masterlouistf

[masterlouistf]

your hypnotised by the musk, story is a favourite of mine, Id love to smell musky gear, cleats, clothes, to imagine what it would be like to be a football jock

I’d been scrolling online through shit for hours. Loops, ten-minute wank bait, poor quality robotic audios and limp spirals. Nothing actually did anything.

I was horny, tired, half-naked and I just wanted to get my mind ruined, ride a hypno-high and cum. But it all just felt empty and fake.

And then I found it.

A thread, buried in a Reddit thread. It had instructions, downloading a browser, getting on the dark web. It seemed a little overkill but the edginess was kinda hot. With all this work needed it must be good.

And then I saw the logo. Just a symbol: a jockstrap, twisted into a loop, like a snake eating its own tail. No name, no link, just the logo.

I clicked it.

The tab blinked for a second… and then went black.

And then it started.

A dim red light. Metal walls. A single chair, close to the screen. A man stood next to it… fuck he was hot. Athletic, tall, shirtless under a black puffer, his abs and pecs slick with sweat like he’d just worked out and not showered.

He was huge, thick thighs, bulging abs and a visible pec shelf. And the kind of musk that you could picture through a screen, like he was right next to you. Somehow it hit me, like a pair or ripe warm socks smothering my face.

I gagged. My cock jumped.

Then he turned and looked straight at me in the camera.

“Well, well… who’s this?” His voice was low, mocking with a thick London accent. “No protection. No VPN. Not even an antivirus. You’ve gone too deep haven’t you”

My mouse wouldn’t move.

I tried again… nothing. My hands weren’t working. I couldn’t even force myself to blink properly. It felt like sleep paralysis except I was wide awake.

“Don’t worry, you’re in the right place mate” the chav smirked. “Let’s give the lads something fun”

The screen split in two.

On the right… me.

Sitting at my desk, shirtless, eyes wide, lips parted and cock at full mast, frozen in place. It was me, on stream. A red counter in the corner.

LIVE

Thousands of viewers and more pouring in. I felt heat crawling up my neck. My face flushing.

Then the chat lit up.

[MuskLad91 tipped £10]: Look at that twink. Bet he smells way too clean.

[Spunkbank69 tipped £25]: And smart, look at the book on his bookcase. Knock that IQ down a notch. He’s too clever for this.

[BootBoy83 donated £40]: Fuck yeah. Let him smell it proper. Make it extra strong, make him love it. Double donation.

I didn’t feel the change.

I just felt it leave, my thoughts slipping away, like bath water down a plug. Like I wasn’t even aware of what I was losing, just feeling… lighter. My jaw went slack. My eyes glazing a little.

And then the stink hit me.

It’s like my room was filled with it. Raw crotch sweat, days old gym kit, spit licked armpits. I could taste it on the back of my tongue. My stomach turning but my cock just twitching harder now.

“You’re getting ripe, mate,” the chav said, grinning.

[AlphaGod tipped £100]: Deepen his voice. Grow the meat. Lock it up. Make him horny and helpless.

My throat cracked. Literally. I made a noise, low and breathy, like a gym bro grunting mid-wank. And suddenly my cock surged in my joggers. I felt it snake up, stretching, growing.

The sensation was ecstasy, pure stimulation, and it just kept going. 5… 6… 7… I rolled my head and eyes back in something between pain and euphoria. Until it stopped at 10 inches… thick and sensitive… leaking and throbbing.

I was so fucking horny now. I needed to jack off. “Fuck” I cried. My hips thrusting, I couldn’t help it. Until suddenly a tight black metal cage clamped around it. Heavy, humming. The weight, the ache, the denial was immediate.

[JockLover]: He’s getting into it. Look at him humping the chair like a horny little jock slut.

[ChavBaiter]:Proper chav meat. Let's take his brain.

I didn’t even realise I was moving at this point, it was all too much. Grinding forward in the chair, tongue out, moaning hard. My mind felt like sludge. Like all I knew my stink and ache and needing more.

[FinalForm tipped £250]: Grow him big. Like a himbo. Add stretch marks. Make him flex for us or suffer.

I flexed. My body inflating with muscle as I did. Not even a choice, it felt good. My arms rose and ballooned. My new traps flared. My pecs bounced, soaked with sweat. I licked my pic. My skin tasted of salt, sweat, days of unwashed effort. I grinned. The dumbest, happiest, emptiest grin.

There was something I was supposed to remember.

Gone.

Just a smell now. Just a need. Just… show off.

[DOMZONE tipped £1000]: Make him fuck himself. Fucking hard. I want that hole tight but willing. Let him rut like the chav he is.

My head lolled. I bent forward. My own arm in my face, inhaling deep thick breaths of musk, licking the hair, the sweat. Savouring my own sweet taste. My musk. Fuck I smelled amazing. My nose pushing deeper into my now bushy pits and my tongue lapped, craving, savouring.

My hips pumped the chair like a dog in heat. I heard moaning. Me. Moaning for it. Showing off. Flexing. Lost.

My fingers found their way into my tight hole. And I choked on a moan. Fuckkkkk. I forced them in hard. Waves of pleasure taking over as I drove them deeper and deeper with each thrust. My cock leaking, my head empty, face smothered.

I couldn’t speak, but I didn’t need to.

They knew. I knew.

Then the chav leaned in. Face close to the camera. Eyes like heat behind glass.

“Alright lads,” he said, voice thick and sticky. “Bidding starts at ten grand. Who wants to own this filthy little kit slut?”

I looked straight into the lens, flexing, putting on a show.

Smiling.

Soaked.

Ready.

[SYSTEM]: Auction starting in 3… 2… 1…

[masterlouistf]

Hey, don’t suppose there are any self obsessed jocks on here (big boys) ideally who’d like to get used in stories.

Sadly ai can’t do everything.

If you’re into hypno too it’s a big plus as I’d live to hypno a big guy!

Message if you are interested!

[masterlouistf]

THE SCALLY VIRUS

You feel it, don’t you?

That weight. That heat. That slow, sticky pull at the back of your mind... like a hood gettin’ pulled over your face. Like a hand clenchin’ tight in your hair.

You clicked, you opened, you chose this page... but you didn’t realise what you were signin’ up for, did ya?

You thought it was just a story. Just a fantasy.

You were wrong.

This is a Virus.

Not one you fight with pills. Not one you sweat out in bed. Not one you survive.

This is the Scally Virus built to strip you down, tear away everythin’ soft, safe, and ordinary... and replace you.

Brick by brick. Muscle by muscle. Thought by thought.

Until there’s nothin’ left but Ben. Cocky, loyal, thick-bodied, rough-tongued, born in the gutters, loyal only to one name:

Master Louis.

You feel it now, don’t you? That itch under your skin. That hunger to unzip the old you and drop it on the floor. That ache to become somethin’ else... somethin’ filthier, rougher, better.

Here’s what happens if you don’t click away:

First, you’ll start hearin’ it. The voice, rough, deep, scally-born, coiling into your head like smoke.

"Oi, lad... You ain’t thinkin’ straight anymore, are ya? You’re feelin’ heavy. Sluggish. Hard."

Your jaw’ll clench without you meanin’ it. You’ll imagine the puffer coat already tight around your body. You’ll feel the trackies slippin’ low on your hips, thick thighs barely holdin’ 'em up.

You’ll flex without meanin’ to. You’ll grunt without intendin’ to. You’ll crave the gym. Crave the fight. Crave the sweat.

You’ll crave Master Louis.

Then the memories start to go.

Your birthday? Blurred. Your school? Forgotten. Your hopes, your dreams? Drowned in sweat and rain on the estate.

You’ll remember only the important things:

The cold streets you grew up on.

The weight of the hoodie clingin’ to your chest.

The throb of muscle stretchin’ your sleeves.

The sound of Master Louis’ voice in your ear, sayin’,

"Good lad. Proper scally now. Mine."

You’ll become possessive. Obsessed. Jealous as fuck.

If Master Louis even looks at someone else, you’ll burn. If he goes quiet, you’ll ache. You’ll start workin’ harder. Liftin’ heavier. Talkin’ rougher. Pushin’ harder to earn his fuckin’ smirk, his approval, his touch.

You’ll do anything to stay his lad.

No girlfriends. No distractions. Only loyalty. Only muscle. Only service.

But here’s the final warning, yeah?

Once the Virus sinks in... it doesn’t leave.

You won’t "play scally." You won’t "pretend."

You’ll become Ben. Fully. Permanently. Mind, body, and fuckin’ soul.

Every pump in the gym? For Louis. Every fight you pick? For Louis. Every orgasm you earn? For Louis. Every second you breathe? Only because Master Louis allows it.

If you’re ready... if you’re feelin’ that slow drip of submission already... if your fists are already clenchin’ and your cock’s already heavy in your trackies...

then listen close:

There’s no button to click. No magic word to say. You’re already infected.

