octuscle

[octuscle]

Second Hand

Scott and Hector didn't want to go to this stupid school dance at all. But their parents both insisted. They said it would be an unforgettable event and that they would draw on it for the rest of their lives. They had even both been given money to buy new tuxedos. A crazy 500 dollars each. What weed they could have bought with that! But still, the two of them now needed a tuxedo. “Cheap tuxedo Chicago” Scott googled. The first result was an address with carnival costumes. That didn't seem appropriate. He scrolled a bit. And then came the entry of a second-hand store. He knew the area. There was a guy around the corner who occasionally supplied him with weed to smoke. This had to be a twist of fate. They would spend the $1000 today. And come home with more than two tuxedos. The two congratulated each other on this excellent plan and their luck. Hector donated the last weed he had and the two smoked in joyful anticipation of plenty of supplies.

It was almost a 30-minute bus ride. The area looked bad. Most of the shops were boarded up, rubbish was lying on the streets, and there were wrecked cars at the side of the road. Only the second-hand shop made a well-kept impression. The mannequins looked extremely old-fashioned. But the clothes they were wearing were decorated in such a way that any hipster would have jumped for joy at the retro fashion. Unfortunately, Scott and Hector were not hipsters. They were fashion grouches. They just wanted a cheap tuxedo. Nothing else.

When they entered the shop, an old-fashioned doorbell rang. The shop was empty. Oldies were playing on a radio. Music they knew from their parents. They looked around uncertainly. And then the voice came from offstage. “Bros, what can I do for you?” A young man had appeared out of nowhere. He had a cool mullet, which was back in fashion. Although somehow it looked different on him. Somehow… vintage? Yes, that suited him, like his clothes. Hector's mother had a thing for an actor named Something Fox. Or something like that. He used to have to watch old movies with his mother with this small-framed actor. And the salesman here in the store looked like he had been an extra in one of the movies. “I hope you can help us, dude,” Scott said with a slightly dry voice. ‘We have to go to some stupid ball and we need a tuxedo or whatever that stuff is called. Something cheap!’ The young man asked what ‘cheap’ meant to them. Scott had no idea what to say. He wasn't really into poker or haggling. “We have $100…” ‘Guys, don't worry, we'll find two tuxedos for you!’ the salesman interrupted them. Hector nudged his buddy in the ribs. It was really their lucky day. They had said that they each wanted to spend a maximum of $100. They would never have dared to dream that they would get two tuxedos for that price.

“My name is Michael, by the way,” said the young man. Hector had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Michael J. Fox! Exactly! That was the name of his mother's favorite actor. Michael took the two of them to the back of the store. Here suits were hanging on the racks. ‘Guys, I don't have much of a selection when it comes to tuxedos right now.’ He took two suits off the rack. Here, this is the best I can offer you at the moment.” In one hand he held a tuxedo made of cheap polyester, in the other something made of leather or faux leather. Even though the two of them knew little about fashion, it was clear to them that the two tuxedos were mercilessly out of fashion. They must have had rather horrified faces, because Michael replied immediately, ‘And because of the Black Friday stuff, both are available for 80 dollars together’. And with a wink, he added that there was also a bit of weed as a bonus. Scott couldn't help grinning. That sounded like a deal. He grabbed the leather tuxedo and said, “Mine, dude.” Hector acted offended and took the other one. He was quite happy. He thought a leather tuxedo was kind of gay.

Laughter came from Scott's dressing room. “You okay, buddy?” Michael asked. Scott stepped out of the dressing room, wearing only the tuxedo pants. The pants were way too long and flopped around on his skinny pothead legs. Michael grinned and said that maybe they needed to be shortened a bit. He turned up the waistband and asked Scott to turn around. “But your muscular ass looks great in these pants.” ‘My what?’ Scott thought to himself. He turned to the mirror. What he saw was out of this world! The shiny black material stretched around two perfectly shaped ass cheeks. Without warning, Michael reached into his crotch. Scott winced. ‘Dude,’ Michael said. ”Never get dressed without a jockstrap. Otherwise you can see every detail of your beast through the material!” Scott tried to correct the fit of his cock. Yes, you could see everything. His cock wasn't even hard. Not yet. But he would have the same problem with any pair of pants. But hardly any would fit so perfectly. He turned in front of the mirror. The pants fit his narrow waist just as well as his muscular thighs. He hadn't thought he'd find something that fit so well in a thrift store. Michael came back and threw him a jockstrap. Scott reacted a little too late and the jockstrap landed in his face. Shit, where had he left it again? It was still warm and damp from the last workout. Hell yes, he would recognize the smell of his jockstraps anywhere. “Then I'll try the tuxedo top,“ he said

“Hey, Michael, can you help me?” Michael followed right into Hector's dressing room. He couldn't help grinning. Hector looked like a ten-year-old had put on his father's tuxedo. He literally sank into the fabric. “You really don't have anything else? Shit, it doesn't fit at all!” Hector said. Michael walked around Hector, pulled on the fabric a bit and said that it would look different if he wore a real shirt and not his pothead T-shirt underneath. And in terms of length, Hector would need it. He's quite a giant, after all. How tall is he? 6'2"? “It's 6'3", to be honest,“ Hector replied, shooting up at that moment. “Speaking of shirts, will you bring me one?” Scott's bass boomed through the shop. “XXL or XXXL?” Michael asked, kneeling in front of Hector, trying to pin the waistband. “Better bring XXXL,” Scott replied with a laugh. But Michael was distracted. On his knees, Hector's crotch in his face, the smell of sweat and musk from his trousers. He got a hard-on. And so did Hector, obviously. Instead of continuing to fix the trousers, he opened Hector's fly, whose cock popped out like a jack-in-the-box. Michael had Hector's glans in his mouth faster than Hector could see.

On the radio, Night Ranger's “The Secret Of My Success” was playing, from the soundtrack to the new Michael J Fox movie. Michael had trouble swallowing Hector's cock. He often had true stallions as customers, but that was a premium cock. He looked up and saw far above Hector's muscular torso, his face contorted with lust. Michael grasped Hector's firm ass cheeks and shoved his cock all the way into his face. Hector let out a loud moan as he shot his load. A second load hit Michael in the neck. Scott had been looking for his shirts and had watched the two of them jerking off.

Michael was in seventh heaven. He rarely had such horny customers to serve. And both bought brand-new tuxedos with all the trimmings. He had lusted after a hot cock and made almost $1,000 in sales. He could be more than satisfied. Scott and Hector, however, were more than satisfied themselves. They looked at themselves in the mirror. The tuxedos looked hot and fit like a glove. Their hair was perfectly styled, and they were about to make a first-class appearance at the premiere of the new Sylvester Stallone movie, Over the Top. Both had had a small part in one scene and had competed against each other in the background of Sly in an arm-wrestling contest. Of course, they hoped that this would be their breakthrough. If Arnie and Sly made it from the gym to the silver screen, why not them?

They made a few local papers. And there was actually a photo in Variety. Okay, they misspelled Hector's last name and gave Scott's age as 32 instead of 28. But hey! Better wrong publicity than no publicity!

[octuscle]

InstaMorph

InstaMorph was not actually supposed to be released in the AppStores. The beta test phase was not even close to being completed. But somehow the app had ended up in the stores. And even though it was an insider tip, an active user community quickly developed. Very few users were probably aware that what the app did was not just digital…

The way it worked was simple: people used Instagram as normal. But the comments were exclusively visible to Instamorph users. And the comments changed what you saw in the posts. Digitally. But also in the real world!

Steven and Ronald were not at all happy about being photographed by a magazine photographer on their way to the opera. Ronald's father, the two of them, was already thinking about calling him to file a lawsuit for violation of personal rights. By that time, the picture of the two of them had long been online with the caption “Young opera fans on their way to a glamorous premiere”. This sealed their fate.

The 2 of dem r quite kawaii, but they look liek they have a sticc up their ass

yea, a lil looser wud b dope.

the 2 of dem lacc the rite cocky attitude. The tuxedo is dope, but u have 2 fill it out

send deez 2 bacc 2 school! they need 2 mor yrs of lyfe experience. And they shud get it @ the gym

whomst the hell goes 2 an opera premiere? a movie premier wud b much cooler!

Steven and Ronald got dizzy. “Bro, do you also have the feeling that we've overdone it in training?” Steven asked his buddy. He gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Dude, you know you look even better in a tuxedo when you've pumped up your chest and biceps!”

Somehow still far 2 clean!

wat kinda movie premier is dis supposed 2 b? looks totally lame

wdy think of the red carpet @ a boxing match?

lit idea! and deez 2 r such fighters!

lit muscles and dope tattoos. Tht wud b poggers!

