest — God, her chest — felt different. The tightness wasn’t panic anymore; it was warmth. A bloom of tingling heat under her bra straps, rising to her throat.

At the bar, Micah drained his beer. Something was happening to him too, though he didn’t notice it yet. His posture was changing — shoulders looser, legs spread wider, beer settling in his gut like it belonged there. He used to hate country music, but now, over the speakers between songs, the twang of an old Toby Keith track didn’t sound so bad.

He flagged the bartender down for another Bud Light. “Make it a bottle,” he muttered, voice a little rougher, a little deeper.

And when the MAGA-cap guy next to him chuckled at something, Micah chuckled back — not sarcastically, just naturally, like they were already on the same team.

Back onstage, Tessa was glowing, drenched in sweat, chest rising and falling. She was… bubbly. Not in the fake drag persona way — this was deeper. Something in her core identity was fraying, and what leaked through was syrupy-sweet, accommodating, obedient.

She glanced at Micah — who was on his third beer now, arm slung lazily across the booth like he owned the place. For a split second, she didn’t see her boyfriend. She saw someone else: broad shoulders, smug smirk, ballcap tan lines.

And her heart skipped.

By the final number, she was practically bouncing, hands clapping, voice high-pitched and chirpy between lyrics.

“Aren’t y’all just the sweetest crowd ever! Praise Jesus for this energy tonight!”

The words “Praise Jesus” left her mouth before her brain even formed them. And instead of recoiling, the crowd roared like they’d been waiting for it all along.

Something deep inside her whispered: This isn’t just a show anymore. It’s rewriting you.

Micah leaned forward in his booth, cheeks flushed, smiling like he hadn’t in years. He was laughing too loud, slapping the bar top, joining chants he would’ve mocked hours ago.

And neither of them noticed the cross-shaped neon beer sign flickering steadily above the stage — pulsing like a heartbeat.

The applause was still echoing when Tessa stumbled backstage, chest heaving, sweat dripping down the rhinestones on her bodice. Her hands were shaking.

She told herself it was adrenaline. She told herself she was fine.

But when she reached for her water bottle, she realized her nails had chipped mid-performance — glossy black lacquer peeling in uneven flakes. She blinked at them. Normally, she’d fuss, grab her backup polish from her bag, fix it immediately. But instead, a strange thought bubbled up, soft and sweet:

Boys don’t care about nail polish, sugar. They like you natural.

Her lips parted in confusion, the thought so alien it felt like someone had whispered it directly into her skull.

Out in the bar, Micah was laughing. Actually laughing — loud, throaty, unrestrained. His fourth Bud Light was empty, and he was waving it lazily at the bartender for another, cheeks flushed and loose.

“You boys watch college ball?” he slurred, nodding toward a table of ranch-jacket locals. His voice had dropped lower, raspier, pulling syllables into lazy Southern dips he’d never used before.

One of the guys — thick-necked, face ruddy from years of chewing tobacco — grinned and slapped him on the back. “Hell yeah, brother, Texas Tech all the way.”

Micah chuckled like they’d been friends for years. He hated football. He knew he hated football. But when the words came out, they felt right: “Hook ’em, bro.”

He drained the new beer without tasting it, jaw flexing harder than usual, teeth clicking faintly as though his body was adjusting to its new rhythm.

Backstage, Tessa tried to steady her breathing. She leaned against the cracked mirror, staring at her reflection.

Something was off.

Her makeup hadn’t smudged, but her face looked… softer somehow. Less sharp around the jawline, cheeks subtly fuller, lips faintly pinker like she’d bitten them. She tilted her head, panic rippling through her ribs.

It’s the lights. It’s just the lights. Get it together.

Except when she brushed her fingertips across her cheekbone, her skin felt… different. Not slick with sweat anymore — smooth, warm, dewy.

She closed her eyes, sucking in a deep breath, grounding herself. This is fine. It’s fine. I’m still me. I’m still Tessa.

But then came the whisper again, syrup-thick: Don’t overthink, darlin’. Ain’t no one likes a difficult girl.

Her stomach flipped. She grabbed the countertop, knuckles white.

“Shut up,” she hissed under her breath.

Micah’s voice broke through the noise from across the bar. He was on his fifth beer now, sleeves shoved up, leaning forward on his elbows, jaw square, smile cocky.

“…I’m just sayin’, bro, these libs ruin everything. Nothin’ wrong with workin’ hard, believin’ in somethin’, standin’ up for family, y’know?”

Tessa’s breath caught in her throat. She whipped her head around to look at him through the curtain.

Micah hated politics. He never talked like this. He used to roll his eyes at “family values” rhetoric, but now he said it like it was gospel, gesturing wide, earning nods and claps from strangers who’d barely spoken to him an hour ago.

He looked… bigger, too. Not bulkier exactly, but broader. His shoulders pressed harder against his flannel, veins faintly raised under flushed skin.

Something in her chest went hot and tight again — not fear this time, but something confusingly close to want.

When she stepped out for the next number, something in the room shifted.

The crowd wasn’t just watching anymore. They were feeding. Their cheers were sticky, syrup-slow, and every whoop lodged somewhere deep in her nervous system. Each clap rewrote her pulse. Each holler sweetened her thoughts, pulling her further from herself.

Halfway through the verse, she giggled into the mic — not planned, not in character. Just a real, airy, automatic giggle.

“Y’all are too much tonight,” she chirped, twirling her wrist, popping a hip without realizing it.

The “y’all” hit her ears like a gunshot. She never said “y’all.”

Micah noticed. He tilted his beer back and smirked into the foam, legs spread wide in the booth now, chest puffed, soaking in the energy. One of the guys beside him muttered something crude about Tessa’s ass. Micah should’ve snapped. Should’ve defended her.

Instead, he barked out a laugh and shoved the guy’s shoulder like they were frat brothers sharing a joke.

Verse after verse, she lost grip on her lines — not forgetting them, but replacing them with sweeter, simpler things.

“Praise Him for this love tonight!” she sang mid-riff, the words shocking her throat as they left.

The crowd exploded — stomping boots, clinking bottles, someone shouting “Amen, sister!”