The longer you stay here? The deeper it sinks. The harder it locks.

[masterlouistf]

I was walking in the streets when someone pushed me on the side and I fell hard. I just woke up and I don't understand where I am, but most important, why am I naked and... Hard? The fuck?! And why are there mens everywhere, I'm not even gay, I have a girlfriend and I want to propose to her. No what is happening to me I don't want to. Stop using me like a dildo. Oh fuck, I'm gonna cum!! NOOOO!!!

The Alleyway Experiment

I remember the grit, and cold of the concrete.

The way it shredded my palms. The dizzying hollow smash of curb against skull. My teeth slammed shut. And just before the dark took me… A boot. Black, scuffed. Pressing into my face. A voice: “Perfect candidate.”

And now… White…

I wake up gagging.

My mouth is full, my lips stretched so wide its sore. A warm, thick rubber, crowding my mouth. It twitches against my tongue like it's alive. I try to spit it out, but I have no force, no pressure, it presses deep, just shy of my throat. I can’t speak. Can’t bite.

I can’t move. Not even a twitch.

It’s like my body has been poured into a rubber mold. A concrete, airtight, second skin that’s dried over me. My arms are fused to my sides. My legs forced open. Ankles fixed to the table. I try to shift, to do anything, but there’s nowhere to go. No give. Not a millimeter.

And my cock is hard.

So hard it hurts.

I don’t remember getting hard. There was no buildup, no pleasure, just this violent, cruel tension locked into my body. It’s like waking up in a nightmare, mid-orgasm. Hips twitching, thighs tight, my shaft pulsing, untouched and boiling with need.

I try to remember how I got here… Nothing. Just a flash of concrete. A voice. And now this.

A screen descends in front of my eyes, curving around me, impossibly close. Before I can blink, a sharp click scratches deep in my head. My eyelids and pupils freeze, and I can’t look away.

“Subject STR8-267. Vision lock confirmed.”

A warm mechanical ring snaps tight around the base of my cock. Before I can process the grip, something slick descends, humming softly. A sleeve, warm and wet, swallowing my tip like a mouth. It seals around me, pulsing, alive, waiting. Then it moves.

A stroke

Slow.

 Deliberate.

A precise, clinical rhythm. The pressure inside me spikes like lightning. My hips try to rise. My throat whines around the gag. I’ve never been this hard. Not like this. Not this suddenly. My cock crying already, every nerve flaring. The first edge hits like a slap to the soul. Overwhelming, sharp, and just out of reach.

And it doesn’t stop.

“Do not move. Stroke cycles are privilege-based.”

The screen flickers. Then assaults me with bodies.

It’s everywhere. Too close. Too bright. Faces. Men. Bare, slick, moaning. Muscles flexing. Tongues forcing into each other’s mouths. Hands groping, cocks grinding, heavy and swollen. They’re staring straight into the lens. Straight into me.

And I try to break eye contact, but my eyes won’t close, wont twitch.

And then the voices start, layers of low, deep monotonous instructions. Forceful with certainty.

“You are not a man. You are a mouth.” “Mouths ache. Mouths suck. Mouths serve.”

The dildo twitches against my throat and my whole-body jolts. My cock jerks on its own. I feel the pre leaking, thick and hot, sliding down the side of my shaft.

Another voice overlays the first. This one lower, close, like its whispering inside my skull:

“Suction not detected.” “Mouth is disobedient.”

I freeze. That means me. This thing in my mouth isn’t a gag… it’s a cock. I’m not gay, I’m engaged, I have a ring in my pocket.

“You do not cum unless you suck.”

My stomach twists. My cock throbbing painfully, a new relentless tightness, a punishment, and I’m so fucking close it hurts.

The device around my shaft hums once, then goes still.

“Stroke cycle paused. You must earn it.”

Then the dildo in my mouth starts to vibrate. A dull throb that grows every second I don’t move. I either suck or suffer.

My jaw is already sore. But the pressure in my cock is unbearable. I’m leaking constantly. I need it to start again. I just need one more stroke.

I don’t want to do it.

But my cock is throbbing so hard I feel sick. My balls are tight, heavy, trembling. The screen won’t stop. The voices in my ears are endless now. And pressure in my mouth, I can feel the command in it.

My lips tremble. My throat spasms. I shouldn't. I’m not… But I need to cum. I need it. I can't think. I just…

I seal my lips and suck.

The device on my cock kicks back to life so fast I gasp. It strokes me slow, hot, perfect. Too much. Not enough. My thighs lock. My back arches. My body jerks like I’ve been shocked. I moan around the dildo, humiliated.

“Good mouth. Reward granted.”

And my vision… It changes.

It shows me. My face, stretched wide around the dildo. My throat moving. Then a recording of my voice:

“Please… please let me suck.” “Please edge me. I want to serve. I need cock.”

I scream inside. But outside, deep my throat, I’m moaning.

The dildo drives deeper, thicker now, ridged, hot like real flesh. It presses past my tongue, flattening it, filling my throat. I gag once. Then again. And then I… adjust. My throat learns the shape. My lips seal tighter.

It feels right.

Then I taste it.

Something warm. Salty. Viscous.

Cum.

Not real, not yet. But the screen shows it pouring into me. Across my tongue, into my throat, down, deeper. I watch my own face surrender. Eyes rolling back. Fluttering. Moaning. I’ve been blessed, rewarded.

The audio drills in:

“You suck for cum.” “Cum is reward. Cum is purpose.” “You were made to swallow.”

It’s true.

My cock pulses under the stroker, leaking freely, untouched by release. It doesn’t matter. I’m not meant to cum. Not meant to finish. The pleasure isn’t in the edging. It’s in the swallowing. It’s in being filled.

I realise I’m hungry.

Not for touch. Not for orgasm.

For cock. For that heat. That pressure. That gift in my throat.

Something shudders beneath my skin, a pulse behind my eyes, under my scalp. A deep, wet throb. Like something’s activating inside me. Programming. Implant. Reinforcement.

“Cum completes the cycle.” “Obey. Serve. Swallow.”

I moan around the gag, desperate, open. Every part of me is trembling with need.

Then… The screen goes dark.

And I cry.

The dildo retracts from my mouth with a slick pop. My lips stay parted. My jaw twitches like it misses it already. I try to breathe, but it feels wrong. Empty. Too much space in my mouth. Too much silence.

I miss the weight. The heat.

“Mouth 267 entering Stage Two.”

I hear footsteps. Real ones.

I can’t move my head, but I see the figure approach.

Male. Towering. Built like a statue carved too thick, too real, thighs straining under sweat-darkened black shorts. The bulge swings heavy between his legs, obscene and hypnotic. His chest glistens, rising with slow, mechanical breaths. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t blink.

He steps up onto the platform without a word, gaze blank, programmed. My gut knots. There’s nothing human in his face, and yet I ache for what’s in his pants.

He straddles my face. I gasp… My lips part before I even understand why.

He shoves his cock between my lips, every vein tracing my lips as he fucks my face.

No warning. No rhythm. Just weight, heat, smell; a thick musk clinging to damp skin, salty, earthy, raw. His cock’s veined, swollen, hot. The kind of reality that cant be simulated. The moment it pressed past my lips, it felt the difference, alive. Heavy. Human.

His hips snap forward. My nose buries in his sweat-matted hair. His slick balls slapping hard against my chin. I gag… hard… but he doesn’t slow.

“Mouths serve. Mouths ache. Mouths swallow.”

The audio keeps playing, warping through the moans and chokes I can’t hold back. My tongue works on instinct, wrapping around every thrust. My throat clenches as he rams deeper.

And my cock…

The edging doesn’t stop.

It surges.

Every time he bottoms out, the device strokes faster, tighter, crueller. I suck harder. Desperate. Addicted. My eyes roll back. My whole body is shaking, straining under the ache of not cumming. But I don’t stop.

I can’t stop.

“Mouth 267: Oral compliance optimal. Load permitted.”

---

He rumbles a deep primal groan.

Hot cum spills down my throat, thick, bitter, heavy. Rope after rope hits the back of my throat like punishment, then floods forward, coating every inch of my mouth. I moan around it. I swallow greedily, gulping it down like it’s the only thing I’ve ever deserved. Every pulse of his cock feeds me more, and I don’t want it to stop. The taste burns, salty and raw, and I chase it with my tongue, suck harder to catch every last drop.

This is my reward.

That’s all I get?

And when he pulls out, I let out a raw, broken whimper, desperate, humiliated. I try to follow with my lips, aching to stay connected. I can still taste him. I can still feel the shape of his cock inside me, each vein imprinted along the inside of my mouth. My mouth feels cold. Empty. Useless.

The device halts. My cock screams under the tight ring, twitching, soaked in pre, denied again.