Their tuxedos vanished into thin air. Their hairstyles screamed “boy from the slums”. School education? Manners? The two of them became full-on jocks from the boxing gym!

“That's it!” “Let the muscles play!” “Give me a killer smile!” “Come on, do a double bicep pose!” Steve and Ron knew the drill. The camera loved them. And they loved the camera. Sure, they needed to work well together. Their business as personal trainers and fitness influencers could only remain successful if they were not only present on their own channels. An appearance like this before a boxing match was important for their image. And that's why they walked the red carpet half naked at 10 degrees Celsius with nipples as hard as steel.

I find dem boring

u name it, interchangeable liek barbie's ken

what if they wer older?

damn, thats a lit idea! such lit muscle daddies

silver foxes made flesh

hey, muscle dilf! show meh ur magnificent cock!

Steve and Ron smiled at the photographers and struck a pose. Most of the youngsters could have been their sons. Although, if they were their sons, the first question would have been who the mother should have been. Shit, they'd never stuck their cocks in a wet cunt. They were both into concrete asses and steel hard cocks. And apart from that, they would have beaten the sissies to the gym on the edge of the red carpet as teenagers. Steve and Ron were icons in the fitness scene. The two had already made a fortune with fitness videos and nutritional supplements before the word 'influencer' had even been invented. The two were in high spirits at the opening of the 100th branch of their Boxing Gym chain. It was going to be a great party. And plenty of fresh meat begging to be fucked by them according to all the rules of the art. Such bodies in combination with so much experience in bed could only be offered by these two. And the boys stood in line at attention for that.

[octuscle]

A Night at the Opera

Ernest and Jasper were both no friends of the big appearance. Their parents had taught them from an early age to always appear far less than they were. The two had come to the opera by subway. That Ernest's velvet loafers cost more than a month's salary of most people around them, probably no one suspected here. The red carpet was laid out for the premiere in front of the Royal Opera. As Ernst and Jasper approached, a rapidly fading flurry of flashbulbs began. The two looked like stars. Flawless. Beautiful. Cultivated. But no one had a clue who they were. So the photographers pounced on the C-list couple, who were getting out of a presumably leased Bentley right behind them. Ernest raised an eyebrow, barely noticeable. Jasper smiled knowingly. The two politely accepted the program and went to Jasper's family box. They had made a generous donation over 200 years ago that enabled the laying of the building's foundation stone. And together with Ernest's grandmother, Jasper's father now ruled over the opera's patrons' association. It was not a problem if they were not recognized here.

During the first intermission, the two quickly agreed that it would be a wasted evening if they were to watch the opera to the end. The singers were mediocre, and the production tried to paper over logical gaps with crude, obscene provocation. Yes, Siegfried was certainly no easy opera. But they actually loved Wagner. But they wouldn't survive another three hours like that. Ending the evening with a glass of wine in front of the fireplace seemed considerably more appealing. They exchanged a few pleasantries with acquaintances of their parents, who were also waiting at the coat rack, and walked through the dusk towards the subway. And they were happy with their decision.

The subway wasn't particularly crowded: Jasper had bought a copy of the Times from a newspaper seller. Even though the premiere was still going on, there was already a scathing review of it in the arts section. Of course the critic was unfair and biased. But his style was delicious. Ernest hummed a bit of the overture's melody when a young man, who was the complete opposite of the two, stumbled over Ernest's legs on his way out the door. The boy was muscular, tattooed, and dressed to show off as much of the muscles and tattoos as possible. Definitely not their class. He swore and showed Ernest the middle finger. Ernest just smiled superiorly. And got the slime from the yob directly in the face. “Do you think you're better than me? Maybe. But not for much longer.” The yob laughed and jumped through the already closing doors onto the platform. Ernest wiped the slime from his cheek. Not all of it… A little bit had run into his mouth.

They got off at the next stop. Ernest's stomach growled. He asked if they could quickly get something from the supermarket on the way home. Jasper said that the fridge at home was well stocked, but he was happy to do it for me. Cumberland Food & Wine was really on the way and he could possibly get a bottle of red wine. While Jasper was scouring the shelves without finding anything he liked, Ernest filled his shopping basket with protein bars, chicken breasts, rice and eggs. When the two met at the checkout, Jasper looked at his husband questioningly. “I just felt like it,” answered Ernest. “Honey, anything you want!” answered Jasper.

Once they arrived home, Ernest immediately disappeared into the kitchen of their impressive apartment on Bryanston Square. By then, he had already eaten three protein bars. Jasper rolled his eyes and retreated to the library. He took a small glass of port and continued reading about the history of the Persian language. At least this way he would be able to end the evening with a little wit. He lost track of time and only woke up when he heard noises coming from the living room. Ernest had taken off his jacket and shirt and was eating a mountain of chicken breasts with egg rice at the coffee table, still wearing his trousers and undershirt. The TV was on. “What are you watching?” Jasper asked. With his mouth full, Ernest replied that it was the new season of “Made in Chelsea”. “You know, the stuff with Reza in it.” Jasper didn't know Reza. ‘The Reza from the gym. Reza Amiri-Garroussi!’ Ernest wiped his hands on his undershirt, pulled out his cell phone, opened Instagram and showed Jasper pictures of a young man. Jasper didn't even know Ernest had an Instagram account. ”Hot guy, honey! Do you know each other?” “Best bros!” Ernest smiled. Tonight had obviously not had a good influence on him. Whatever. Jasper was tired. He kissed his husband on the forehead and wished him good night.

The night had been wild. Ernest had come to bed at some point and had rammed his boner into Jasper's ass without much warning. This wasn't loving sex, it was fucking without any foreplay. Hot, animalistic. Uncharacteristic. But damn, once Ernest had filled his ass until the cum was dripping out of it, Jasper didn't care about any of that. He had never been fucked like that before. No wonder the rest of the night was full of wild dreams. When he woke up, Ernest was no longer in bed. The satin sheets needed urgent washing, with dried cum stains everywhere. Jasper went to the kitchen. Ernest had obviously already had breakfast; the pan for the omelette was in the sink, along with the dishes from dinner, and on the work surface was a thin layer of protein powder dust. Jasper felt somehow strange in the apartment. Something was weird. Did they always have such a monstrously large TV? And was that their furniture? It all looked so much like something from a furniture store. And not like design classics and antiques… “Bros, that's it for this morning! Good pump! Have a sick day!” The sound of the dumbbells hitting the floor showed that Ernie had finished his morning pump. According to the floor plan, their home gym was actually a children's room. What the hell would they need that for? Now it was the place where Ernie shot the videos for his YouTube channel.

Jasper was standing in the doorway. Ernie turned off the cameras and lights. Sweat glistened on his naked torso. Jasper's cock went up. Ernie turned around, saw the semi-erect cock and just grinned, “You dirty piece of shit! You know damn well we're out of time. Auditions are in an hour. And you should shower.” “Look who's talking!” Jasper replied. Ernie smelled his armpit. “That's the way it is, it's my trademark!” He put on a basketball jersey lying on the floor, grabbed Jasper's cock in passing and gave his friend a fleeting French kiss. Jasper knew that Ernie had rights. They had to leave in 20 minutes at the latest. Just enough time to jump in the shower and do a few pull-ups to pump up his muscles. He looked at himself in the mirror. Yes, he looked awesome!

“Love Island” could be Jaz's big breakthrough. At the audition, he was simply eye-catching as the incarnate bad boy. His snotty way of speaking and his arrogant, misogynistic macho appearance had convinced the producers that he could make it big in the trash reality soap. Sure, it sucked that his best buddy Ernie hadn't been taken on either. But Ernie was just already too popular. His fitness channel had tens of thousands of followers. And his appearance in the next season of “I'm a celebrity, get me out of here” was a done deal. If things went well for Jaz, he would follow in Ernie's footsteps next year.

Many bores from the educated middle class would probably look down on Ernie and Jaz with disgust and contempt. But hey, the two of them made good money, went to all the hot parties, and last weekend Bentley had even provided them with a shiny gold car for an Insta-story. The car had been pure porn. Surely everyone who stared at them with open eyes thought they were pop stars or something. It was only a matter of time before they became famous. They were young, sexy and camera-hungry. The future was wide open for guys like them.

[octuscle]

That's a tough one, @hardwriterdeluxe… I've been resistant to using AI-generated images for a long time. When I accidentally did it because the image just looked too real, I was embarrassed.