Inside, she screamed. But outside, her smile stretched wider, head tilting, lips curling in that glassy, obedient cheerleader glow she used to mock.

Something was eating her alive, one thought at a time.

Between songs, she locked eyes with Micah.

He looked different now. Brow heavier. Smile sharper, cockier. Sweat glistened across his collarbone as he leaned back with an easy arrogance, legs splayed, one arm slung along the booth’s backrest like he owned it.

He tipped his bottle toward her, voice low and lazy: “Lookin’ good up there, baby girl.”

“Baby girl.”

He’d never called her that before. Not once. The word slammed into her like a freight train, stirring something warm and traitorous in her belly. She forced herself to turn away, clenching the mic so tight her nails dug crescents into her palm.

By the end of her set, she wasn’t Tessa Riot anymore. Not fully.

Her drag persona — sharp, witty, defiant — was dissolving like sugar in hot tea. What came out instead was… softer. Brighter. Bubbly. She signed off chirping, “God bless y’all, thank ya kindly for havin’ me!” — words she didn’t remember choosing.

The crowd cheered like she belonged to them now.

And when she stepped offstage, Micah was waiting, leaning against the wall. His shirt clung to his chest, his jaw faintly shadowed with stubble she swore hadn’t been there before. His grin was lazy, cocky, different.

He reached for her hand automatically, beer-stained fingers threading through hers like it was natural.

“Let’s get you somethin’ real to wear,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because somewhere deep down, some traitorous part of her wanted to.

The next morning, the sun bled through thin motel curtains, warm on Tessa’s bare shoulder. She blinked awake slowly, her head pounding. Everything felt… quiet. Too quiet.

She turned onto her side, expecting to find Micah scrolling his phone like always, but he was sitting on the edge of the bed instead — bare-chested, back straight, staring at nothing.

“Micah?” she whispered.

He turned his head lazily, and her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t Micah’s face anymore. Not completely.

His jaw was heavier, squared-off. There was a roughness to his cheeks now, a faint shadow of stubble that hadn’t been there yesterday. His hair — darker, shorter somehow — curled slightly where it met the back of his neck. His shoulders were broader, his chest harder, like he’d been putting in gym hours he never had.

But worse than the physical changes was the look in his eyes. Calm. Confident. Arrogant. Like he’d figured something out overnight.

“You sleep good, baby girl?” he rumbled, voice lower, Southern edges crisp now — the kind of accent he used to mock.

Her throat caught. She wanted to correct him, wanted to tell him to drop the pet names, but when she opened her mouth, something else came out instead, high and breathy:

“Mhm… yeah, Brad.”

She froze. Her eyes went wide.

“Brad?” she whispered. “Why did I—”

He smirked, leaning back on his palms, broad chest stretching tight. “Sounds right, don’t it?”

They dressed in silence. She pulled on her sequined skirt from last night but it felt wrong, itchy, cheap. Something in her hated it now, though she didn’t know why. She ripped it off, frustrated, tossing it into the corner.

In the cracked mirror, she saw herself — but it wasn’t the Tessa Riot she expected.

Her wig lay discarded on the floor, revealing short, messy blonde hair underneath — sun-kissed in a way she didn’t remember dyeing it. Her jawline looked softer but somehow more delicate, lips plumper and naturally pink. Her cheeks flushed faintly without blush. And her eyes — wide, bright, glassy — carried none of the sharpness that once defined her drag persona.

She didn’t look powerful anymore. She looked… sweet.

No. No, I’m not sweet. I’m bold. I’m loud. I’m—

But the thoughts tangled midstream, dissolving into a warm fog. A sugary calm spread through her chest, like honey dripping through her veins.

“C’mon, Addie,” Brad’s voice called from the doorway, lazy and certain. “Leave that costume junk. You don’t need it no more.”

Addie.

Her name was Addie. Of course it was. Wasn’t it?

They went back to The Copper Tap that afternoon. Neither knew why, only that it felt… necessary.

The bartender waved them in like old friends. “Brad! Addie! Back so soon, y’all?”

Addie’s stomach twisted, but her mouth smiled automatically. “Yessir!” she chirped, voice sugary, pitched higher than she remembered it ever being.

The bar looked different today — brighter somehow, warmer. Or maybe she was different. The Toby Keith song blasting over the speakers sounded good now, catchy, comforting. The big wooden cross above the stage wasn’t tacky anymore; it felt safe, grounding.

And every time she caught Brad’s profile in the sunlight, her chest warmed with a quiet pride she couldn’t explain.

By nightfall, it was over.

They sat side by side at the bar, holding hands — his calloused and firm, hers soft and delicate, freshly painted a glossy pastel pink she didn’t remember applying.

They weren’t talking about drag, or politics, or anything that used to fill their lives. Those subjects had slipped away like a bad dream. Instead, they talked about church. About faith. About starting a family “real soon.”

Addie laughed too loud at Brad’s crude jokes about “soy-boys” and “snowflakes,” her voice musical, natural, like she’d been laughing that way forever. Brad slung an arm around her waist, broad hand resting comfortably on her hip, like she was his now.

And the terrifying thing was… she liked it.

Sometime after midnight, the owner brought them two shots of whiskey on the house.

“To good folk,” he said with a wink.

Addie giggled and clinked her glass. “To good folk.”

As the whiskey burned down, something clicked — deep, irreversible. Her memories — the protests, the drag shows, the fight for queer spaces, the boyfriend who’d once called himself Micah — all drifted off like mist, replaced by polished photographs of a life she’d always had. Summers at church camp, Sunday dinners after service, Brad kissing her on the bleachers after a football game, their upcoming wedding at Gracewood Baptist.

Every flash of her “old life” became laughable, impossible. She’d never been Tessa Riot. That was some other girl. Some wrong girl.

She was Addie Whitaker. She had always been Addie Whitaker.

And Brad was hers.

By dawn, they were already driving out of town in Brad’s lifted F-150, Toby Keith on the stereo, her bare feet on the dash, his trucker hat turned backward. They stopped at a Waffle House on the highway, praying over their food before eating.

Brad scrolled through his phone, grinning proudly at the fresh banner across his Facebook page:

Brad & Addie Whitaker — God First. Family Always. Country Forever.