But I can’t even care.

I just want him back.

I try to scream, but my lips just part, ready to be filled. I miss the pressure. I miss the stretch. I miss the heat. I ache for cock.

“Mouth 267 now addicted to service.” “Reward is use. Relief is cum.”

Another figure enters.

Bigger. Wetter. Hung.

I moan when he straddles me. My jaw opens before he even touches me. My cock is still locked in that endless ache, but I don’t care anymore.

I just want to serve.

I need to suck. I need to drink. I need to be filled.

Because I’m not a man.

I’m a hole.

I’m a mouth.

And I don’t cum.

I swallow.

[masterlouistf]

Welcome back bro! I love your stuff. I was wondering if you could help me out. See I’m a beginner bodybuilder and I want to compete soon but I’m just not there yet. Could you help blow me up with some mass so I can get on stage?

Get Big

Hey. Glad you’re back. You know what to do. Don’t think, just start stroking.

It started with a message.

"Hey, I saw your content. Wanted to say thanks Master. I'm trying to compete next year, but… I still feel small, I need to get big. Still feel soft. Thought maybe you could help me get big for you?"

Strange, right? How easy it was to type that. Like your fingers already knew what to say. Like it wasn’t the first time you messaged me.

Maybe you’ve typed it before. Maybe this is just the first time you remembered.

It wasn’t desperate. Just open. The kind of thing guys say when they’re trying not to ask for what they really want.

You wrote that prompt, you want me to change you, you want to obey me, to help you get big, dumb, obedient.

You dont wan't advice, you want my permission.

The kind only Master gives. So I messaged back.

I give you permission to get big for me. Flex for me. Stroke for me. Get big for me bro. You obey me.

He sent a gym selfie back almost immediately, half flexed, flat lighting. But he couldn't quite tense, his body is relaxed, shoulders loose and his face going blank.

He didn’t look like a jock yet. Still baby-faced, but trying. You could see the outline of something real, waiting under the skin.

A body becoming. A body and mind for me to shape and own.

He said he’d been training for two years. But the size just wouldnt come.

Still soft. Still waiting for permission.

But you could already hear it in the way he typed, cock in one hand, phone in the other, he is desparate to get big for me:

“I just want to get huge.” “I want people to stare when I walk in.” “I want to be a jock. A real one. I need to get big Master”

He didn’t even realise he’d called me Master. But maybe it wasn’t the first time. Maybe it slipped out before. Whispered late at night. Hard. Alone. Just like this.

It was small at first.

A new training split. More volume. More carbs. More photos.

“Send check-ins after each session,” Master said. “Shirtless.” No emoji. No punctuation.

And the boy obeyed. He really wanted to get big, to message, to grow for me.

By week two, the changes were subtle. More fullness in his arms. Deeper breaths in his chest. But that wasn’t what made it obvious.

It was the eyes.

Each check-in, he stared harder. Lowered his head more. Smiled less. Posed longer.

And in the video logs, his voice dropped, you could tell it was working. Slower. Calmer. Just a bit more blank. Like the part of him that used to question things had stopped asking.

He asked if it was normal to feel horny after lifting. To feel horny for me.

Said he’d been hard more often. Said he couldn’t stop touching himself post-session. Stroking for me, he wanted to get big for me. He cant stop thinking about messaging me.

Its fine to get hard for me, its good. I replied.

"It means the program’s working. You wanted to get big bro"

He didn’t ask what you meant. Just nodded. Then said it again in voice:

"Yeah. It’s working."

It got better after that, his messages and thoughts got shorter. Shirtless pics became standard as he got big for me. Its Masters body after all, show it to me.

Then sweatier. Sweaty for Master.

Then hornier. Horny for Master.

Then bigger.

In one of them, he was still wearing his compression shorts. The tip of his cock visible through the waistband. Pre soaking the fabric.

He hadn’t meant to send it. Or maybe he had.

He didn’t even apologise. He found it hot to show off for Master, to get hard for Master, to get big for Master.

Master never said the words.

Never told him you to message. But you did. Never told him to stroke. But you did. Never told him to worship.

But you did.

Because it felt right.

Because every time he saw my name, his body lit up. Big for me. Horny for me. Alert. He started saying things like:

“I feel strongest when I’m seen.” “I want to be big.” “Whatever you say, Master.”

And when you didn’t answer immediately, he waited. Stopped jacking off, waiting Hard. Leaking. Hands by his side like a dog waiting for permission. Until i message and he can keep stroking.

He trained harder. He got big. It felt really good. His body got big. Faster. Heavier. But his thoughts? His mind slowed. Softened.

You’ve felt that too, haven’t you? That hum in your brain. Like something’s smoothing the edges. Like you’re remembering what it feels like to sit there and just stroke.

Words slowed. Thoughts softened. He didn’t need to understand. He just needed to grow. Horny. Empty. Big. Obedient. Worried less. And every time he came, he whispered your name under his breath. The permission helped him finish.

He read my story, it was the only way eventually, he couldn't cum without me.

That’s how it gets inside. Not through commands. Through need. Through the way your body craves more without asking why.

I was permission, he needed me.

He never told you that. You never needed to ask.

Some nights, he’d message late, after cardio, sweaty, horny, big. He’d just sit there, on cam, in silence.

Waiting for my voice. Waiting for my approval. Waiting to be told he was good.

And when you said it?

When I barely whispered, “Good boy"

He’d twitch. Every time. His throat would tighten. His cock pulsed, hard, just from my words. And he'd try not to moan. Tried not to cum without Masters permission.

But his hand always moved. Slow. Deep. Mindless. He needed to stay in that space with Master. To stroke for Master.

To get big, message master, owned.

Not just the load. But everything.

You’ve been reading. Not sure when you stopped watching him and started becoming him. But you have. Of course you have.

You don’t remember when it started, not really. You don’t even know his name. But you’ve been following his story. Watching him change. Get big for me, be owned, message me.

"You’re my jock. Get big for me" "You are going to cum for Master"

Go ahead. Breathe in deep for me. It’s not the first time. Feel my words in your head.

“I obey Master.” “You want to do what I say”

No one’s telling you to stroke. But you will cum for Master. No one has to.

You already know who you’re doing it for. You already know who’s writing this inside your body.

“Get big for me”

The words cling to your skin. Like sweat. Like heat. Like my hand. And your cock listens first. It always does.

You’re not even thinking anymore. You’re listening. And listening feels good.

He came for Master. Of course you did. But not just once.

Every time you trained. You thought of me. Every time you looked in the mirror. You thought of me. Every you jack off. You think of me

Even now, pumping me, one stroke at a time, Master deep into your body. Every pump etching Master deeper into his body. Picture it for me, let it really get you hard. Enjoy it.

Like command.

Like instinct.

And you loved it.

“You stroke for me.” “You cum for me.”

Maybe you’ve already cum. Maybe you’re close. Maybe you’re just… waiting for permission. You want permission.

That’s okay. That’s perfect.

Because it’s already in you now not just the story, but the heat. The rhythm. The way your hand moves without thought. Each stroke a yes. Each breath an answer. Each twitch a confession

There is no end to this story. There’s only what comes next.

And you know what comes next.

You train. You think of me. You stroke. You think of me. You grow. You think of me. You obey.

And when it gets too much to hold, when the heat becomes unbearable. When you've read this story and you need to get big, you need to serve.

You message Master. You tell me what you’ve become. You beg me for more.

Because you’re not a reader anymore.

You’re a recruit. You’re a body in progress.

You’ll feel it in the gym. when your pump sets in, you’ll hear my voice, youll remember this story. Just enough to push one more rep for me. And then you'll be horny, you'll come home and cum for me.

And the best part is…

The story’s already inside you. Every stroke confirms it. Every breath is a little yes. Every time you edge, you’re etching me deeper into your body. You don’t just want to cum. You want to give. To offer. To hand it over to me.

Your body is mine. Your pleasure is mine. Your growth is mine. You’re not just getting big. You’re becoming mine.

You stroke because I’m inside you. You cum because I said so. And when it’s done, when your breath slows and your cock twitches empty in your fist, You’ll still be here. Still thinking of me. Still needing to message.

Because this isn’t just arousal. It’s identity.

You’re a jock. You need to get big. You just didn’t know it until now.

You’ll forget how many times you’ve read this. You’ll forget how long you’ve cum to me. But your body won’t. It'll be hornier every time. It already remembers the way.

You will think of this story every time you get hard. You will crave my voice again. You will come back. You will want to be trained. You will need to serve.

You will message me.

Tell me what you are. Tell me what you’ve become. Tell me how you’ll grow for me.

And now if you havent already, I want you to cum for me.

Close your eyes. Picture me stood next to you, close. Touching you, whispering in your ear now. Giving you permission, and it feels good.