Sometimes I see a hot photo that inspires me to write a story. In that case, we'd all be happy. But sometimes I have a story in mind for which I can't find any images. And then generating AI images is really fun. Here I can find exactly what I need. Yes, it's less work and yes, it's also more soulless. But damn it, the pictures can also be damn hot and make me hard!

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?

[octuscle]

Halloween Party - Warrior through cultural appropriation

Shit, Jeff thought, Halloween used to be just fun. Now it was first of all a huge effort to find the perfect costume, to shape your body to match the costume. And then you look so good that you would like to fuck yourself, then there are a couple of killjoys outside on the street in front of the Frat House, berating you because your costume is a cultural appropriation and a sign of digital imperialism. Shit, who even comes up with such bullshit terms? Today was about getting drunk, having fun. And at the end of the evening, to end up in bed with a hot guy. Halloween was not a lecture in sociology or ethnology or whatever the shit was called.

After he had removed the traces of the eggs that had been thrown at him, Jeff was ready for his appearance. He knew he was damn hot. He had an awesome body. His tattoos looked almost real. And in his shorts with the Hawaiian pattern, his cock was in joyful anticipation of the highlight of the party. Only in his head did he feel somehow… cloudy… One of the activists in front of the Frat House had sprayed a gas in his face. Jeff had thought it was pepper spray. But it was something completely different. It made him feel good. Like he had smoked pot. It was weird. But it was Halloween. No showing weakness now! He practically had a duty to party tonight. A guy asked him if he wanted a drink. Did Jeff know the guy… Seemed somehow familiar. But the guy was obviously a local. He replied that he didn't have a coconut milk. The guy laughed out loud and punched Heff in his impressive pecs. “Hey, costume of the day definitely goes to this guy. Coconut milk! I'm cracking up! And the guy even has the accent down pat.” At least that was what Jeff understood. English was not his mother tongue. Was it not? Or was it? Shit! And what was so funny about coconut milk? He loved coconut milk. Here everyone drank beer or some kind of mixed drinks. The stuff came from the white devils and was pure poison! Hoff collected a few glasses and took them to the kitchen.

“Ia ora na! What would you like to drink?” Honf didn't feel like partying anymore. Somehow he felt more comfortable at the bar. And here it was also easier for him to flirt with the hot guys from the fraternity. True, the guys asked him what he meant every other sentence. But that might not have been because of his French Polynesian accent. The guys were just drunk. And the music was loud. But the work was fun. And more than one guy had made it quite clear to him that they could meet later somewhere in a sheltered place. Poor white devils, he thought to himself. If only they had a rough idea of what kind of beast was hiding in his pants. They would probably have to throw up when they sucked on it. His cock twitched and became semi-erect in his pants.

His name is “Hone.” “Hone” means “warrior.” It's a good name. A buddy of his, whom he had met during his semester abroad at UCSB, was called “Jeff.” He had googled that. “Jeff” meant “God's peace.” A name for weaklings. Hone was no weakling. In Santa Barbara it was the middle of the night, here on Bora Bora the sun had not even set. The white devils were already drinking alcohol. Another sign of weakness. Hone made great cocktails. But he never drank anything himself except protein shakes and coconut milk. Not even on Halloween.

[octuscle]

Yo dude, I'm just asking for a pal: Is the lit party goin' down again this year? It was straight fire last year. I believe I've also scored the ultimate hunk for the night…

HALLOWEEN PARTY!!!

Halloween is two weeks away! If you want to come to my party you can! You just gotta possess a hunk first! This is my hunk!! Cum make me a bottom!

[octuscle]

Halloween Spirit

Mortimer didn't think much of video games and the like. Like social media, he blamed them for the dumbing down of the population and the success of populist parties. And if proof were needed, his cousin Dylan was proof. Dumb as a bag of

Since he couldn't find a hotel anymore, Mortimer had been forced to stay with Dylan during a conference. They hadn't talked much, Dylan was usually out with his “bros.” At the gym, at the sports bar, at the football game. Mortimer had used the evenings accordingly and cleaned the apartment, which was quite a mess. And when he came home in the evening, he was glad when a little of that cleanliness and order remained. Today he was lucky: the apartment was almost in the same condition as when he left it in the morning. There was only a PSP with a note on the dining room table. In Dylan's clumsy handwriting it said, “Bro, can you help me with the Halloween quiz? I always fail on the first I'll be back at eight, let's go for a steak then.” Mortimer was a vegan. Of course Dylan knew that. Mortimer sighed, took the PSP and sat down on the sofa.

“What is the etymology of the name Halloween?“ Good heavens, thought Mortimer! Is this going to continue at this level? He typed in ‘All Hallows’ Eve.” “Who does the custom of carving and lighting jack-o'-lanterns commemorate (last name, first name)?” Did Dylan really not know that, Mortimer wondered and typed in “Jack Oldfield.” “Wrong” lit up on the display. “The correct answer would have been 'Oldfield, Jack'.” Out of the blue, Mortimer had to burp. Stupid software, he thought. A good AI would have recognized that he had only mixed up the order. He took a sip of cola from the can on the coffee table. ‘On which day do children in Germany traditionally go from door to door collecting sweets?’ Mortimer scratched his head. That was on St. Martin's Day. But when was that again? He typed in “November 11th.” Again, “Wrong! The correct message would have been November 10th.” Mortimer burped again. Hehehe, that was a good one. Came from the chili today. He took a slice of cold pizza out of the box next to him and moved on to the next question. “What is a zombie brain hemorrhage?” Mortimer had no idea. He just wrote “a TV series”. “Wrong, a zombie brain haemorrhage is a cocktail made of peach schnapps, mint liqueur, Bailey's Irish cream and a dash of grenadine.” Mortimer farted. Damn, the chili had been really good. But something else stank too. Mortimer raised his arm. No, that wasn't it. That was honest man sweat. Just the way a man had to smell. Mortimer pushed up his undershirt and scratched his stomach. This game was really boring. “What is the most popular Halloween costume of 2024?” Mortimer didn't feel like it anymore. He would put on his football gear like every year. With that, he could get any guy into bed. Especially the little nerds. They weren't so bad, usually made a real effort in bed… Shit, what was the question again? Okay, so “football player”. “Wrong, the correct answer would have been ‘Shrunken Head Bob’.” Was there another beer in this pigsty, Mortimer wondered. He looked at what other games Dylan had on the PSP. When was the idiot finally coming home? They were supposed to go out for a steak with the guys. Mortimer could definitely use some protein. He flexed his biceps. Yes, the babies needed feeding.

“Bruh, im still stucc in traffic. Ill b home in about a quarter of an hr. Get ready fo' an epic dinner!” Mortimer knew what that meant. He wouldn't need his best buddy Dylan for the next hour. Enough time to play another round of Peace Walker. And then there was finally meat, almost raw, just how Morty liked it best. Hehehe, rare is also good for Halloween. His favorite holiday. But who could come up with such a stupid quiz with smart-aleck questions about it was a mystery to him.

[octuscle]

Four T and one C

On campus, they were known only as TTTT. Tanner, Thad, Trent and Trey had known each other since childhood. Their parents were all members of the same country club, their parents all had summer houses in the same area in the Hamptons. It was clear that TTTT would all go to the same college together. With a lot of money from their parents, they had all made it to Yale. Even if not everyone was actually clever enough for it. Fortunately, as Yale alumni and successful investment bankers and lawyers, their fathers and mothers were able to fix that. And so the party at the high school became an Ivy League party. And TTTT were the guests of honor at the party.

Chad's parents weren't in a country club and didn't have a house in the Hamptons. But they were wealthy enough that Chad had somehow managed to find favor in the TTTT's picky eyes. He lived in the same dorm, they had talked at some point. And the fact that Chad was smart and could help them with an exam or two wasn't a disadvantage, of course. The TTTT were all studying business studies, Chad biochemistry. But with an IQ of 142, he was easily able to pick up what little knowledge he needed for an MBA in a lunch break.

The first semester came to an end. TTTT had done reasonably well, Chad already had a job as a working student at a biotech lab and had a good chance of finishing the semester at the top of his class. Nevertheless, he was at every party and if you saw the five of them in their Polo Ralph Laure and Abercrombie & Fitch outfits, you would have thought that all five of them were nothing more than spoiled and stupid frat boys. Until the day the last marketing exam was written. TTTT treated themselves to a beer in the sun on campus in front of the football stadium to celebrate the end of the semester. And then Chad came by. But he wasn't dressed like Chad. He looked like a British hooligan. At least almost. Tight jeans, DocMartens and a tight Fred Perry polo shirt that showed he obviously didn't just spend time in the library and lab. The tight shirt showed off his pecs and biceps pretty well.