And when Addie leaned over, kissing his cheek softly, she whispered: “Can’t wait to start our family, baby.”

Brad grinned wide, voice dropping low and sure: “Gonna make you the happiest wife in Texas, darlin’.”

Neither of them remembered the name Micah. Neither of them remembered the name Tessa. Neither of them remembered they’d ever been anyone else at all.

Just Brad and Addie. Perfect. Preppy. Saved.

Forever.

[disciplined-cornfed]

Could you maybe transform me into Devon Hughes pls I love it when he gets on his stream and oils up his pecs and bounces them

It’s just another dead Friday night. You’re in your desk chair, hunched like always, pale knees poking out from your old gym shorts, a half-empty bag of chips rustling against your chest as crumbs sprinkle down your T-shirt. The glow of your monitor washes your skinny, tired face in cold light.

You’re watching a Twitch stream. You don’t even really like this guy—you hate him, actually. Devon Hughes. The loud, obnoxious gym bro who’s always flexing shirtless, ranting about “grindset” and “weak beta males.”

You’ve made him a joke in your head. You laugh at how dumb he sounds. You even typed a sarcastic comment earlier. It’s the only way you can stand it—mocking the guy, telling yourself you’re smarter, even if you’re sitting alone in your room on a Friday night, greasy and invisible.

But then the lights flicker.

First once. Then again, longer, buzzing in your ceiling. Your monitor glitches, static flashing, and then—Devon leans toward the camera. His pecs twitch.

And then they bounce.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

At first it’s funny—you smirk, ready to roll your eyes again. But your smirk dies when your own eyes won’t move. Your throat tightens. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. The bounce is too precise. Too rhythmic.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

It matches your heartbeat. Then it becomes your heartbeat.

You blink furiously, but every time your lids shut, the bouncing is still burned into the dark, like neon seared into your skull. You can’t not look. Your chest rises and falls too fast. Your hand clenches the chip bag until it splits, crumbs scattering over your lap, but you don’t even notice.

Something inside you thrums. Low, vibrating. You realize it’s not the speakers. It’s inside your ribs.

“Pathetic twig,” a voice rumbles. Devon’s voice, but not from the stream. From behind your sternum, vibrating through your bones. “You wanna be a man or keep rotting like a fag?”

Your whole body seizes. Your nipples harden painfully, tingling as if they’ve been wired to a battery. Your ribs creak, bones shifting outward.

You double over, clutching yourself. “F-fuck, no, no!”

Heat spreads from your chest, blistering-hot. Your sternum juts forward with a wet pop. Under your skin, muscles bubble like something alive. Pecs swell outward, straining the thin fabric of your shirt until it tears open down the middle.

You stare in horror—your chest, flat and bony a second ago, is thickening. Heavy. Veins rise to the surface, pumping blue. You wheeze, but your pecs bounce on their own, twitching left-right like the stream you can’t stop watching.

“Fuck…” you gasp, trying to push them down, as if you could shove them back into your body. They just jiggle harder, harder, like they’re mocking you.

Your stomach cramps violently. You grab at it—your belly is sinking, fat melting like wax, your ribs sharpening, your waist tightening. Then—pain, sharp as knives—blocks of muscle punch out of your gut. One, then another, then another, until a deep, rigid six-pack slices across your midsection. Sweat beads down the grooves.

“No, no, this—this isn’t—”

But the heat keeps crawling outward. Your arms twitch, then bulge. Tendons jump, veins worming up under the skin. Your forearms knot into thick cords. Your biceps swell like balloons, skin stretched tight, smooth and glossy. You squeeze your fist and nearly cry—the strength in it isn’t yours.

You stumble up from the chair, swaying toward the mirror above your dresser. Your legs quiver, calves pumping fuller with each step, thighs thickening, shorts cutting into your skin.

And then you see your face.

It’s warping. Your cheekbones jut sharper, higher. Your jaw grinds as the bone thickens, lengthening into a hard, brutal edge. Your nose narrows, lips plump, hair crawling shorter at the sides into a precise fade, curls tightened on top. Your skin darkens a shade, smoothing into a tanned, glowing surface.

You don’t even recognize it. The stranger in the mirror sneers back at you. Devon Hughes.

Except—no. Not him. Something worse. His mouth opens, but it’s your throat that moves:

“Fuck yeah, bro. Alpha as fuck.”

Your pecs twitch again, hypnotic, bouncing without command. You try to scream, but the sound comes out as a low, dumb laugh.

You keep drinking, though the glass feels wrong in your hand. It’s heavier than it should be, like the condensation’s oozing into your skin, making it slick. The rim smacks your teeth with a dull clink, and you swear you’ve never held a drink so sloppily in your life. Your wrist doesn’t flick the way you like, that old familiar theatrical flourish just… gone. Instead your hand’s stiff, clumsy, tilted at some crude angle, the liquid spilling down your chin, over your shirt.

The bartender glances over. You want to apologize, to explain—oh God, I’m not usually this messy—but the words snag. They knot themselves in your throat like weeds. What comes out is a grunt, guttural, low, ugly: “Fuckin’—ugh, sorry, bro…”

Bro.

The syllable hammers into you. You’ve never called anyone that in your life. Not seriously. Not without irony. Now it’s sliding out of your mouth too easily, warm and sticky like spit. You try again, pushing up something more like you, your real self, but the thought drags as though it’s caught in tar.

Tell him you’re fine. Tell him you’re fine.

“Yeh, uh… I’m good, man. Jus’… good.”

Man. The vowel’s flattened, nasal, like someone else’s accent trying to wrestle your own tongue into shape.

And worse than the words themselves is the silence after. That echo inside your skull where your old voice is screaming—No, no, no, that’s not me, I don’t sound like that, I don’t say that. It shrieks against the walls of your head, panicked, flailing. But the sound doesn’t reach your mouth. It doesn’t matter how hard you scream in there.

A new murmur’s pressing back, quieter, steadier, seeping in from some hidden crack: Shut up. Don’t need that shit. Don’t talk like a fag. Don’t think like one. You’re Devon, bro. Devon don’t apologize. Devon don’t talk pretty. Devon don’t whine. Devon just says it how it is.