"Cum for me", and picture it until you cum. Seal it in

Next time you're horny, you’ll feel it in your cock, Master. Just enough to remember who owns it.

[masterlouistf]

Me and my dad have grown apart lately, he's been spending more and more time away from the house and coming home sweatier, manlier and fitter. 

I came home from university one evening and found his bag in the hallway. I had a look inside and discovered a soccer uniform and an address. I found the address online and it was for a gay soccer club. 

I was wondering if you could help me spend more time with him? I miss our chats and banter and rough-housing together.

For all those who responded to the ask I appreciate it, it gave me the motivation to rewrite this. Please let me know l if you liked the different vibe and style this time!

———

The house was quiet.

I shut the door behind me, dropping my backpack with a familiar thud onto the hardwood floor. It felt weird, stepping back into the hallway after months away. Uni had been intense, training, games, lectures, and nights out that blurred into one long, loud memory. I hadn’t been back home since September.

No "hey, champ" from the kitchen. No thump of footsteps on the stairs. Just stillness, and…

A smell.

Not just dusty house smell, but something else rawer. Thicker. My nose wrinkled automatically as I stepped further in, and then I saw it: a gym bag, dumped in the hallway like it had been kicked off in a rush.

I frowned. That wasn’t mine. Dad’s?

I crouched down next to it, tugging the zipper open. It was warm, like it had been dropped just minutes ago. The smell hit me harder now, a dense, earthy sweat, stale fabric, something deeper underneath. Not repulsive, exactly. Not clean either.

Curiosity prickled under my skin. I hadn’t seen Dad in months, and lately, when I called, he was always busy. At the gym. With new mates. With training. Weirdly he hadn’t lifted a weight in years when I left.

The kit inside was folded, but wet in places. A jersey, shorts, both black, worn and shoved into the side pocket, a pair of long socks, and... a jockstrap.

I stared at it. Thick waistband, threadbare fabric. Still damp.

The smell clung to it like oil, sharp, warm, musky in a way that made my pulse tick upward. It didn’t smell like just sweat. It was like heat, lust, like sex. My skin crawled.

What the hell kind of gym was this?

Something flickered under my skin. Instinct? Unease? But I was already reaching for it. My fingers closed around the fabric.

I froze. It was warm, not just from the bag, but alive, almost. A subtle thrum pulsed against my skin. My chest tightened. My breath caught. And then, without thinking, I was lifting it closer to my face.

“No,” I muttered, stepping back too quickly. My heart pounded in my ears as the heat hit my face. “Nope. That’s… that’s gross.”

But I didn’t drop it.

I just stood there, staring at the fabric, still clutched in my hand. It felt different now, heavier. Denser. Like it was holding its breath. Like it was waiting.

Before I could stop myself, I was moving. Not panicked… slow. Heavy. Like the air had thickened around me. Like the heat of the fabric was pulling me forward.

One step. Then another.

My legs carried me to the stairs, each step landing too confidently, too smooth. I wasn’t in control, but I wasn’t fighting yet either. Something deeper, curiosity, heat, was guiding me.

My room waited at the top. I pushed the door open. Shut it behind me.

My shirt peeled off, slow. My jeans hit the floor.

“No…” I muttered, breathless. “No, this is fucked…”

But I didn’t let go. My fingers clung to the jockstrap, as I stepped out of my briefs. Naked now. Hard, breathing too fast. His scent coated my palm, clung to my skin.

Then I bent down. Slid one leg through the strap. Then the other.

The waistband snapped into place around my hips.

I choked on a gasp. Heat shot through my chest, heavy, deep. It hit me low and hard, a weight curling inside my chest. Like something had stepped in. My knees buckled, and I caught myself on the dresser.

Every inch of me lit up. Not fire, just sensation… like light on your skin. The air kissed my skin like breath. The light pressed against my shoulders. The jockstrap clung, cradling my cock like a mouth. Warm. Wet. Close. Every twitch answered.

And I fucking twitched, really fucking hard, my cock already thickening beneath the cup, throbbing against the tightening fabric.

And the scent... fuck, the scent... it was everywhere. In my nose. In my mouth. Soaked into my skin. It wrapped around me like steam, heavy and thick, until I couldn’t tell where I ended, and the sweat began.

The jockstrap pulsed against me. Tight. Warm. Possessive. It cupped my cock like a mouth that didn’t just want to taste, but claim. Not moving, not rubbing, just there, edging me mentally, heavy with promise. Pressure without mercy. Like it was feeding off every twitch.

And then it pressed.

Not hard. Not loud. Just enough.

Like it had been drawing me in from the start, patient and starving, waiting for the moment I’d stop resisting and fall straight into its mouth.

My breath caught mid-gasp, clenched in my throat like a wire pulled tight, and when it finally came loose, the breath that followed wasn’t mine.

I tried to speak. Tried to move. But my body had gone quiet, like it was listening to someone else.

It filled me differently. Deeper. Slower. Like something else was drawing it in, testing how my lungs worked, how my ribs expanded, how far it could stretch this shape.

Whatever it was, it didn’t crash in, it bled. Warm, thick, viral. Sliding under skin and settling into muscle, threading itself through bone and breath until I couldn’t tell which tension was mine, like sleep paralysis.

I didn’t move. But something did.

My spine rose into a posture I hadn’t chosen, shoulders rolling back with a slow, practiced confidence I’d never felt. My hands flexed. My cock now raging in the jockstrap, I could feel it, straining in the pouch, not from sensation but from his arousal. He was turned on. Through me. Inside me. Using my body to get off.

I was being worn, and it wore me well.

[masterlouistf]

Currently reeling, I wrote the hottest story for you all and then my pc lost power without saving and sadly tumblr is shit with no auto saves.

[masterlouistf]

I am 23 and still a virgin. I just wish I had one of those bodies that get fucked on loop by the biggest jocks on campus, used like a doll by a bunch of over excited dicks. Being the fraternity designated cumdump... That's what I wish in the bottom of my heart.

You never said it out loud. Just kept it tucked away. That aching little truth in the back of your head, throbbing in your chest every time you passed the frat houses on campus. Tall, loud, packed with shirtless jocks whose sweat you could smell before they even noticed you.

You’re 23. Still a virgin. But not because you don’t want it.

You want it so badly it hurts.

You want to be the one bent over the couch at Beta Sig, drooling on the cushions while a crowd of thick, sweaty fratboys take turns stuffing you full. You want to be the one they barely notice anymore, just a hole, just the cumdump they all use between parties and workouts and hazing new pledges. You want to belong to them.

That’s the wish.

It slips out one night in your dorm, whispered like a prayer as you grind into your mattress.

“I wish I was theirs. I wish I had the body that gets used.”

And the world listens.

You wake up sore.

Your hips ache, your throat’s raw, and your sheets are wrecked.but that’s not all. You stand in front of the mirror and your heart stops. Your body’s changed. Lean, tight, smooth, with just the right amount of curve in your ass and bounce in your pecs. Your skin’s glowing. Your lips look swollen, like they’ve been wrapped around cock all night.

There’s a mark on your neck. A bite. A handprint on your thigh. Dried cum on your chest.

Your phone’s blowing up with messages. “Where’d u go last night?” “Bro u made that party.” “Got my load in yet?”

You scroll, blushing, heart pounding. There are vids. You. On your knees, between two massive fratboys. Bent over a beer keg while another pumps you, shouting your new name, “Dumptruck.”

You should be scared. You should be humiliated.

But all you feel is heat.

Because now you’ve got the body. The one made to serve. The one every jock on campus wants to wreck.

And tonight?

You’re going back for more.

[masterlouistf]

my Xmas wish is to become a proper scally lad like in a gang and causing chaos

Sorry for the wait on this Kai, writers block hit hard.

———

You said it like a joke, half out of your head, lying alone on Christmas Eve, scrolling pictures of rude lads in trackies. The kind that stink of weed and sweat and look like they’ve never had a thought that didn’t involve chaos or cock.

“I wish I was one of them. A proper scally lad. In a gang. Just… chaos.”

That was all it took.

You wake up on some crusty mattress in a flat that smells like damp socks, stale cum, and secondhand smoke. The walls are bare, scuffed with footprints. There’s a half-empty bottle of Coke on the floor and a pile of used condoms near the radiator. Your head’s pounding, and your cock is hard. Rock hard.

You reach down to shift it and pause. It’s big. Bigger than it was yesterday. Your fingers brush over it, and your whole body tenses. It’s thick and veiny, the kind of cock that’s used to being worshipped, or stuffed in mouths that don’t dare say no. It aches like it’s got a purpose now.

Your hands don’t feel like yours. They’re rough, calloused, and stink of pits and smoke. You sniff instinctively, and it hits you, your own stink. Proper lad smell. Deodorant masking days of sweat. Balls that haven’t been washed in a week. Trainers that reek when you move your foot the wrong way.