“Bro!” said Tanner. “What do you look like? What's with the chav look?” Chad grinned. With that cheeky grin and his haircut, he was still one of them, even if he was dressed differently. “I got this invitation from my new employer. Sick party, all for nothing. And the employees were asked to come in the company colors. And they are yellow and black. And because I didn't have time to change beforehand, I wore the only thing like that I could find. I had it from my exchange year in Berlin. Everyone at my school walked around like that.” Trent grinned. “Sounds sick, dude! Do you think you can get us into the party?” Chad grinned and pulled out four ribbons. “You think I'm forgetting my best bros? Put on your wristbands, they'll get you into anything you want. And here are the tickets for the entrance.” Chad took a look. The nerd still had to study, he still had two exams to write. TTTT did a collective high five. The evening was saved. It would be just the right end to their first semester at university.

The bouncers had had their hands full. The party was an event of the year, crowds of people wanted to get in. TTTT had problems even getting through to the bouncers. But when they showed their tickets, they were waved through. One of the bouncers said to a colleague “What boring philistines!” Fortunately, TTTT didn't hear that. And fortunately, the four of them were so sure of themselves and their appearance that they didn't feel they stood out among the party people.

The party was good. There was plenty to drink, there were hot girls for the four of them to dance with. But the real kick was missing. Trey noticed that the most attractive people were heading towards a door with another group of bouncers in front of it. Trey waved his bros together and headed for the door. “Ribbon only,” grunted one of the gigantic bouncers, pressed into a black and yellow leather suit. Trey grinned. He had pocketed the ribbons and had almost forgotten about them. TTTT put the wristbands on their wrists and passed the gorillas with a grin.

Loud bass thumped at the end of the corridor. Strobe flashes flashed. There was much more yellow and black on the dance floor than on the last dance floor. And the people here were different. Beautiful. But not New England at all. Thad was reminded of Berghain in Berlin. He'd tried to get in once, but even with a wad of dollar bills he hadn't been able to get past the bouncer. But those who had managed to get in often looked like the people dancing on the dance floor here. Thad turned to look at his bros. The three of them had rushed straight onto the dance floor. In their outfits, they stood out like colorful dogs. At least their hairstyles matched the crowd on the dance floor to some extent. Thad rubbed his head. He loved the feeling of freshly shaved sides. Fuck, Trent really looked good with that badass undercut. Thad's cock was getting hard.

The four of them danced in a trance to ecstasy. The hard techno beats thumped through their bones. Every now and then, one of the TTTTs went to the bar and provided the four of them with an energy drink. Last time, the awesome bartender had also slipped Trent a few colorful pills, which the four of them washed down with the candy-sweet drink. I have no idea what time it was. But the party had only just started. According to his watch, it was 06:00 in the morning when Tanner had to go to the toilet. The room was overcrowded. A few of the athletes who had gathered here sweating were actually pissing. But most of them were sucking cock or being sucked. Damn, there was a muscular guy at the front wearing nothing but a pair of black and yellow chaps. Tanner had already noticed the guy on the dance floor. Without giving it much thought, he dropped to his knees in front of the Adonis. And sucked the first cock of his life. But no one, not Adonis, not Tanner would have thought that. It was as if it was routine on a club night.

Tanner had swallowed every drop. He wiped the rest from the corner of his mouth and made his way back to the dance floor. Maybe with a detour past the bar. There was a guy sitting at the bar who made Tanner want to get down on his knees again. The guy's bulge in his latex pants looked almost painful. The guy almost grabbed his crotch, kneaded the bulge and asked, “So, Tanner? Do you like sucking cock, you pervy pig?” Tanner winced. He knew that voice. That was… Chad!

Chad grinned, took a swig of beer and unzipped his pants. A monster jumped out of his prison like a jack-in-the-box. Tanner first licked the skin-tight latex-wrapped nipples and then ran his tongue over Chad's washboard abs to the shaved cock. Shit, Tanner was addicted to hot guys' cum. Chad leaned back and enjoyed Tanner's practiced tongue. For a semester, TTTT had taken advantage of him. Always made him feel like a second-class human being. But now? The substance he'd soaked the ribbons with seemed to be working excellently. The dumb college jocks had become techno disciples who followed their DJ gods around the planet from party to party. As guinea pigs for Chad's new employer, they would not become lawyers or investment bankers. But thanks to a lavish expense account, they would be able to lead a very hedonistic lifestyle. And whenever Chad was horny, one of the TTTT would be at his disposal.

Tienn, Tyrus, Tai and Taren were in top form. The party was far from over. They were the stars of the dance floor. Hardly anyone moved to the music like the four of them. When they weren't in the washroom servicing a hot guy they had picked up on the dance floor. One of them always had his eye on Chad. When Chad needed their services, he always had priority. All they were, they were only thanks to Chad.

Pics by @ki-kink

[octuscle]

Halloween party “Road to Bangalore”

“What do you say I go as an Indian prince?” Clive rolled his eyes. His roommate Parker was a real narcissist. In love with himself to the tips of his toes. Parker only knew about lectures and the library from hearsay. He was actually only to be found in the gym and at cosmetics. The fact that he wasn't collecting any credits for his bachelor's degree? Never mind. If need be, his old man would simply buy him university. Parker's parents were supposedly immensely rich. No wonder Parker could buy anything. The jewels he was adorned with at the Helloween party were probably all real. Freshly bought. Or from his mother's jewelry box, who had once been a famous Hollywood diva. The pigeon egg-sized red ruby that adorned Parker's turban was said to be possessed by an even more powerful curse than the Hope Diamond. Allegedly, unlike its previous owners, it had survived the All Saints' quake in Lisbon, the sinking of the Lusitania, the crash of the Hindenburg and the Great Chicago Fire. Parker didn't care about such stories. He was all about the ahhs and ahhs when he walked into the room. Luckily for him, in 1988 there were no discussions about cultural appropriation and the like. Tonight, all that mattered was glitz and glamor. And that Parker had sex at the end of the evening. Clive knew the game. Once again, no one would be good enough for his roommate. And in the end he would have to fuck him.

Of course, the oohs and ahhs Parker had expected were there. He was the star of the party. The photographer who took pictures of the guests was almost exclusively busy taking pictures of Parker with other guests. Clive, who wore a relatively inconspicuous Tarzan costume, was virtually invisible despite his athletic body. He knew that. Next to Parker, everyone else was invisible unless they stood directly in the radiant light that surrounded Parker. And Clive only stood in this light for a few seconds at a time when he was allowed to bring Parker a drink. Parker's mood got worse and worse. On the one hand because he was getting drunker and drunker. And when he was drunk, he got in a bad mood. And on the other hand, because no one met his high standards as a stud for the night. And the drunker he was, the higher his standards became.

It was 2:00 a.m. when Clive took the initiative. It was time to go home. Parker was drunk and becoming increasingly obnoxious. Clive pushed his way through the equally inebriated crowd to the hall phone and called a cab. The lady at the taxi company promised that a car would be there in ten minutes. Clive pulled the slurring Parker out of a group of admirers, put his coat on him and walked him outside. It was chilly. Hopefully that'll sober him up a bit before sex, Clive thought to himself as he lit a cigarette. Unfortunately, the taxi arrived too Until he started snoring. Oh shit, Clive thought. Parker was a big guy. He wouldn't be able to get him up the stairs by himself. Again, he made eye contact with the driver. The driver winked. They understood each other without words.

They had laboriously taken Parker to their room and laid him on his bed. They had taken off his costume. Clive asked if the cab driver could put the costume on. He would like to see it on a real Indian. His Tarzan loincloth lifted with his boner. The Indian cab driver looked stunning. They kissed passionately. The Indian prince turned his back on Clive. They understood each other again without words. A little later, the tinkling of jewelry, moans, the slap of sweaty skin on sweaty skin and the snoring of Parker could be heard. After Clive and the cab driver collapsed exhausted on the bed and Clive massaged the cum that had spurted onto the Indian chest into his chest hair, he thought why he didn't have a normal roommate. And why Parker, this arrogant creep, didn't finally stop living in a perpetual party, in a fantasy world. In a just world, Parker would work hard for a living. And Clive would share a room in the student dormitory with the cute Indian cab driver.