The voice tastes wrong. It tastes like warm beer and spit, like gym socks, like the musk of locker rooms. But it’s growing louder.

Your tongue stumbles now when you try to form words, as if the muscles no longer know the choreography. Every sentence is a fight, a tug of war between who you are and who you’re being forced into. Each time, Devon pushes a little harder, a little further.

“Sorry, I—” you start, but then you blink and hear yourself finishing: “Nah, fuck it, who cares.”

The apology strangled, replaced by that alien swagger.

Your thoughts themselves are degrading, fraying around the edges. Normally they’re sharp, layered, full of color—flashes of lines from plays, jokes from friends, half-formed critiques about politics or art. Now they’re crumbling into blunt stubs, flat syllables: Beer good. Chicks hot. Fuck this place. Too many fags.

That last one freezes you. Too many fags. You thought it. Or Devon thought it. But it came up in your voice, in your head, like it belonged.

Your old self claws at the inside of your skull, begging, No, not me, don’t make me think that, please. But the thought just sits there, fat and heavy, like it’s always been yours.

Your speech slurs further, not with drunkenness but with collapse. “Yeh, s’cool, jus’ hangin’… waitin’ for… uh… some chick or whateva.”

Chick. You don’t even like the word. You don’t even look at women that way. But your mouth forms it, your lips curl around it, your voice drops like it’s done it a thousand times.

The worst part? The bartender nods like it’s normal. Like this is you. And a sliver of you—tiny, traitorous—likes the nod. Likes being seen that way.

You feel your old self screaming, flailing, pounding fists against the walls inside your skull: That’s not me, that’s not me, that’s not me! But the scream is muffled now, weaker, like it’s trapped behind thick glass.

And Devon? Devon’s smirking in the reflection on the bar mirror. Broad shoulders you don’t remember earning. A jaw setting into something blunter, meaner. Eyes that don’t sparkle—they leer. He’s in there, waiting, patient, letting you crumble.

Every word you speak from here on feels like another nail sealing you into him.

The bar’s air feels heavier now, like smoke thickening in your lungs, even though you’re still in your apartment, hunched and trapped in front of that mocking glow of your monitor. You should be able to shake this, to fight it off—every rational part of you insists this isn’t possible—but your body keeps betraying you, grinding toward something vulgar, something foreign.

Your thoughts stutter in your skull. You try to form a sentence, try to cling to the cadence of your old voice in your mind. I don’t want this. I don’t want— But the words break apart like wet paper. They lose syllables, drop vowels. The next thought arrives like a blunt hammer: fuck it… bro… You jolt at yourself, gagging on the noise your brain makes. That wasn’t you. That couldn’t be you.

But the whisper of "Devon" keeps pushing up through the cracks, a name that grows louder each time you resist. You try to say your real name out loud, spit it into the room like an anchor. It comes out wrong, warped, thickened with a crude drawl: “Name’s… Duh… Dev, bruh…”

You slap your hand over your mouth, horrified, but the damage is done. You can feel it sticking, sealing itself into your throat.

Your posture buckles as if your body’s spine has been rewired. The tightness you carried in your shoulders—nervous, defensive, thoughtful—dissolves into a slack, brutish sprawl. You slump back in the chair, legs sprawling wide, crotch shoved forward. Your old poise is gone. There’s a new rhythm inside you, crude and swaggering. You can’t sit up straight anymore—it’s impossible.

The smell comes next, a musk that isn’t yours. You reek of sweat, unwashed clothes, that damp edge of testosterone left too long to rot. You wrinkle your nose instinctively—but then, shockingly, a flicker of pride ripples through your chest. Yeah… fuckin’ ripe, bro… The thought is yours and not yours. You can hear your old voice shrieking, panicked, that’s disgusting! But it’s muffled, strangled.

When you catch your reflection in the black shine of your monitor, you expect to see yourself staring back in horror. Instead, there’s a stranger smirking at you, teeth bared in a sloppy grin. A meathead. A toxic, smarmy douche with dead eyes that enjoy the rot. Devon.

And then it hits—the flip you dreaded most.

You hear a man’s laugh on a video autoplaying, a flash of bare abs from some workout clip queued up on your feed. Normally, your heart would ache, would spark with the familiar charge of desire. But now—nothing. Worse than nothing. A sneer curls your lips, cruel and instinctive. Fuckin’ fags. The words don’t feel like yours at all—and yet your mouth moves on its own, slurring the insult, tasting it.

Then a girl flashes across the same feed—tight shirt, hair falling across her chest—and your cock twitches. Hard. Immediate. You choke on it, disgusted, shaking your head. But it won’t stop. Your groin aches with blunt hunger, a single direction, crude and base. Yeahhh, bitch hot as fuck… The thought hammers in, sweaty and idiotic. You don’t want it—but your body wants it for you.

Your old self thrashes inside like a ghost, clawing at the walls of your mind, but Devon’s voice is drowning everything out. He’s laughing—your laugh now—thick, stupid, cruel. He’s adjusting the mic you didn’t even realize you’d set up on your desk. Twitch overlay glowing back at you. The cursor hovers over "Go Live."

Your fingers move without you. Heavy. Calloused. Meathead fingers that belong to Devon, not you.

“Yo, what’s up, fags, Devon here—” the words drop from your mouth like a lock clicking shut.

You’re streaming.

You’re grinning.

You are Devon now—cruel, homophobic, very straight, cock already stiff at the thought of some girl in chat. The scream of your old self dissolves, finally silenced.

And somewhere, deep in your bones, you know it’s not just you anymore. This curse can spread. And you’re hungry to share it.

[disciplined-cornfed]

I don’t know how many times I’ve complained to management about the Desi assholes next door! There’s always loud music playing and I swear, I don’t know if it’s curry or their b.o. or what but it’s like they deliberately funnel their stink into our apartment. To say nothing about all the women they have over

If something doezn’t give zoon, I’ll-

Wait? Iz that an Indian flag on my wall?