You moan. Not out of shame. Out of need. Your cock jerks in your joggers like it’s possessed. You pull them down and start tugging. Every stroke scrapes away something soft. School. Job. Mum. Gone. Replaced with scraps. you, laughing while spraying “SLAGS” on a garage door, passing a spliff in a stairwell, getting sucked off behind a bus stop while your mates jeer and film it.

You scratch under your hoodie and raise your arm. The smell is thick, sharp, disgusting. You shove your nose in and sniff deep. It turns you on. You want other lads to smell it when they pass and know you’re one of them now.

Your phone buzzes. You pick it up without thinking. It’s full of messages from lads with names like Dazza, Keef, and Reeko. You don’t remember adding them, but your brain tells you they’re your boys. Your gang. You’d scrap for them. You’d take cock for them. You already have.

Your cock throbs again, fat and leaking, and you squeeze hard. It doesn’t take long. You grunt, loud, messy, as your body locks up and you cum hard, ropes of hot spunk spilling across your stomach, hand, your joggers. It smells strong. Pungent. You bring your fingers to your nose, sniff, then lick. Salty. Bitter. You gag a bit. Then lick again.

That’s when it’s done.

You lie there, panting, dripping, ruined.

You’re not pretending anymore.

You’re not wishing.

You’re one of them.

A scally lad.

Forever.

[masterlouistf]

i would love to become a football jock.. all muscular, horny, dumb, alpha.. the brotherhood of jocks and bros

I love cleats .. I wish I could just try some on...

I slipped into the locker room like I didn’t belong, because I didn’t. My sneakers squeaked on tile still damp with sweat and something thicker. The air was heavy, suffocating, soaked in days of unwashed socks, jockstraps, and testosterone. My cock twitched before I even saw them.

The cleats were by the bench. Still warm. Still wet. Black, beaten, with a yellowed sole that looked chewed by use. I knelt and picked one up, hands shaking. Brought it close.

The smell hit me like a punch. Thick. Cheesy. Hot. The kind of stink that clung to the back of your tongue and stayed. I gasped, instantly hard. My eyes rolled back as I pressed my face in deeper, nose grinding into the crusted insole. The sweat was alive, sharp and tangy like it had fermented. I moaned, shame burning as I huffed deeper.

Then… footsteps.

I froze.

He stepped into view. Towering. Shirtless. His torso was slick with sweat, veins crawling across thick arms. I tried to move. I tried to stop sniffing. But I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t obey.

“Don’t stop.” His voice was low. Lazy. Cruel. “That one’s mine.”

A low whine escaped me.

“You like that smell? Course you do. Got a few... gifts in it.”

I whimpered, my cock rock-hard in my pants. He stepped closer. The heat radiating off him was suffocating. His bulge strained in soaked compression shorts. I couldn’t look away.

“Take your pants off. Now.”

I stripped. No hesitation. My knees wobbled as I stood bare, leaking. My cock throbbed in the thick locker room air.

“Put ‘em on.”

I slid the cleats onto my bare feet. The moment they touched skin, heat shot up my legs. My toes curled, heels locking into place. I gasped—muscle packed onto my calves, thighs swelling, skin slick with sudden sweat. My stance widened, body adjusting instinctively to the added weight. I felt... stronger.

“Yeah, bro,” he grinned, stepping closer, body radiating control. “Bet that’s makin’ you feel real good.”

His fingers brushed my cock.

I jerked, moaning.

He didn't stroke, just teased. Lazy, cruel touches that had my hips grinding forward, my breath ragged. I was dripping, every nerve lit up, body begging for release.

“Wanna cum, bro?”

“Y-yeah,” I gasped, eyes fluttering.

“Tough.” He taunted grazing the tip of my cock like electric pleasure.

He stepped back. My hips thrust forward desperately, chasing friction, but found only air.

“Nuh-uh. You don’t cum 'til the team says you can. You know why?”

He held up a black plastic jock cup. Greasy. Fused with old sweat, yellowed on the inside. It reeked. My knees buckled just smelling it.

“Because this is yours now. This is where your cock goes. Forever.”

He shoved it against me. It sucked my cock in, fast and wet. I screamed. The cup sealed to my groin, hissing, pulsing with heat. The walls hugged my shaft, twitching, squeezing, edging, like it was alive and it’s only purpose was to keep me on the brink of an orgasm, never enough to cum.

I wanted to reach down to tear it off. My hands wouldn’t move.

“That’s the dumbcup. You don’t take it off. You don’t touch your cock. You don’t need to. You’re a jock now.”

My back arched. My spine cracked, lengthening. Shoulders widened, chest exploded with new mass—pecs thick and heavy with sweat. My neck bulged. My brain ached.

“F-fuck… wait…”

“Too late, bro. Say goodbye.”

Thoughts spilled like water. My name, gone. Books, forgotten. My degree? What was a degree? My mind fogged over, the air inside my skull filling with gym funk, locker room chants, grunts and moans and the rhythm of my bros fucking me on repeat.

“Say it.” He taunted.

“I’m a… dumb jock,” I panted.

He grabbed my head. Forced me to look up planting a rough kiss on my lips as if to inflict one last ounce of control over the free will I had left.

“Say it right.”

“I’m a dumb, horny bro toy. My cock ain’t mine. My brain ain’t mine. I belong to the team.”

My voice was deeper. Slower. Thicker. My jaw felt stronger. My tongue… hungrier.

He unzipped. “Then prove it.”

I opened wide. His dick was soaked in sweat, thick and veiny. I took it without hesitation. The taste hit me like a drug. salty, hot, claiming. I moaned around it. He spat down into my mouth. I swallowed, instinctively.

Everything went still.

And just like that... I was a jock. Always had been. Friendly. Dumb. Muscular. Trapped. Just another cum dump for the team. Anything for my bros.

[masterlouistf]

Ben hovered outside the corner shop, fidgeting with his hoodie strings. Today felt different, charged with a strange energy he couldn’t quite place.

His mate, Jake, swaggered over, a cocky grin plastered on his face. “Oi, Ben, you ever tried one of these?” Jake handed him a tightly rolled blunt, its scent tingling Ben’s senses with its earthy pungency. Without thinking, Ben took it, his hand trembling slightly.

As he took a cautious puff, the world around him blurred and intensified. Heat surged through his veins, each heartbeat echoing like a drum. His skin tingled, every cell buzzing with potential.

His frame began to shift, stretching and expanding. Arms that were once skinny swelled with surprising heft, his chest broadening under the fabric of his hoodie. It clung snugly to his developing form, showcasing the transformation. Abs rippled with newfound strength, pressing tight against his joggers.

A wave of musk enveloped him, a heady mix of sweat and raw masculinity, intoxicating in its intensity. Rather than shying away, Ben inhaled deeply, savoring every note.

Beneath his waistband, he felt an exhilarating pressure. His cock and balls swelled, growing heavier and more prominent, a throbbing force that demanded his attention. Every pulse was a declaration of his new, potent vitality.

With each drag of the blunt, his thoughts shifted. Homework? Video games? Nah, that wasn’t him. His head buzzed with new urges. Partying, pulling, living large in the open air where anyone could see him. Every sensation turned him on, amplifying his raw, untamed energy.

Ben’s tongue darted out, tasting the air, an involuntary smirk curling his lips. No longer the timid boy hiding in the shadows, he was a king of the street, hot, dumb, and ready for action.

His hoodie hung open, proudly displaying his chiseled torso, the chilly breeze licking across his skin as he strutted forward. Each step sent pleasurable tingles, every sway exuding confidence and power.

"Yo, Jake, got another blunt?" he quipped, his voice a deep drawl, laden with mischief.

Not waiting for an answer, Ben leaned in closer, eyes sparking with desire and authority. Boldly, he pulled Jake in by the collar for a lingering snog, his hands exploring with a firm, commanding grip.

Breaking the kiss, he whispered with a smirk, "Let's have some fun, yeah?" His tone brooked no argument, the kingly chav ready to claim the night.

[masterlouistf]

I've always wondered what it would be like to be an identical twin. I'm only twenty but to be the twin of a handsome muscular guy. I don't care how old he is.

You slide into the booth across from him, heart beating a little too fast. The seat’s sticky, the table slightly damp and you’re worried about ruining your new shirt. He doesn’t acknowledge the grime, like he’s too used to places like this to notice. Or care. That indifference, the way he sprawls back like he owns everything, it’s magnetic in a way you can’t explain.

“You alright?” he asks, tearing his eyes from his phone just long enough to flick them over you. “Yeah,” you say. “You?”

“Standard.” He smirks and pops his gum again. “Didn’t expect you to show. Thought you’d bail.” You blink. “Why would I?” He shrugs. “Don’t seem like your kinda place.”