Parker Kumar's parents had been fans of a TV series called “Parker Lewis” in the 1980s. He kept thinking to himself what a silly first name Parker was. It didn't matter, he had been given the nickname “Balu” in the gym at some point and he got through life with that name. In Bangalore, he had graduated with honors. If only he had stayed there. He could certainly have had a better career than becoming a team leader on the helpdesk here. A shitty job! And because he was the only one with a company cell phone, he had to work everywhere and at all times. He had actually just been on his way to the gym. The only place he wanted to be Baloo the bear. But one of those dumbass tie-wearers had been too stupid again to install an update. So he had called Baloo. And Baloo was there. Tonight he had dreamt that he was a stone-rich Indian prince. He sighed… The only filthy rich Indian prince he knew was Clive's husband, the CEO of the company. Well, at least he had been allowed to suck both of their cocks before. And since then, at least he'd had an iPhone as his work phone.

Pics by @ki-kink

[octuscle]

Halloween party “Baywatch”

Steven and Peter were proof that you don't have to be stupid to look good in a dream body. They weren't straight A students, but they both had solid grades and their professors predicted a brilliant career as lawyers. The fact that they could captivate any judge or prosecutor with their smiles and bodies was certainly not a disadvantage.

Their appearances at every party were an event. But their Halloween costumes were legendary on campus. And while others had to fight for invitations, in their case the parties fought for their appearance. This year they had accepted an invitation from a sorority known for wild parties. They had heard that these occasionally ended in orgies. It shouldn't be their fault. The crowd went wild when they appeared. They would have such an easy time today, they would be able to get any female student here laid.

By midnight, the two had already disappeared several times into broom cupboards or into the rooms of female students. Fuck and get out was their motto. And when the bitches were drunk, it was easiest to do so. Unfortunately, the president of the connection was not drunk. She was very sober. And for her, there was a line between sex and rape. And Steven and Peter, who both tried to get at her at midnight, had crossed it. She uttered a curse. And the two Adonises were literally petrified.

While their bodies were immobile, their brains went into overdrive. Memories of how they fell through one exam after another flooded into her brain. How they were thrown out of college. And how they took the job as lifeguards in Santa Barbara out of desperation. How they sucked each other's cocks for the first time one evening in the small apartment they shared. How they became gym-addicted legends on the beach. “Eddie” and “Logan” they were called by the locals. Steve and Pete were too stupid to know who the two characters from Baywatch were. But it sounded good.

The two were like incarnate clichés of stupid beauties, who only consisted of sun-tanned skin, muscles and mostly steel-hard cocks. But they were good lifeguards. And only fucked each other. The curse had been fulfilled. There was no longer any danger from the two.

Pics by @ki-kink, animation by @rowdy317

[octuscle]

The ghost of Beta Rho Omega

Jeff and Scott were standing in front of a hovel. It must have been an impressive house once. But the broken porch, the half-collapsed roof, the broken windows, it was all pitiful. And all in such an excellent location. The university campus was around the corner, with a few remaining fraternity houses in the neighborhood, but the majority of them were investment properties such as student residences, boarding houses and office buildings, with coffee shops and co-working spaces on the first floors. Not exactly their world. Jeff and Scott were the children of laborers, their children were laborers. In their minds, students were freeloaders and ne'er-do-wells. And in many cases, even voters for the Democrats. As I said: Not their world!

Their job today was to clear out the wreckage, tear down the porch and prepare the construction site for the excavators that would arrive tomorrow to clear the way for a new Starbucks or something. They didn't need to unlock the door, and they didn't have a key anyway. A powerful kick was enough. And the rotten wood gave way with a crash. A cat fled screaming from the dark room, which smelled musty. The young colleagues would have put on face masks by now. Wimps, Jeff thought to himself. They shone flashlights around the room. It looked as if a farewell party had been held many years ago and then the building had been abandoned. Beer bottles and weathered pizza boxes could still be seen in the thick dust. The furniture was covered in droppings from pigeons, cats and other animals. Scott went to a window and forcefully pushed it and the shutters off their rusty hinges. Fresh air! Thank God! And light that offered an even better view of the chaos. Part of the ceiling had come down. Water damage. The wallpaper was hanging in shreds from the walls. The only thing that looked surprisingly clean and intact was a large banner above the fireplace “verum homines olet, verum homines amant odor verus hominum”. Scott asked what that meant. Jeff replied if he looked like that, would he speak Spanish.

The two of them searched the first floor. The stairs leading upstairs didn't look like they could withstand two massive workmen. They would need a ladder. The kitchen smelled like rotten food and animal droppings. There were pictures hanging in a hallway. Some of them were a little yellowed. But surprisingly, the frames of the pictures were dust-free. On the frames were brass plates with names on them. And in front of each one was always the same: “Bro of the Month” and a date. Some of the plates were from the 50s, some from the 70s, some from the 90s. There must have been many more pictures in the past.

The shadows of the missing pictures could be seen on the wall. The last two Bros of the Month whose pictures were still hanging were called Jeff and Scott. And the Bros, who, like the other shirts, had BPO printed on them, clearly looked like what Jeff and Scott would have looked like if they had spent their high school days in the gym and on the football field. Jeff and Scott turned pale. Pale like the freshly painted wall behind them. Shit, Jeff had to throw up, was there a bathroom around here? He opened the nearest door.

White tiles, urinals, toilet boxes. Jackpot! He opened a box and broke into the toilet bowl. Shit, shit, something was wrong! Yes, there were puddles of piss and obviously more than one guy had jerked off here. But everything was in good condition. “Bro, everything okay in there?” Was that Scott? His voice sounded different. Younger. Deeper. ”Dude, are you jerking off? Or why is it taking so long?”

Jeff went back to the hallway. The guy standing there was probably Scott. With longer hair. And somehow… younger! Had he changed his clothes? Or had he been wearing the overalls all along? And damn it, why wasn't he wearing a helmet or a T-shirt. And Scott stank! Of sweat and musk. Shit, shit, shit! Scott raised an arm and scratched the back of his head. Like the Scott in the picture “Bro of the Month.” He inhaled the stench from his hairy armpit. A deep cave between large pectoral muscles and impressive biceps and triceps. Was Jeff seriously getting a boner? Scott began to knead the bulge in his crotch with the hand that wasn't scratching his head. “You like what you see, bro?” Why did Scott talk like that? “Bro,” that's what young, stupid college students called each other. Not workers. Like Jeff and… Were they workers? Scott had been his buddy since high school. Most successful quarterback in ten years. And he himself… Wasn't he… Right, the linebacker. Shit, maybe he'd just had too much to drink yesterday. Jeff flexed his pecs. He knew that made Scott hot. ”Of course I like it, bro! How about you? Do you like it?” On Jeff's naked chest, beads of sweat glistened in the chest hair. Scott lowered his dungarees and freed his cock from the yellowed and encrusted jockstrap. With one hand he jerked his cock, with the other he worked Jeff's right nipple. Jeff moaned, unbuttoned the waistband of his trousers Scott pushed Jeff back to the toilets and pushed him against a wall. He spat on his dick and began to insert it into Jeff's ass. Shit, why couldn't the two of them be together for half an hour without having sex?

Last night's party had gotten out of hand again. Like almost every party at Beta Rho Omega. Jeff and Scott were on garbage duty this time. Damn, a few of the chairs in the dining hall had been broken. That happened quite often, too; the BPO members were the biggest guys on campus. The alumni were used to writing regular checks for new furniture. The guys from Rho Epsilon Epsilon Kappa across the street had really overdone it again two years ago; their house had to be completely renovated. But hey, that was the neighborhood: a bunch of frat houses where big, dumb guys competed to see who could throw the best parties. A few went to college. But they were just a few nerds.

Pics by @ki-kink, inspiration by @rowdy317

[octuscle]

Gas Stop

Max was drenched in sweat. He had been given a high-powered Mercedes at the airport in Frankfurt and was now speeding along the Autobahn on his way to Stuttgart. The speedometer showed 180 km/h. The German Autobahns were murderous. He hadn't been here for 20 years, shortly after graduating, and had the impression that driving behavior had become significantly more aggressive. 190 km/h. Suddenly, a headlight flashed in the rearview mirror. A Porsche was not even a meter behind him. Startled, Max yanked his steering wheel around and pulled the car into the middle lane of the highway. The Porsche accelerated and sped off, followed by a Ducati whose driver revved up the engine powerfully. Damn, Max was now driving over 200 km/h, but the two speeders must be doing well over 250 km/h.

Max's knees were shaking, his hands were sweaty. There was a rest stop in five kilometers. He needed a coffee. And a toilet. He took his foot off the gas. The speedometer needle dropped counterclockwise toward 100 km/h. The exit came up. Max braked. Thank God, now a break!