You sink into your couch, beer sweating cold against your palm, and try to block out the bass. But it’s no use. The thrum of the music next door vibrates through the floorboards, reverberating in your skull, forcing your teeth to chatter. It isn’t just the sound—it’s the smell. Something tangy and heavy, like burnt curry soaked in unwashed gym clothes, snakes through the crack beneath their door and curls into your apartment. You gag, clutching your stomach. It’s so sharp, so invasive, you can almost taste it. And the laughter, the chatter, the high-pitched giggles of women—oh god, the women—filter through the thin walls. You’ve complained to management so many times that your complaints must be stored somewhere in a dusty, ignored file. Nothing changes.

Your hand drifts to your wall, to your progress pride flag, a little ragged at the edges. You trace its colors absently, trying to focus, trying to remind yourself of who you are. But then you blink. And your stomach twists into something more than nausea. The colors… they’re moving. Subtly at first, almost like water spilling over rocks. Then faster. Red, white, green. The rainbow is gone, fading, replaced by broad bands of saffron, white, and green. The saffron seems to radiate heat, seeping into your eyes, burning a little at the corners.

You stumble back, bumping into the arm of the couch. Something hot rolls across your back. A tingling, prickling sensation, like tiny needles, crawling under your skin. You reach up to scratch your forearm and freeze. Hair. Your arm hair is disappearing, falling in fine, pale strands into your open palm. Panic blooms. You glance at your chest—just a few fingers of hair left—and then gasp as the rest seems to vanish in a silent, terrifying sweep. Your legs, your arms, even your shoulders are smooth now. Smooth. Too smooth.

You press your hands against your skin. It’s soft, alien, slippery. You know this isn’t you. Your reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror, caught as you stumble past, is already wrong. The outline of your face seems… tighter. Your jaw slightly more pronounced. Your nose—smaller. Your cheeks sharper. You shake your head, trying to make sense of it, but the mirror only laughs at you.

The smell intensifies. It isn’t just curry now. There’s sweat. Musk. Something raw, powerful, almost intoxicating. It fills your nostrils, makes your eyes water. You gag again. Your stomach flips. Something deep in your chest tightens, a tension you can’t place. And then your muscles twitch. Not the way they do after a workout, not the small flex of a bicep when you roll your sleeve, but something bigger, stranger. Your arms quiver, then tighten without your command. You stare down at them, watching sinew ripple beneath your skin. Your thighs hum with sudden tension. Your belly tightens. Your soft, round body—the one you’d always felt comfortable in—is changing.

And your mind… oh god, your mind. You try to think about something else. Anything else. Your favorite books. The articles you wanted to finish. Your activism. But it’s like grasping at smoke. Every thought about politics, your friends, your identity, your love life—it drifts away, just out of reach. In its place: nothing but the raw, thudding awareness of your body. Your arms. Your chest. The new smoothness of your skin. The heat rolling over your muscles. You feel… powerful. And ashamed. And afraid.

Your lips part and a low sound escapes. Not your voice. Not the one that used to crack jokes, argue with friends, or sing in the shower. This is thicker, heavier, foreign. You choke on it. “…fuck…” The word tastes wrong in your mouth, but it feels right, somehow. You stumble back, gripping the wall, your head spinning, ears ringing from the bass next door.

And then a laugh. Not your laugh. A deep, guttural, stupidly confident laugh that seems to bubble up from somewhere you can’t reach. It’s yours now. You clutch your stomach. You hate it. You love it. You can’t think past it.

You sink to your knees. The smell, the changes, the creeping unfamiliarity of your own skin—your own body—presses down on you. The fear twists into something else. Something… almost excitement. Not entirely. Just… the smallest spark of thrill at how wrong it all feels.

Your phone buzzes. You glance at it with a trembling hand. Raj. Your neighbor. That hulking, obnoxious, loud, Desi guy you’ve despised for years. For a moment, you think to text him: What the hell is happening to me? But your thumb hovers… then moves, tapping out: “Bro… big night?”

You drop the phone, clutching your head. The reflection in the mirror catches your eye. You don’t recognize yourself fully. Not yet. But it’s starting. And the worst part? A part of you is curious.

You wake—or at least, you think you do—on the couch, body aching, muscles twitching in ways that weren’t yours yesterday. The apartment is dark, but the bass has never stopped. It’s no longer just next door. It pulses through your chest, through your bones, almost as if it’s been absorbed into you. You groan and roll onto your side, hand brushing your chest, feeling the hard planes that weren’t there before. The smoothness of your skin, the sharp angles of your jaw, the thick, defined ridges of muscle across your arms and thighs—all so alien, so right.

You try to remember yourself, your life, your identity. But it’s like reaching for water. You remember complaining to management about the neighbors, but now… you can’t recall why it mattered. Your thumb drifts over your phone instinctively, opening Raj’s chat. “Bro, party tonight?” You tap send before you even think. And when the reply comes—fast, crude, excited—your chest tightens. You grin, teeth flashing. Something in your throat vibrates with a low, guttural laugh. That’s not your laugh. Not yours, not fully. But it’s you, now.

You stand, staggering slightly, and catch your reflection in the mirror across the room. The changes have accelerated. Your calves and thighs are dense, veined, perfect for sprinting, for lifting, for everything. Your biceps bulge with impossible strength; your shoulders are wide and imposing. You flex, involuntarily, feeling a rush of heat, pride, and lust course through you. Your old self recoils somewhere in the back of your mind, screaming: Stop it. This isn’t you. You’re… you’re turning into him. But the screaming is faint. Faint beneath the pounding of blood and hormones.

And your mind isn’t just slipping—it’s flipping. Your thoughts crawl toward women, always women. Soft skin, curves, perfume, the way a tight T-shirt hugs a body just right. You catch yourself staring at the wall, imagining someone there—anyone—and feel your cock stir beneath the waistband of your sweatpants. A visceral, undeniable craving. Not for your old type, not for men, not for the warmth of a boyfriend’s embrace. Women. White, soft, ready. The thought makes your jaw tighten and your chest rise proudly. You inhale the spicy, musky air from next door, and your nostrils flare. You feel… alive, raw, desiring.

Raj’s laugh echoes in your mind. You remember hating him. But now, something deep, thrilling, addictive tells you he’s right. Loud, crude, obnoxious, smelly—he’s king of this building. And you? You want to be his friend. His bro. His equal. His partner in conquest.