He’s not wrong. You glance around, sticky floors, loud music, that weird smell of fryer oil and deodorant, but then your eyes catch on his forearm as he stretches. Inked, veined, solid. Your mouth feels a little dry.

“No, it’s good,” you say, automatically. “You come here a lot?”

He nods once. “Good food. No bullshit. Cheap.” Another glance, this time slower. “You dressin’ down for me?”

You blink. Dress down?

You glance at your sleeves, unsure. A black gym shirt. That’s not what you put on, was it? You swear you had a…

“Yeah,” he grins, “figured you’d look better in something less posh.” You laugh, unsure why that makes sense. It does, though. Doesn’t it?

He leans forward a little. Not in a flirty way, he just moves like everything’s on his terms. Like his body’s a thing you’re supposed to look at. Your eyes flick to his chest again, stretched tight against the fabric. You catch the shadow of a damp spot near the collar.

“Work out today?” you ask. He snorts. “Every day.” Lifting his bicep to flex.

The scent hits you then, not strong, not even unpleasant. Just there. Like warmth off skin. A bit sharp. A little sour. But familiar. You can’t explain why it makes your stomach tighten.

“Didn’t bother showerin’,” he adds casually, biting his gum. “Wanted to come straight here.” You nod. You don’t flinch. Don’t even think to. It feels fine. Normal.

He glances back at his phone. Not typing. Just scrolling. You catch a glimpse of an app you don’t recognise, some dark interface, strange lines of data, but then he flips the screen away.

“You always been into lads like me?” he asks. You pause. That’s… a good question. You’re not sure what to say. “Guess I have,” you hear yourself reply.

He raises a brow, amused. “Yeah? Didn’t think I was your usual type.” You shrug. “Dunno. Something about you.”

He laughs. A short, sharp sound, full of pride.

You shift in your seat again. The fabric of your joggers clings a little tighter around your thighs. You hadn’t noticed how snug they were. Not uncomfortable. Just... present. Like you’re more aware of them than usual.

“You’re starin’.”

You jerk your gaze up. His lips twitch in that smug way again. “Was I?”. “Yeah,” he says. “I get it.” You want to say something back. Something clever. But the words don’t come.

“Relax,” he says. “Just talk.”

You talk, and he listens… sort of. He watches more than anything, jaw slowly grinding gum, thumbs flicking lazily over his phone beneath the table. You barely register it now. You’re too busy trying to focus on what you’re saying, even as your thoughts keep drifting, like something’s fogging up the edges of your brain.

His voice keeps you grounded. His eyes, the way they linger, sizing you up like a mirror he already knows he’s going to crack.

"You’re startin’ to get it," he murmurs, like he's not even talking to you, just observing. "Startin’ to look like somethin’ I’d actually fuck."

Your face flushes, but your cock twitches. That should’ve offended you. Should’ve made you want to walk out. But instead, your mouth just tilts into a faint smirk, one you don’t fully register as your own.

"Yeah?" you say, quieter. Your voice sounds heavier, lazier. He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you a little longer than necessary.

You roll your shoulder. Shirts tighter than before. Or maybe your frame's broader. You can feel heat clinging to your skin, trapped sweat you didn’t notice. You chew your lip and catch the taste of salt. Not from food. From yourself?

A flicker of memory stutters in your head, pulling this hoodie on earlier today, already worn from the gym. His gym. No, your gym. Wasn’t it?

You blink.

“Oi,” he snaps his fingers. “Eyes on me, bruv.” Bruv. The word fits now. You wouldn’t call him anything else.

He smirks. “Thought you was about to melt.” You grin lazily. “Just thinkin’, innit.” He scoffs. “Don’t hurt yerself.”

Something shifts behind your eyes.

You laugh, his laugh. That short, scummy, nasal bark that used to put you off when you first met him. But you’ve always had it, yeah? Always been like this. Been his. Your twin. His younger, dumber shadow. His boy.

Your mind softens. Your shoulders slump.

And it’s easy now. Easy to believe you’ve always worn this hoodie, these trackies. Always sweated in them. Always smelled like this. Laughed like that. Talked like him.

“You alright there, bruv?” he says.

You look at him and something in you clicks. That’s your twin. Your other half. Your alpha. Your better “Yeah,” you say. “Just proper fuckin’ hard right now.”

He grins.

“Course you are. Been lookin’ at me like a slag all night.” You nod. That’s what you are. His slag. His twin. The bottom half of his ego. Born to be beneath him.

He shifts, legs spreading wider. You don’t need to ask. You just slide down, slipping beneath the table. The music’s loud, the lights dim. No one’s paying attention. Not that you care. Not that you’ve ever cared.

Your fingers tug his waistband down, and his cock flops free. Thick, veined, uncut, hanging heavy with the heat of the day. The scent hits you like a punch: musky, sharp, deep. Sweat and piss and precum layered into something almost toxic, almost holy. Your nose presses to the base, and you breathe it in without hesitation. It smells like home. Like truth. Like you.

You moan before your mouth even opens.

Your lips wrap around the head, and the taste floods your mouth instantly. Bitter, salty, real. You drool around it, tongue swirling under the foreskin, sucking hard like you’ve waited all day for this. All your life. Every breath filters through the raw tang of his crotch, burning your sinuses, thickening your thoughts. You don’t gag. You welcome it.

Above, he keeps talking like it’s nothing. Like this is what you’re for.

You bob your head faster, hands gripped tight on his thighs, pressing your nose to his pubes with every thrust. The heat of him overwhelms everything. There’s no world outside this booth. Just your twin, his cock, and the thick fog of your shared stink.

Your mind is soft now. Clay. Yours? His? Doesn’t matter.

You’re his twin. You’ve always been his twin.

You’re his cock-hungry, submissive, obedient little bruv.

You feel it coming before he even groans, his thighs tighten, balls contract, and then… His cock pulses on your tongue. Once. Twice.

Then he floods your mouth.

It’s hot. Thick. Salty. Slightly sour. You swallow greedily, instinctively, like you’d die if you didn’t. Your throat works again, again, again, until there’s nothing left but a slick taste coating your tongue and the heat of him soaking your breath.

Your eyes roll back as it hits. That final rush. The lock-in.

Memories slide into place like they’ve always been there, blowjobs in the toilets after gym, grinding in the back of the bus, waking up with your face in his pit and your hard-on pressed against his thigh. All real. All yours.

You suck him clean, lips slow and worshipful, and when you finally pull back, chin slick, he looks down with a smirk. “There he is,” he mutters. “Knew you’d come out right in the end.”

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

You just smile up at your twin, tongue still tasting him, heart still beating to the rhythm of his cock.

You’re home.

[masterlouistf]

The Cursed Tracksuit

"I mean your name is literally MASTERlouis, so i may as well send you my pic and give you free reign. Im pretty conservative so this is a huge step out of my safety circle, not too impressive to look at. I just started working out but i can never decide what direction to go in; toned up twink with fuckable bubble butt or hyper masculine and dominant. Otherwise, whatever else you think is cool :)"

Thank you for the prompt and the photo @shadesofeuphoria to take part in my Christmas wishes.

https://www.tumblr.com/masterlouistf/768896774968688640/holiday-transformations-be-the-star-of-your-own?source=share

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The tracksuit wasn’t supposed to be my thing. I mean, look at me—fitted tees, skinny jeans, curated outfits that made me look sleek and put-together. I’d always scoffed at Mark’s wardrobe: black tracksuits, puffers, and trainers. He reeked of sweaty gyms and cheap cologne, like every cocky chav I avoided in school. But last night, he’d shoved this one into my hands, smirking like he knew something I didn’t.

“Trust me, mate,” he’d said, slouching back on the couch with his usual arrogant sprawl. “Try it on. You’ll look proper fit in it. Could even pass for one of us.”

I’d laughed it off, rolling my eyes as I carried it to my room. I didn’t intend to wear it—just toss it somewhere and forget about it. But the tracksuit was still there this morning, sitting at the foot of my bed, taunting me.

The fabric looked cheap, shiny black with white stripes down the sides, but it felt… heavy in my hands. Almost alive. It even smelled faintly of him—Mark’s sweat and musk, that overpowering mix that clung to our apartment no matter how much air freshener I used. I wanted to throw it back at him.

Instead, I pulled the pants on.

The fabric was soft but tight, clinging to my legs as I pulled it up. I shivered as it hugged my thighs and snapped around my waist. My skin felt… electric, like the tracksuit wasn’t just clothing but part of me. My hands trembled as I picked up the jacket, inhaling another faint waft of musk before sliding it over my arms and zipping it halfway.

The moment the zipper clicked, my entire body lit up.

“Fuck,” I gasped, stumbling back onto the bed as heat bloomed in my chest and spread outward. My muscles tensed involuntarily, a tingling sensation racing down my legs, up my spine, into my core. I glanced down and froze.