The Ducati that had just overtaken him was standing in front of the wash rooms. At least it had an Italian license plate, Max had noticed. Motorcyclists who race at such speeds are all suicidal, Max thought, shaking his head, as he paid the fee to use the toilet at the entrance barrier. He stood at a urinal, unzipped his fly and peed. Someone approached from behind and stood right next to him, although the toilets were otherwise deserted. Max concentrated on the urinal in front of him. But given the smell coming from next door, it was hard for him to do so. Leather, sweat, cigarette smoke. Normally rather repulsive. But now? At this moment? Somehow arousing. His cock was getting hard.

He heard the sound of a zipper opening. A long zipper, not the short one of a pair of trousers. The smell of sweat became more intense. He carefully turned his head. The guy next to him was the motorcyclist. He had unzipped his suit, so not only his cock was exposed, but also his sweaty T-shirt, from which the chest hair on a muscular chest peered out. Max stared in the direction of the stallion next to him. He couldn't help it. He made eye contact with his neighbor. He began to jerk off his uncircumcised cock. “Fucking?” he asked. German, with a heavy Italian accent. Max didn't speak German, but he understood that. The stallion pissed, kept jerking off and left, using his boner like a signpost. Max followed without a word, his boner also sticking out of his pants. The Italian stallion went into a stall, stood against the wall and held his cock out to Max, grinning. Max understood. Even though the floor was wet with piss, he knelt down and began to suck the balls first and then the cock. Damn, the smell, the taste of salt and musk made him so horny. He had the biker's firm, leather-clad ass cheeks in his hands and the cock in his face. His own cock bumped against the toilet bowl. Shit, had the beast always been that big? The fabric of his jacket became heavier. The rustling of fabric became the creaking of leather. The thoughts in his head began to blur. Shit, somehow it always felt like this when he sucked Andrea's cock. The two were motorcyclists out of passion. And every gas stop was also time to cum. Speeding along the highway at almost 300 km/h not only released adrenaline but also testosterone. Lots of testosterone. And a lot of it Andrea squirted into Massimo's face now.

“Another espresso, Mimo?” Andrea asked. Massimo grinned. ‘Mimo’ was what his mother had always called him when he went to kindergarten. Andrea and Massimo had known each other since then. No one except Andrea was allowed to call him Mimo. “Is that a question? A break without jerking off in the bathroom and espresso is not an option!” The two had been best buddies for almost 20 years. But not gay. Jerking off and sucking off only ever without eye contact!

Pic by @ki-kink

[octuscle]

Vom Yuppie zum Abi

Tag 1 – Mein neues Zuhause

Heute bin ich endlich in mein neues Luxusappartement eingezogen. Es fühlt sich großartig an. Ich meine, ich bin erst 24 und habe mir schon diese Wohnung geleistet. Das Viertel ist... naja, sagen wir, es hat Potenzial. Viele ausländische Familien hier, aber ich sehe, wie sich das bald ändern wird. Ich habe Pläne, große Pläne! Gentrifizierung ist das Stichwort, ich werde das hier nach oben bringen. Es ist eine Investition in die Zukunft, und ich bin sicher, es wird sich auszahlen.

Die ganzen Ausländer und Versager hier werden schon früher oder später verschwinden. Bis dahin falle ich hier allerdings aus wie ein bunter Hund. Ich meine, ich bin der Einzige, der hier mit Hemd und Anzug rumläuft. Nur mit meinem Auto scheine ich ganz gut hierher zu passen. Es ist erstaunlich, dass die Leute sich keine vernünftigen Wohnungen leisten können, aber Porsche, Mercedes oder noch teureres fahren.

Tag 10 – Das Treffen mit den Jungs

Ich habe mich heute mit den alten Schulfreunden getroffen. Fünftes Abitreffen. War echt lustig, bis einer meinte, ich wäre voll der Hänfling geworden. Ich weiß, ich habe in letzter Zeit viel gearbeitet, mich nur von Kaffee ernährt und wenig auf mich geachtet, aber „Hänfling“? Das war ein Schlag.

Ich habe beschlossen, das zu ändern. Gleich morgen melde ich mich im Gym an. Es gibt da eins gleich um die Ecke. Ich will wieder in Form kommen, das hier ist mein Revier, ich muss auch so aussehen, als ob ich es verdiene. Und ganz im Ernst: Das wird hart. Viele meiner Nachbarn sehen durchaus so aus, als ob sie einige Zeit beim Gewichteheben verbringen würden.

Tag 12 – Erster Tag im Gym

Heute war ich das erste Mal im Fitnessstudio. Die Jungs dort sind alle krass drauf, vor allem die türkischen Typen. Die sind riesig und trainieren richtig ernsthaft. War erst unsicher, aber dann habe ich mitbekommen, dass die voll korrekt sind. Einer hat mir sogar Tipps gegeben, wie ich meine Technik verbessern kann. Das war hart, aber ich hab’s durchgezogen. Klar, ich habe mitbekommen, dass die alle hier von mir als „der Lauch“ oder „der Alman“ sprechen. Aber sie haben ja recht. Ich bin ein Alman-Lauch. Und das nervt mich. Morgen gehe ich wieder hin.

Tag 19 – Blaues Auge

Vormittags gibt es bei mir im Gym Boxtraining. Habe ich jetzt zwei Mal ausprobiert. Ich sage Dir: Der Hammer! Nach einer Stunde bist Du tot, aber eine Stunde später fühlt Du Dich wie der Chef. Also wie der Babo, wie die hier sagen. Ja, ich habe ein bisschen Stress mit meinem Chef bekommen, weil ich für das Training die Arbeit schleifen lasse. Aber ich baue hier voll die Kontakte auf.

Abends lerne ich ein bisschen Türkisch. Das sollte mir helfen, hier das Immobiliengeschäft unter meine Kontrolle zu bringen. Ich bin ein bisschen durch die Straßen gezogen. Mittags mit den Jungs vom Boxen, abends mit den Jungs vom Pumpen. Es scheint, als würden hier alle Verkäufe auf Türkisch oder vielleicht noch auf Arabisch abgewickelt. Alter, da habe ich natürlich als der Alman keine Chance. Aber ich werde mich hier schon eingewöhnen.

Tag 30 – Im Modus

Bruder, ich bin jetzt seit einem Monat dabei, und ich bin voll im Modus. Jeden Tag ballere ich drei Stunden durch. Mindestens! Die Jungs hier haben mich richtig aufgenommen, wir trainieren zusammen und pushen uns gegenseitig. Mein Job als Makler? Der juckt mich grad nicht mehr. Ich meine, klar, es bringt Geld, aber dieses Gym-Ding fühlt sich an wie mein Leben jetzt. Die Jungs sagen, ich mache gute Fortschritte, und das motiviert mich, noch mehr zu geben. nicht mehr

Und ich schwör, so langsam bin ich nicht mehr der Alman-Lauch. Ich mein, selbst die Jungs von der Hauptschule ballern mehr als ich. Aber das wird, Alter! Sagt auch Cem.

Das ist so was wie der Chef hier. Cooler Typ. Bisschen prollig. Aber hammer Muskeln und voll der riesige Schwanz! Ja, den habe ich lutschen dürfen. Bruder, das ist voll so was wie ein Ritterschlag hier bei den Jungs!

Tag 38 – Tuning

Dem Cem ist nicht nur Boss vom Gym, dem hat auch noch voll das Autohaus. Hat mich gefragt, weshalb ich mit so einer Langweiler-Karre komme. Er könnte mir was richtig heißes verkaufen. Und würde meinen Porsche Panamera gut in Zahlung nehmen. Weiß nicht, ich mag mein Baby. Aber richtig gut: Dem Cem ist auch voll der Händler von so Zeugs, um nicht das Auto, sondern dem Körper zu tunen. Zu nem BMW M3 Cabrio gäbe es auch noch Pulver und Pillen dazu. Ich schwöre, meine Küche sieht schon jetzt voll aus wie eine Apotheke! Aber verflucht, dafür kann ich meinem Körper dabei zugucken, wie sich dem voll ändert.

Tag 45 – Kündigung, Bruder!

Heute hab ich einfach meinen Job gekündigt, Bruder. Real Talk: Ich will nur noch trainieren, verstehst du? Der ganze Immobilienkram nervt mich nur noch. Was bringt das viele Geld, wenn ich keinen Bock auf das Leben habe? Mein Bruder Cem hat mir angeboten, bei ihm im Laden auszuhelfen, Wagen aufbereiten und so. Geile Karren. BMW, Mercedes, alles vom Feinsten. Kein Stress, bisschen Cash nebenbei und ich kann weiter trainieren wie ein Tier. Wallah, das ist der Move.