You catch yourself standing in front of the mirror again, flexing. Not for fitness, not for health, not for your old pride. But because you can, because the muscles are yours, because the new you loves attention, craves it, demands it. You flex your arms, twist your torso, watching veins snake across skin that wasn’t yours yesterday. You laugh again, a throaty, guttural sound that surprises you. Fuck yeah… bro… look at this shit.

Your old self shudders somewhere in the back of your mind. He whispers: You’re losing me. Stop it. Remember who you are. But the whisper is drowned by the roar of your new instincts. Party. Lift. Drink. Hook up. Hunt. Dominate.

And the voice grows thicker. Foul. Lustful. Cruel. Homophobic. You catch yourself muttering about “fucking gays” as if it’s normal, as if it’s something everyone should do. You roll your shoulders, already craving the gym, already craving the women, already craving the primal rush of dominance. Your old empathy, your care for community, your pride in intelligence—all slipping away like sand through fingers.

Your hands drift to your chest again, flexing, feeling the heat and the power. You grunt, laughing. The room smells like spice and sweat. Your own sweat now, mingling with the residue of the neighbors, merging with your body odor. You catch a whiff and inhale, exhilarated. You feel alive. You feel… unstoppable.

Your phone buzzes again. Raj. “Bro, party tonight. Big ones coming. You in?”

Your thumb hovers over the screen. You don’t hesitate. “Bro… fuck yeah, I’m there. Bring the ladies, bring the booze. Let’s fuck shit up.”

You drop the phone, chest rising, pulse racing. Your reflection stares back at you, unrecognizable: the smooth, tanned, veined, insane muscles; the sharp, confident, arrogant face; the smirk curling your lips. And the fire in your eyes. The fire you didn’t have yesterday. The fire that demands attention, women, dominance, and a life ruled by testosterone and desire.

Your old self struggles to claw out, a flickering, fading shadow in the back of your mind. This isn’t me… I’m losing everything… I’m… But even as the thought forms, it dies. Your new instincts roar louder. Lift. Drink. Fuck. Party. Flex. Dominate. Repeat.

You sink back onto the couch, still trembling, still dizzy, still trying to hold onto a fragment of the man you were. But your body is no longer yours. Your mind is no longer yours. And your soul… is sliding fast, into something darker, louder, more obscene.

Raj texts again. “Bro, come now. Girls waiting.”

You grin. Something deep inside you bursts with anticipation. You stand, stretching arms and chest, feeling the tight sinews, the smooth skin, the raw, pulsing energy. Your cock stirs at the thought. Your voice, thick and accented, rumbles:

“Bro… let’s fucking go.”

And with that, your old self takes another step backward. The new bro has arrived.

The bass hits your chest like a physical punch as you step into Raj’s apartment. Lights strobe over sweaty, writhing bodies. The smell—curry, sweat, perfume, sex—is overwhelming, intoxicating. You inhale deep, chest puffing, and grin like a predator.

“Ahh, bro! Finally! You come!” Raj yells, clapping you on the shoulder. He’s huge, smelly, loud. But now, it’s perfect. You step forward, grin splitting your face, voice guttural, thick with accent.

“Bhaiyy! I tell you, bro… I come for party, yes! We crush everything tonight, haan!” You laugh, a throaty, proud laugh that rattles the floor.

Raj roars back, slapping your arm. “That’s my bro! Now we get girls, get booze, pump muscles!”

You push past him, eyes scanning, catching a girl laughing at your arms. Smooth, veined, absurdly big now. “Aahh… look at this, bro! You like, huh? You like my biceps?” You flex hard, grinning, chest puffed. She giggles, nervously biting her lip. You grab her waist.

“Bhaiyy, come, come closer. Feel power, haan? Feel it!” Your accent thick, guttural, every word dripping pride and lust. You press into her, hips grinding lightly. The thrill surges. She moans. You laugh.

Your cock stirs. Women. Always women. The thought of men disgusts you. Your gay self—gone. Your old life—a shadow, smothered by sweat, spice, and muscle.

“Bhaiyy, you ready for next one?” Raj shouts, grinning, flexing his veins. “Big gainz, bro!”

You spin around, chest rising proudly, voice booming. “Haan! Bring her, bring her! I show her what is REAL body, haan! You see this, bro? This is pure power, haan!”

A girl drifts past, soft, curvy. You grab her, hips pressing, smirk curling your lips. “Aaahhh… you like it, huh? You want my bhaiyy power?” You laugh, deep, guttural, chest heaving. She gasps, laughing nervously. You lean in, mouth brushing hers. “Haan… we have fun tonight, yes, bhaiyy?”

You stagger back to the mirror across the room. Smooth chest, rock-hard abs, veined biceps, smirk permanently fixed. You flex involuntarily. “Haaahhh… look at me! I Am… I am Vikram! Vikram Singh! Bro, you see? I am king now!”

Raj laughs, slapping your back. “Yes, yes, Vikram! Now we fuck party, haan? Bring girls, drink, fun!”

You laugh with him, chest heaving, cock pulsing with desire. “Haaahhh… bro… I tell you, all old self gone! Vikram only! Only Vikram! We crush everything, haan! No shame, only power, only… fun!”

A girl giggles nearby. You grab her hand. “Aaahhh… come with Vikram! You like bhaiyy? I show everything, haan? You want Vikram?!” She blushes, nodding nervously. You spin her toward the couch, laughing, hips grinding, muscles rippling. Every thrust, every touch, every flex, every grunt—yours.

Your old self—polite, intelligent, gay—has vanished. Faint whispers of identity die under the roar of lust, pride, and testosterone. The apartment smells like curry, sweat, and sex. Music pounds. Lights strobe. Girls moan. Raj shouts, laughing. And you?

You grin wide, eyes blazing, chest heaving. “Bhaiyy… this is life! This is Vikram Singh! We party, we fuck, we pump! Fuck the past, haan! Only gains, only women, only fun! Haaahhh!”

The last flicker of the old you dies completely. Vikram Singh is all that exists—obnoxious, hypermasculine, smelly, homophobic, lust-driven, dominant, and unstoppable. The apartment, the girls, the music, Raj—all of it confirms your grotesque, perfect new life.