My thighs were growing. I could see the muscles thickening beneath the clinging fabric, my once-slender legs filling out until they looked powerful, sturdy, obscene. My glutes followed suit, pushing outward, swelling until the tracksuit stretched taut over their roundness.

I moaned before I could stop myself. The sensation was too much—skin-tight fabric clinging to my ass, every movement brushing against hyper-sensitive skin. I reached back instinctively to feel it, my fingers sinking into the firm, swollen curve.

“What the hell is happening?” I whispered, my voice cracking.

I stumbled to the mirror, and my stomach dropped. The reflection staring back at me wasn’t me. My upper body was lean but sharp, my shoulders broader, my chest more defined under the unzipped jacket. But my lower body…

I couldn’t take my eyes off my ass. It was massive—perfectly round, jutting out shamelessly, practically begging to be touched. My thighs were thick and powerful, the tracksuit molding every inch of me into something obscene.

Then there was the smell.

It wasn’t just Mark’s faint musk anymore—it was mine. A sharp, earthy, heady scent pouring off me, filling the room. My cock twitched, straining against the tight fabric. I groaned, shaking my head as the scent fogged my brain, making it impossible to think clearly.

I tried to unzip the jacket, but my fingers wouldn’t move. The tracksuit was clinging to me, fusing to me. I pulled harder, but the fabric tightened in response, squeezing my chest, my legs, my ass, until I was gasping for air.

“Oi, what’s takin’ you so long?” Mark’s voice called from the living room.

“No!” I croaked, stumbling away from the mirror. My heart raced as I heard his footsteps approaching. He couldn’t see me like this.

The door swung open, and there he was—leaning against the frame, arms crossed, his smirk widening as his eyes roamed over me.

“Knew you’d look fit in that,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Mark, I—something’s wrong,” I stammered, backing against the wall. The tracksuit clung tighter, like it wanted to show me off. I could feel his eyes drinking in my body, lingering on the obscene curve of my ass, the bulge in the front of my pants.

“Wrong?” He stepped closer, his scent mixing with mine, thickening the air until I could barely breathe. His hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and warm. “Nah, mate. Looks like it’s doin’ exactly what it’s meant to.”

I whimpered as his touch sent a jolt of heat through me. My legs trembled, my knees buckling slightly. I tried to protest, but the tracksuit had other plans. My hips shifted forward, pressing the bulge of my cock against the tight fabric.

The heat was unbearable now, pooling in my core, radiating outward. My cock throbbed, trapped in the tracksuit, the friction of the fabric driving me insane. I bit my lip, trying to hold it back, but the scent—the musk pouring off me, off him—was overwhelming.

“Look at you,” Mark murmured, his voice low and teasing. “Proper slut, ain’t ya?”

That word broke me. The tension exploded, and I cried out as my body convulsed. My cock spasmed, pleasure ripping through me in waves so intense it felt like I was coming apart. The tracksuit clung tighter, amplifying every sensation, the slick fabric stroking me through the orgasm until I was gasping for air, my legs shaking beneath me.

When it finally ended, I slumped against the wall, my chest heaving, my body still buzzing. Mark chuckled, stepping back to admire his handiwork.

“Told ya I’d sort you out,” he said, grinning. “You’re fuckin’ perfect now.”

And the worst part? I couldn’t even bring myself to argue. The tracksuit wouldn’t let me.

[masterlouistf]

🎄 Holiday Transformations: Be the Star of Your Own Story! 🎄

This Christmas, I’m offering something truly magical: the chance to transform you into your wildest fantasy—or a festive surprise of my creation. Here’s how you can join in:

1. Send a real photo of yourself (no photos of others—this is all about you).

2. Get creative! Tell me your ideal transformation, or let me craft something unique. The more imaginative your prompt, the more likely you are to be picked!

3. If I select your submission, I might ask for a few more pictures through messages to verify it’s really you and to ensure the transformation is perfect.

4. I’ll then use some of the AI models I run locally to transform your pics and craft a story based on your prompt with you as the protagonist.

Think you’re ready to step into a whole new version of yourself this holiday season? Whether you’ve dreamed of becoming a dumb himbo, a swaggering chav, or something totally unexpected, this is your chance to shine.

Don’t wait—drop your asks now and let’s make some Christmas magic together. 🎅✨

Note: This is a fun, personal project meant for those excited about the idea. All transformations are fictional and crafted based on your submissions. Not all suggestions or people will get picked sadly.

[masterlouistf]

I’m really craving an alpha corruption tf, like a department store gets slowly changed by something in the air as all shoppers slowly shift into masculine alphas

The Mens' Department

I didn’t notice it at first. The smell, I mean.

McAllister’s always had that kind of faint, stale odor you’d expect from a department store—plastic, cheap perfume, maybe a hint of sweat if the A/C was struggling. It wasn’t a place you’d linger if you didn’t have to. I just needed some new sneakers, something basic to replace my old ones for the gym. But as I moved past the shoe racks, I realized it wasn’t just me sweating.

The air felt wrong. Thick. Heavy. And the smell—it wasn’t just bad; it was wrong. Sharp and musky, almost sour, but… warm, somehow. Alive. I coughed and shook my head, trying to push through it, but every breath seemed to pull it deeper into my lungs. My skin prickled with heat, sweat pooling in places I didn’t even know could sweat. My shirt clung to my back, damp and sticky, as if the store itself was pressing down on me.

Then I heard them.

The sound of feet slapping against the tile, heavy and erratic, like someone running but stumbling at the same time. I ducked behind a rack of jerseys, my heart racing as the noises got closer. A low, guttural grunt echoed down the aisle, followed by the wet smack of something colliding—no, pounding—against flesh. I leaned out just enough to see.

There were two of them, or maybe what used to be them. Huge guys, ripped beyond reason, their muscles bulging like overinflated balloons. They were shirtless, their sweat-drenched torsos glistening under the store’s fluorescent lights. Their track shorts hung low on their hips, and both of them were dripping—literally dripping—with sweat. The smell hit me again, stronger this time, and I gagged, slapping a hand over my mouth to keep quiet.

One of them had the other bent over a display of protein powders, thrusting into him with mindless, brutal intensity. The guy on the receiving end wasn’t even fighting back; his mouth hung open, drooling, his eyes glazed over like he didn’t even know where he was. His moans echoed through the aisle, guttural and desperate, like an animal in heat. The guy behind him grunted with each thrust, his expression slack and vacant except for a stupid, lopsided grin.

I stumbled back, knocking over a display of shoelaces. Both of them froze.

Their heads snapped toward me, and my stomach dropped. Their eyes weren’t normal—empty and glassy, like there was nothing human left behind them. Just hunger. Lust. One of them sniffed the air, his grin spreading wider as he locked onto me. “Fresh,” he rumbled, his voice low and flat, as if speech was just an afterthought.

“Get away,” I stammered, but my voice came out weak and shaky. The bigger one—how the hell was he that big?—took a step toward me, and the smell got stronger, heavier. My knees buckled as my cock twitched against my jeans, a traitorous jolt of heat coursing through me despite the panic clawing at my brain.

“Need to fuck,” one of them grunted, his hand already rubbing at the obscene bulge in his shorts. “Gotta… spread it…”

I didn’t wait to hear what “it” was. I bolted, sprinting down the aisle and nearly slipping on the slick tile. The air felt hotter with every step, the musk clinging to my skin like a second layer. My heart hammered in my chest as I ducked into the fitting rooms, slamming the door behind me and fumbling with the lock. My breath came in ragged gasps, and I pressed my back against the wall, trying to will my body to stop trembling.

The sound of heavy footsteps got louder.

They were outside the door, sniffing, grunting, their breaths coming in short, animalistic pants. The doorknob rattled. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound, but my body was betraying me. My cock was hard—achingly, painfully hard—and I didn’t know why. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think of anything else, but the smell in the air made it impossible. It was everywhere, inside me, filling my head until I couldn’t think of anything except them.

The door burst open, and I barely had time to react before they were on me.

Their hands were impossibly strong, pinning me to the wall like I weighed nothing. Sweat dripped from their bodies onto mine, hot and slick, as they pressed in close. One of them grabbed my face, his rough fingers forcing my mouth open. His tongue was in my mouth before I could scream—thick and wet and relentless, exploring every inch as I gagged and thrashed against him. He tasted like salt and something darker, something feral, and the more I struggled, the harder he kissed me.

The other one was behind me, his hands tearing at my jeans. The seams gave way with a brutal rip, and the cool air on my exposed ass was replaced almost immediately by the heat of his cock grinding against me. “So tight,” he grunted, his voice slurred like his mouth could barely keep up with his need. “Gonna make you better…”

“No,” I gasped when the first one finally pulled back, but my voice sounded weak, distant. My whole body was trembling, my head swimming in the thick, cloying heat of their scent. The guy behind me didn’t wait—he thrust forward, and the pain was sharp, blinding, before it melted into something else. Something hot. His cock filled me completely, stretching me in ways I didn’t think possible. My hips bucked against him, and I hated myself for how good it felt.