Verflucht, die anderen machen sich voll lustig über meine langen Haare. Wollte endlich mal wieder zu meinem Friseur. Aber Cem hat gesagt nichts da. Seine Bros gehen alle zum türkischen Barbier. Also ich jetzt auch. Und was soll ich sagen? Bääääm! Mit dem krassen Undercut passe ich endlich viel besser zu den andern Brudis!

Ich habe mir auch krass die Tattoos besorgt. Die Bros sagen zwar, dass dem nicht korrekt für Koran ist. Aber ist es voll lit, dass mir das scheißegal sein kann. Es sind meine Bros im Gym, nicht im Glauben.

Tag 50 – Arbeiten im Gym

Der Job bei Cem im Autohaus ist echt krass. Klar, alle anderen haben eine Ausbildung oder so. Ich bin echt ganz unten in der Hierarchie. Aber ich gebe mir Mühe. Ich will, dass Cem stolz auf mich ist. Scheiße, dafür ordne ich mich voll unter. Sogar wenn es bedeutet, dass ich verfluchte Riten der Assis hier mitspielen muss. Sie nennen es Ayran-Trinken. Sieht auch so aus wie Ayran. Ist aber warm und milchig… Das erste Mal musste ich voll kotzen, wie die dem Becher vollgewichst haben. Ich schwör‘! Aber jetzt: Ehrensache. Nur Scheiße, dass ich den Cem nicht mehr lutschen darf.

Aber noch krasser als dem Job bei Cem: Bruder, ich hab jetzt auch nen Job im Gym, als Hausmeister. Ich weiß, klingt komisch, aber es passt. Ich bin sowieso die ganze Zeit hier, also warum nicht noch bisschen arbeiten? So kann ich noch mehr Zeit mit den Jungs verbringen. Wallah, die pushen mich wie verrückt. Ich bin von morgens bis abends im Gym, und es fühlt sich einfach richtig an. Meine alte Welt als Immobilienmakler ist so weit weg. Jetzt geht’s nur noch um Gains, um Familie und um den Grind.

Tag 65 – Verkauft, Bruder!

Wallah, heute Wohnung verkauft, Bruder, kein Bock mehr auf die ganze Scheiße. Was mich dem gekostet hat war eh zu hoch, weißt du? Hab die Bude einfach an Abi vom Gym verkauft, juckt mich nicht mehr, wallah. Jetzt zieh ich in ne Bude von Cem, wo auch paar von die Jungs aus Gym und Autohaus wohnen. Ey, is viel besser so, verstehst du? Wir sind wie Familie geworden, wallah. Jeden Tag Training, dann chillen wir, machen zusammen Essen, bisschen Shisha. Keine Sorgen mehr mit Rechnungen und so, Bruder, das Leben is einfacher jetzt. Okay, ich bin der Neue und muss putzen und und so. Aber hey, dafür gibt’s voll dem Ayran von die Bros!

Wallah, Geld macht nicht glücklich, Bruder. Ich brauch kein Luxus, weißt du? Brauch nur meine Jungs, Gym und Gains. Die ganze Immobilien-Sache war eh lame, Bruder. Hier mit den Jungs hab ich echten Support. Ist so, als hätten wir unser eigenes Ding, verstehst? Bisschen Trainieren, bisschen Arbeiten, das reicht. So läuft das hier, Bruder, das is mein Leben jetzt. Beste Entscheidung, wallah! Und mit dem Geld von Cem habe ich mir geile Karre und voll den Babo-Schmuck kaufen können.

Tag 80 – Müll

Scheiß, Alter, hab ich Mist gemacht. Hab‘ ich Kratzer in dem Karre von Abi von Cem. Scheiße, Scheiße, Scheiß! Cem hat mir voll zu Sau gemacht. Alter dem war so wütend, hab ich noch nie gesehen. Hat mich rausgeschmissen. Und mir meine Karre weggenommen. Wegen dem Schadeersatz oder so. Gottseidank hat mir ein Brudi Tipp gegeben. Kann ich arbeiten Müllabfuhr. Sagt Brudi, ist dem voll geil. Harte Arbeit. Gibt noch mehr Muckis. Und die Kollegahs sind voll die harten. Und haben einen Harten. Ficken bei Arbeit… Geilen Idee!

Und voll geil ist, dass mich dem Murat dafür, dass ich ihm dem Müll raustrag, morgens und abends Efes umsonst gibt. Alter, Efes und Börek von Schafskäse. Beste Frühstück, beste Abendessen!

Tag 97 – Neues Leben

Bruder, ich sag dir, ich bin komplett anderer Mensch geworden, wallah. Jeden Tag Gym, nix anderes zählt mehr, verstehst du? Vier Stunden Minimum, Bruder. Mein Körper hat sich komplett verändert, ich seh aus wie Maschine jetzt, wallah. Die Jungs im Gym sind meine Brüder, wir helfen uns gegenseitig, motivieren uns. Abi sagt immer, "brich den Körper, Bruder, dann baust du neu auf," und er hat Recht, wallah.

Ich hab gar keinen Plan mehr für irgendwas anderes, Bruder. Immobilien? Pff, scheiß drauf, interessiert keinen. Jetzt geht’s nur um Training, um das Gym, um unsere Familie hier. Job bei Müll ist lit. Und Cem hat mich auch wieder in seinem Laden übernommen, mach jetzt sogar mehr als nur Autos putzen. Läuft, Bruder. Wallah, so muss das, verstehst du? Wir machen unser Ding, immer weiter, immer stärker. Das ist mein Leben jetzt.

Inspiration and pics by @seeeyou17

[octuscle]

Yo dude, I'm like a 28-year-old tech geek from IT land. Like, for real, I practically survive on candy bars. But man, this Hershey's Gold with nuts and pretzels is looking hella tasty!

Hey guys! I recently had an idea for Halloween that I’m excited for! I call it

Choose Your Treat TF!

Here’s how it works. You send me some information about yourself (or a character) and the name of a type of chocolate bar, and I’ll transform you in a way based around that chocolate bar.

For example, a King Sized Hersheys bar might turn you into a beefy black stud with a huge ‘king sized’ cock.

You’ll never know for sure how you’ll get changed, but don’t think about it too long! I’ll only do each chocolate bar once, so get them while they last!

I hope you guys like this idea as much as I do! I will still be doing the trick or treat tf, just will be doing this too because I think it’s a fun idea!

**Edit. I’ve already got some ask with the same chocolate bar, and I don’t wanna turn anyone down, so I’m voiding the ‘only do a candy bar once’ thing. Candy for everybody!**

[octuscle]

CHAVTF Clothes Make the Man

Frederik liked walking through the rougher neighborhood between his office and home after work in the evening. It was a detour, but he loved the atmosphere—kind of trashy, lower-class, but definitely masculine. Real dudes stood outside corner pubs, drinking beers. Rowdy teens in tracksuits spat on the street in front of him, adjusting their junk like it was nothing. Frederik was almost 50. He had never dared to come out. His attempts at sex with women, and even one man, were pathetic. The closest he got to the men who turned him on was walking past them. He might have had a cool job and made decent money, but his life? It was miserable.

The shop window he stopped in front of had never caught his eye before. "CHAVTF" was the name. The display wasn’t exactly stylish—just old-school mannequins wearing Adidas tracksuits, Ben Sherman shirts, and Lonsdale tank tops. Clothes that his fantasies wore. He had to go inside. The only person there was the guy behind the counter, talking on the phone, and to Frederik's surprise, smoking inside. The shop smelled like smoke and sweaty men in cheap, synthetic tracksuits. Frederik didn’t get hard—he never really did anymore—but his underwear got damp from precum.

He stood by a rack of shiny synthetic clothing: T-shirts, shorts, tracksuits. One tracksuit practically called to him—a white and gray one, like some kind of snow camo. He checked for the largest size. XL. It was going to be tight, but he had to try it on. Grabbing the tracksuit and his laptop bag, he headed to the only fitting room he could find. The floor wasn’t particularly clean, and it took some effort to strip down and stand there in just his socks. He slipped into the tracksuit. No mirror in the changing room, though. He didn’t take off his polished black Oxfords, even if they didn’t match. He wasn’t about to walk through the shop in socks, and leaving his button-down shirt on under the jacket probably looked ridiculous. But he didn’t want the plastic fabric touching his bare skin.