[disciplined-cornfed]

Spring Break

Noah was pissed. Today was supposed to be the beginning of the best spring break ever. He’d planned a week-long trip with his college friends to New York City. They’d had it all lined up- museums, restaurants, sightseeing, it was perfect. But about a week before, Noah’s mom had called and delivered devastating news. They were having a family reunion that week. In rural Florida. Attendance was not optional. She’d bought his ticket already and there was no way out.

The day had arrived, and he solemnly made his way to the airport and flew to Tallahassee. They were meeting at his relatives’ place in the Florida panhandle, in the middle of nowhere. He’d been once as a kid and vowed never to go back. After a two hour drive from the airport he made it, driving up a dirt driveway to the massive, yet ramshackle, house in the forest. The next hour was a blur of greeting extended family, most of whom he barely remembered since they tended to stay out here in the country. After that settled down his mom came up to him, clearly very excited about something.

“Noah! You’re not gonna believe this, but since it’ll be a few more days before everyone’s here, your cousins Chevy and Logan are gonna take you out on a hunting trip! Just for a couple days,” she was nearly bouncing off the ground.

Noah groaned. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He had nothing in common with his cousins, and certainly did not want to spend time alone with them out in the swampy wilderness. His mom was not hearing any complaints from him though, and she dragged him out back to reacquaint him with his cousins. Chevy and Logan were chatting with each other on the patio, beers in hand, decked out in the camo hunting gear Noah assumed they lived and slept in. They were only a couple years older than Noah, but looked quite a bit older compared to the baby faced city boy.

“Ayyy Noah! What’s up, it’s been a while man,” Chevy walked over and gave him a bear hug, spilling some beer on his back.

“Hey Chevy, nice to see you too. I heard you guys were uh, taking me out camping,” Noah said unenthusiastically.

“Not just camping my guy!” Logan butted in, “We’re talking full on country backroads hunting boy’s trip! We’ll show you what you’re missing by being cooped up in the city.”

Noah’s heart sank; it was worse than he’d thought. They were gonna drag him out there and make him hunt? He didn’t like killing anything and worse, having to deal with the aftermath. He put on a forced grin since his mother was right there.

“Wow, that sounds real great guys, I can’t wait,” he said through gritted teeth. His subliminal messages to them were entirely lost.

“Hell yes bro! Here’s a pack with some of our extra hunting clothing, you won’t want a whole suitcase out there,” Chevy said, handing Noah a backpack. “We’ve got some extra gear that should fit you, it’s already in the truck. We’ll leave in 30 minutes, so get yourself ready.”

30 minutes?? That was immediate, he wouldn’t even have time to plead his case to get out of it. Begrudgingly he went back inside to get his stuff together. The next thing he knew, it was time. The boys were out front in their pickup truck, the back full of tents, camouflage gear, and who knows what else. Logan laid on the horn.

“NOAHHHHHH! It’s time to scram, let's get outta here!” Logan shouted over the blaring horn. 

Noah groaned, this was setting the tone for the whole trip. He looked at himself in the mirror, the camo pants and hoodie just looked wrong on him. He for sure didn’t want his clothes getting covered in mud though, so he sucked it up and headed out front. Chevy grabbed his bag and tossed it in the back before climbing in shotgun, leaving Noah in the cramped back seats. And with that, they were off.

“There’s a real nice game area ‘bout an hour, hour and a half from here,” Logan said. “We’ll get in, set up a nice camp, then relax. Then at sunrise we’ll start you off with somethin easy, maybe a deer or boar,” he turned and looked at Noah, grinning. 

Noah bounced around in the back of the truck as Logan drove through the forest on bumpy dirt roads. Chevy had put on some country music up front, and they were practically yelling to have a conversation over it. They tried talking to Noah about what he’d been up to, but Noah was sulking and gave only short answers. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky when they pulled off, offroading through some clear land towards a spot they’d clearly been to before. They stopped at a neat little clearing near a creek. It was objectively a beautiful little spot, but Noah was not in the mood to appreciate it, already swatting at mosquitoes swarming him. 

“Alright man, you ever pitch a tent?” Chevy asked Noah. 

“Uh, no, I haven’t”

“Well here, I’ll help ya out,” he said earnestly. “We’ve already got a well used spot here, so first we just lay out this footprint, and here let’s have you start with the poles.”

Noah fumbled around with the metal poles before eventually getting them together. He was frustrated, why would he ever need to know this? Chevy took the poles and got the tent up while Logan was still unloading the back of the truck.

“Alright we’re nearly done, just gotta secure it with these stakes,” he handed them to Noah. “Just stick these through the corner, make sure they’re deep in the ground now.”

Noah took the stakes and tried pushing them into the dirt, but they only made it about an inch in. He tried scraping the dirt away with his hands but that didn’t help. Chevy tapped his shoulder, holding a mallet as a suggestion. They’d just gotten here and already Noah was annoyed despite his cousin’s encouraging attitude. His hands were covered in dirt too, he hated being dirty! And he had no escape from all of it. He stormed off to the water’s edge in a huff while the other two finished putting their site together. The sun was really setting by then.

“Ey Noah!” Logan called, “Come have a beer with us man! We’ve got some chili cookin’ too, ya gotta eat somethin,” he laughed. Noah sighed. There was no point in sulking the entire trip like this, even if he wanted to. He walked back over and pulled a beer out of the cooler they’d brought and sat down.

“It seems his highness has decided to grace us with his presence,” Chevy mocked. Noah chuckled. He’d make it through this, even if it took all the beer in that cooler. The boys ate dinner and talked as the sun dipped below the horizon, with Noah actually giving some substantial answers this time. He was exhausted, having flown in and driven all day. He climbed into his tent to hit the sack. If he’d had a mirror in there, he would’ve noticed what looked like some dirt smeared on his face, just on his upper lip and the sides of his face by his ears.

Noah was abruptly awakened by Chevy shaking him. “Hey bro! It’s just starting to get light out, let’s get moving.” Noah groaned, it was his vacation and he was getting woken up at five something in the morning. He crawled out of his tent, banging his head on the pole; was it really that small last night?  The boys were up and moving already, and Chevy handed Noah a granola bar to eat. “It’s a light breakfast I know, but we don’t wanna miss the prime time of the day,” he said softly.