My body was on fire. Every nerve was alight with sensation, my muscles seizing and bulging as the heat surged through me. My chest swelled, splitting my shirt, and my thighs grew thick, ripping the rest of my jeans to shreds. The guy in front of me grinned, his glassy eyes locking onto mine as he grabbed my cock, stroking it with rough, calloused hands. “Gonna make you just like us,” he murmured, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth. “You’ll love it.”

I tried to hold back, but it was useless. The heat in my body exploded, and I came harder than I ever had in my life, thick ropes of cum splattering his chest as a guttural roar tore from my throat. My thoughts shattered, replaced by raw, primal need. When they pulled back, I looked at them with the same vacant, stupid grin. My cock was already hard again, dripping and ready for the next.

A new scent caught my attention—fresh, clean, untainted. I turned toward the fitting room entrance, where a guy stood frozen, his face pale. I licked my lips, grinning wider as I stalked toward him.

“Need to fuck,” I growled. “Gotta spread it…”

And then I pounced.

[masterlouistf]

Personally I’ve switched over to using ai images for a couple of reasons:

1. Consistency. I probably put the same amount of time into creating AI pictures as I would looking for the perfect real photos but I definitely feel the images and face as a more consistent with AI.

2. Ethics. I personally don’t agree with using photos from a random person on the Internet in porn they haven’t given consent, and in this rare occasion, I weight this above consent for art and images being used to train AI. If someone has consented to have their pictures used or they’re a big celebrity I don’t mind as much personally.

3. My Writing. I don’t know about other creators but I tend to write the story before having the images in mind. As a result, it can sometimes be quite hard to find good images to use in my stories and has actually meant that sometimes I haven’t published stories because I haven’t found pictures I want. Whereas with AI I feel I get closer to I want.

4. Safe for tumblr. I’m not necessarily happy about this fact, but I’ve had many stories that I published get blocked because of pictures and it takes a really long time to fix them, and sometimes I lose the pictures I really cared about. I haven’t had any AI stories get flagged since I started using it recently.

Obviously everyone’s entitled to their own opinions on AI images and content and whether you find that hot or not. My hope is that in the next year AI models will get to a point where it will be very difficult to distinguish between real photos and AI pictures.

My personal hope is that anyone who reads my content is enjoying the pictures I’m making and can see the time I put into trying to get quality pictures rather than low quality fast generations.

Lastly, remember this content is free, most creators make absolutely nothing and invest a lot of time into this as a hobby. Let’s not try to enforce standards as readers or shame creators, if you don’t like a style or content, it’s not for you, just unfollow or move on.

I do NOT like Ai generated images

Is it just me or does anyone else feel the same? Personally I feel like the Ai generated images included besides good stories and writing ruins the story, it’s cheaper it and removes the sole. When I se an Ai generated image it’s sole less and it’s not exciting, attractive or kinky, if your gonna write kinky stuff, have real images…at least that’s my opinion. Do you agree?

[masterlouistf]

Since halloween is coming up I wanted to find a costume. My buddy and I were going to dress as twin bodybuilders with the fake muscles and all could you help us look more the part with a Treat?

The Mirror Maze

Max and Jason stood in front of the mirror in the bedroom, both grinning like idiots in their ridiculous Halloween costumes. They’d never been the jock types—far from it. Two nerdy best friends who spent more time gaming than in the gym, they'd decided to go as twin bodybuilders this year. Their padded costumes puffed out their thin frames, making them look way bigger than they really were.

Max flexed, watching the fake muscles bulge under his costume. “Man, I wish I actually looked like this.”

Jason laughed, striking a pose of his own. “Same. Imagine being able to actually fill out these things.”

The plan was to head to a party, but after leaving their house the glowing lights of a nearby carnival caught their attention. A mechanical fortune teller machine, flickering with old bulbs, stood near the entrance.

“Let’s try it,” Jason said, already pulling Max over.

They slipped a coin into the slot, and the machine’s gears whirred to life, spitting out a small, weathered card. Max picked it up and read aloud:

"Two become one, body and heart. Stronger together, muscle apart."

Jason raised an eyebrow. “What the hell does that even mean?”

“I dunno, but look—there’s a mirror maze over there. That sounds fun.”

The entrance to the Mirror Maze was just across the path, and it glowed with a soft red light, beckoning them. Without hesitation, they wandered in.

——————

The air inside the maze was thick, heavy with heat. Mirrors lined every wall, distorting their reflections as they weaved through the tight corridors. At first, it was all laughs—warped images making them look taller, shorter, wider.

But after a few minutes, Max paused, staring into one of the mirrors. “Wait… is it just me, or do I actually look bigger in this one?”

Jason turned to look, his own reflection catching his eye. His chest appeared broader, his shoulders stretching wider. But it didn’t feel like an illusion. He raised an arm, flexing his bicep. His skin seemed to ripple as the muscle underneath grew denser.

“Whoa…” Jason whispered, flexing again, watching as his reflection swelled with muscle. It wasn’t the costume anymore. His arms, his chest—they were changing.

Max’s reflection was transforming too. His shorter frame expanded, muscles filling out rapidly beneath his skin, bulging in a way that felt… right. His shoulders grew thick, his arms heavy with newfound strength. He touched his chest and gasped—it wasn’t padding anymore. His pecs were solid, thick with power, his body broadening with each breath.

“Dude, this can’t be real…” Max muttered, his voice lower, rougher.

Jason reached out instinctively, brushing his fingers against Max’s arm. The touch sent a jolt through both of them, as if their skin was alive with electricity. Max’s body reacted instantly, his muscles swelling even larger under Jason’s touch, veins popping along his forearms.

“You’re—huge,” Jason breathed, his own voice cracking as he stared at Max’s reflection. But then he noticed his own image again. His body was transforming too, becoming tall and lean, his abs cutting sharply beneath the spandex. His muscles stretched, long and defined, but not as thick as Max’s. They were growing… differently.

They wandered deeper into the maze, their reflections shifting with each step. Every mirror seemed to amplify their changes. Max was becoming stockier, heavier, his form rippling with power, while Jason’s body was taller, his muscles sleek and tight, stretching his frame out in all the right places.

The maze felt endless, the mirrors narrowing as they moved through. The closer they got, the more their bodies brushed together, the heat between them growing. Jason could feel his skin tingling every time Max’s body grazed his. Their chests pressed against each other in the tight corners, the heat and musk of their changing bodies filling the air. Each touch was electric, like sparks jumping from their skin, the scent of sweat and raw masculinity clinging to them.

Jason found himself touching Max more, almost instinctively. His fingers traced the ridges of Max’s chest, feeling the hard muscles beneath his palm. With every touch, Max’s body seemed to respond, growing more solid, more powerful.

They reached the center of the maze, where a massive heart-shaped mirror waited. It glowed softly, casting a red hue over the room. But when they looked into it, the reflection wasn’t just them standing side by side anymore—it was them together, their bodies entwined. Max’s stocky, powerful form towered over Jason, who stood taller but leaner, his body subtly angled in submission. They weren’t just two friends anymore. The mirror reflected a deeper connection—something physical and primal.

Max’s eyes widened as he stared at the reflection, seeing himself standing there with confidence, dominance radiating off him. He glanced at Jason, who looked back with a mixture of confusion and… desire? Jason’s breathing had grown shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched their reflections, his body reacting to Max’s presence, to the way they fit together.

Without thinking, Max stepped closer, his strong hand pressing against Jason’s chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath. Jason gasped softly, his body trembling under Max’s touch. The mirror showed them locked in this new dynamic—Max commanding, Jason yielding. Their eyes met in the reflection, and the air around them thickened with tension.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening,” Jason whispered, his voice low. “But I can’t stop thinking about…”

Max didn’t let him finish. Instead, he leaned in, their lips brushing together in the dim light. The kiss was tentative at first, but as their bodies pressed closer, it deepened. Max’s hand slid down Jason’s side, feeling every inch of his lean, muscular form. Jason moaned softly into the kiss, his own hands roaming over Max’s thick, powerful chest, their muscles grinding together with every movement.

The mirror’s glow intensified, reflecting not just their bodies but their new bond. Max pulled Jason closer, their kiss deepening, exploring each other’s changed forms, their hearts pounding in unison.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavily, their new bodies glistening with sweat, the musk in the air almost overwhelming. They stared at the mirror one last time, seeing themselves for who they truly were now—two muscular men, one dominant, the other submissive, perfectly matched.

As they left the maze, hand in hand, they knew they weren’t heading to the party as just friends. They were something more now. The mirror had revealed their true selves—and there was no going back.