Despite being exhausted, Noah’s annoyance was fading quickly. Maybe this would be a little bit of fun; at the very least it would be something different from normal. He scratched at his chin, his fingers brushing through the smallest bit of stubble that had sprouted overnight. Noah had never been able to grow facial hair, but for some reason this didn’t alarm him, it felt natural even. He put on his hat to hide his messy hair and began to chow down on that granola bar. As he did, that small amount of stubble began pushing out more, giving Noah a shadow across his jaw. It grew thicker, sticking out further until he had a rough, patchy beard. It made Noah look more natural in his hunting gear, aging him up just a hair. His clothes had also grown less baggy on him, attributing to an extra inch or two in height and some mass he’d never been able to pack on before.

Within a few minutes, they were off, trekking through the tall grass into the brush. Logan guided them to a denser pocket where they set up watch and waited for some wildlife to show up. Logan had told them he knew there were deer that tended to feed nearby, so they just had to be quiet and wait. The tension grew as time passed, and before he knew it, a buck had shown up in the clearing. Chevy had prepared him for this, and he took the shot. The deer went down, and Chevy and Logan cheered.

“Hell yes dude! Nice shot, especially for your first time,” Logan patted him on the back.

Chevy gripped him with joy, “It must be in your blood bro, you’re a natural.”

The adrenaline was coursing through Noah’s veins and to his surprise he was actually having a good time. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t wanted to spend time with his cousins, they were chill, and this was turning out to be better than being cooped up in the house. The three of them carried the animal back, working together to hoist several hundred pounds. The sun was fully up now and it was humid. Sweat ran down Noah’s back, and he could smell the putrid stench coming off Chevy in front of him. He didn’t mind though, after all, that’s what a working man smells like.

The sweat was clinging to Noah’s damp skin, beading on his forehead. As he slogged ahead, carrying this massive weight on his shoulders, his body began to adapt. His twig like arms expanded with new muscle, his thighs exploded with size, and his chest produced an impressive set of pecs before softening with a layer of fat. The sweat and smell really began to soak into his skin, and under his sopping shirt small brown hairs poked up around his nipples. Those soft, small hairs didn’t remain so for long, sprouting from his chest, covering the expanse in a curly rug that was slicked down with sweat. Noah’s stubble was not to be left out, pushing further out of his face. Hairs wriggled out in the gaps between old ones, leaving him with much better coverage on his cheeks. Around his chin it even started to fluff up a little, coarse hairs puffing out.

They finally made it back to their camp, dropping the load and slumping into the chairs they’d left around the fire pit. 

“We’ll have to gut and clean that in a minute, but here champ,” Logan handed Noah a beer. It was cold, and exactly what Noah needed against the oppressive humidity. “Here’s to many more,” he toasted, before chugging his own down. Noah was finally able to take a breather, and thats when he noticed.

He STUNK.

He raised his arms back behind his head, airing them out. The sweat drenched pits aired their stench to the world, but to Noah, he just matched his cousins now. The exposed pits had a few hairs plastered to the skin. As he sipped the beer and relaxed, more wisps of hair shot out from his skin, growing thick and wiry. What started as a few extra hairs quickly blossomed into a thick forest of hairs, tangling together and poking out of the sleeves of his t-shirt. The hairs itched as they grew in, prompting Noah to dig his fingers in there, scratching through the sweaty, smelly hairs. He didn’t question it, as far as he remembered he’d had hairy pits since middle school. The hairs spread out of his pits, connecting to the dense coating on his chest. The rug on his chest had started creeping upwards, reaching with thick tendrils of hair towards his burgeoning beard.

After a short reprieve Noah was back on his feet, jumping at the opportunity to learn from his cousins how to clean their kill. They were eager to teach him, to fold him into their ways. Noah’s distaste for his cousins, the country, hunting, all of it was evaporating. He felt like he had so much in common with them now, how had he never realized? 

The rest of the day Chevy and Logan took Noah on a whole laundry list of activities they’d planned. Fishing, mudding, you name it. All hesitation had disappeared, Noah was in deep now. He kept drinking with the boys, not noticing that his gut was pushing tight against his shirt. In fact, his whole upper body was stretching out. His shoulders pushed out, growing broader. His frame was massive now, bigger than either of his cousins. He stood out on the edge of a pond in the harsh sunlight fishing, his shirt absolutely soaked with sweat that dribbled down his massive back. As it reached his waistband, it began fertilizing the growth of a new patch of hair right above his plump ass. The hairs sprung out of the wet skin, shooting up his spine in minutes. Before long the hairs had spread out across the wide expanse of his lats, pressing against the tight shirt. The fields of hair were thick, dense enough to darken the shade of his skin, and definitely didn’t help with the sweat situation. The hairs continued to spread, climbing over his round shoulders and down his arms, coating him with a wild fur that cemented his place out in the country. He was really starting to look like his cousins now, between his camo gear, hairy body, and beer gut. 

When the three of them returned to camp that night, Noah was exhausted. He grabbed another can from the cooler and cracked it open. Putting up to his mouth, he tilted it a little too far, spilling foamy beer down his face and into his chest hair. He chuckled and half attempted to wipe the foam off. Where it sat in his beard, the hairs began to thicken and sprout. His mustache grew incredibly thick, making itself known above the rest of his scruff. His chest fur also took to the growth, turning into a real carpet that climbed up and out of his shirt collar. Noah let out a massive burp in response.

“Yo Chevy, we really gotta head back tomorrow? Shit rocks out here,” Noah said with a deeper voice than he’d ever had previously.

“Yea bro, Ma will skin us if we miss the reunion. But don’t worry man, I know you’ll be back out with us in no time,” he flashed a grin at Noah. 

Noah went and dug through their bags, finding a lighter and pack of cigars. Now that the sun was going down, it was cool enough to enjoy being outside. He lit it up and took a hefty puff, his huge, hirsute body taking it in like a champ. Any thoughts about his old spring break, his old life, had been dragged through the mud and stamped out. All he wanted to do now was relax, listen to the sounds of the crickets, and spend time with his bros. 

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]

[disciplined-cornfed]