He knew the tracksuit didn’t fit—it was way too tight. He needed a mirror. There was one outside. Of course, with his dress shoes and shirt, plus his bloated face and neatly parted hair, he looked totally ridiculous. Still, he wanted that tracksuit. He looked around for the shop assistant, who was glued to his phone. Frederik, with a dry throat, squeaked out, “Do you have this in a bigger size?” The guy barely glanced up, “Nah, mate, my bad, but like, we straight up don't even carry that brand. What you see is what we got.”

Frederik pointed to the rack where he’d found it. But now, instead of shiny plastic, there were boxing clothes and gloves. Cool leather gloves like the ones hooligans wear. What the hell? That wasn’t there before! Frederik wanted to get out of here. But the air in the shop made him feel light-headed. He looked for the fitting room again. Couldn’t find it. His breathing got heavy. The assistant came over, asking if everything was alright. “No,” Frederik replied, “nothing’s alright. Where’s the fitting room?”

The guy gave him a cheeky, almost lustful smile. “We don’t got any fitting rooms here, mate. You’d have to change somewhere between the racks.” And suddenly, Frederik felt the assistant’s hand on his nipple. He flinched. The guy grinned. “You don’t look like you mind getting changed in public.” Frederik jumped back in shock. The guy laughed. “Why so shy, bro? Maybe I should’ve introduced myself first. Name’s Dick.” He grabbed his crotch. “Name fits, too.”

Frederik stammered, trying to say he was flattered but just wanted to change back and leave. Dick looked at him like he didn’t get it. “Dude, I’ve been keeping an eye on you, and you’re still wearing what you came in with.”

Panic set in for Frederik. Where was the fitting room? Where were his clothes? He’d left them by the Adidas jackets, right? Now there was nothing. Where he’d placed the tracksuit and laptop bag, there was a backpack. He opened it. Someone else’s stuff—phone, wallet, gym gear. But also condoms, little brown bottles and cans labeled “Crisco.” Dick was suddenly behind him. “Yeah, that’s what you came in with, mate. And if you got Crisco, I’ve got some ideas on how we could use it.” His hand was under Frederik’s tracksuit again. It felt good. Frederik wanted to protest, but it felt really good. Dick’s hand slipped under his T-shirt, heading for his ass crack…

“Wait, stop!” Frederik jumped aside.

“Come on, princess. I could lock up and show you a good time. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Frederik,” he muttered, “and I don’t plan on getting anything from you.”

“Then why’d you show up dressed like a rent boy with a load of Crisco and poppers in your bag on a Friday night? You don’t look like you’re heading to a cooking class.”

Dick rummaged through the backpack, pulling out a pair of assless latex briefs and flashing Frederik’s driver’s license. “Frederick Miller,” he said, holding the photo next to Frederik’s face, “but real life’s way hotter than this pic.”

Frederik snatched the wallet back. Name? Correct. Birthday? Correct. Birth year? No, it wasn’t 2005—it was 1975! What the hell was going on? The photo showed a young man. He needed a mirror. Right now. There was one just ahead.

“Yo, Ricky, you alright?” Dick leaned over him. “You kinda zoned out. How much poppers you had tonight?”

Frederik stood up. The mirror showed a dude in a sleek snow camo tracksuit. But it was a size M, probably. The guy was slim and toned, with a trendy haircut and acne-prone skin. That wasn’t him. Hell no. But the guy in the mirror had a hard-on. And Frederik? He had an iron-hard, throbbing erection. Dick wrapped an arm around him. He was hard too—Frederik could feel it. Dick held a bottle under Frederik’s nose. “Relax and lean against the wall.” In a daze, Frederik obeyed. Dick pulled down his pants, muttering, “This might hurt a little.”

Whatever was in that bottle made Frederik hornier than ever. Bent over, hands pressed to the wall by the mirror, he saw a face that wasn’t his own. He felt Dick’s cock push into him. It hurt. God, it hurt. But it felt amazing. Dick fucked him hard, and Frederik’s cock bounced with each thrust. He wanted to jerk off, but needed his hands to keep from collapsing. His eyes rolled back as he felt Dick unload inside him. And Frederik came, too—harder than he ever had before. This wasn’t forced. This was pure, raw pleasure. And the mess on the mirror? Massive.

“Ricky, that was hot as always. Catch you later at the Ku-Bar for a drink and a fuck?” Frederik had no idea what Dick was talking about but nodded. Dick planted a deep kiss on him. Grabbing his backpack, Frederik stumbled out of CHAVTF—both freaked out and exhilarated. Once outside, he finally breathed in the fresh air.

According to ‘his’ identity card, he lived just a few streets away. A run-down house with an entrance full of graffiti. The front door key from ‘his’ rucksack fitted. But where did he live? He walked through the stairwell. He was met by a young Chav in a tracksuit, who greeted him with ‘Hi Ricky, back from the gym yet?’. Frederick greeted him back. Frederick secretly looked at the doorbells. Finally, on the fourth floor, he found a sign saying ‘Ricky/Morty/Liam’. Thank God, the key fitted. He was in a small flat in an old building, furnished cheaply but stylishly with bulky rubbish and Ikea furniture. He opened a door, behind which was a room with a bedroom, desk and wardrobe. Cramped but cosy. Ricky threw himself onto the bed. Sleep? Thinking? He involuntarily began to jerk off. ‘Ricky, you bastard, can't you wank in your own room?’ Suddenly a naked man with a towel around his shoulders stood in the doorway. Shit, it was obviously Morty or Liam. Anyway, he obviously knew Frederick. And Frederick's arse, which had been fucked for the second time today.

The weekend felt like a film to him. People greeted him all the time. He was constantly getting messages and calls on his mobile phone. He went on dates. Most of them ended in sex. He danced through two nights. Then he had sex. In the morning, he made coffee naked in the shared kitchen. And then he had sex afterwards. He was horny all the time. And it obviously met the taste of many men. Still, what the hell had happened? Who was he? Who was the Ricky Miller he was now? Definitely not the head of the Transportation Division at a bank in the City… It was Sunday evening. Morty and Liam were watching TV in the living room. They were probably watching porn, they were probably wanking again. The thought also gave Ricky a hard-on again. But he scrolled through his mobile phone. The weekend was as good as over. He would probably have to work tomorrow. His mobile phone was newer and more expensive than the one he had been using. But it was poorly maintained. There was a ‘Work’ entry. But no address. He dialled the number. An answering machine said ‘Welcome to Regulation. We are here for you Monday to Saturday from 11:00 to 19:00 and Sunday from 12:00 to 17:00. Outside of these hours, please visit regulation dot store.’ Frederick googled the address. And turned pale. At least he could sleep in tomorrow. It would probably be enough if he was in the shop at 10.00 am.

A month had passed. Ricky had settled into his new life. He liked his job at REGULATION. He liked his occasional jobs as a model or amateur actor in smaller porn productions. He got around well. This weekend he got to model for his favourite label again. Not much money. But at least a trip to Berlin.

He loved the things from TWINK X . But unfortunately a bit too expensive for his salary. Most of the guys he saw in the clothes were unfortunately too old and too fat for his taste. Well, he was usually able to earn some pocket money from them. And then it was enough for a pair of shorts or a T-shirt. The hot skinhead he had made eye contact with on the underground all the way to Nollendorfplatz was far from fat. Perhaps too muscular for Ricky's taste. But a hot guy. And the TWINK X jacket he was wearing was damn hot! Unusual for such an obvious top to be wearing something like that. But Ricky wasn't picky. The shoot had been exhausting. He almost didn't care who he was relieving stress with now.

[octuscle]

Body swap, not mind swap

Djamal dug his hands deep into the fat flesh of his customer. They said that Yuri was unimaginably rich. He was the very model of an oligarch. But he was also unbelievably fat. Djamal wondered why Yuri didn't just have fat suctioned out. Or at least take advantage of all the aids that would help him lose weight and stop puffing and panting like a walrus. Djamal's name meant “the beautiful” and his appearance was incredibly important to him. He thought to himself: better to be poor and beautiful than rich and a walrus.

Yuri had set his cell phone to speaker. He probably assumed that he could make a phone call undisturbed on the massage table on the terrace of his villa belonging to the hotel complex. He probably hadn't suspected that Djamal not only spoke the Arabic of his old and the French of his new home fluently, but also Russian. Russian clients in St. Tropez were the richest and most generous. To be able to serve this market, he had started to learn the language early on. And now he was hearing things he obviously wasn't supposed to hear. Because Yuri was in trouble. His liberal attitude, his good relations with the democracies of Western Europe and his critical attitude towards the military special operation had caused him to fall out of favor at home. Many of his Russian assets had apparently been seized or were about to be. Yuri lamented the fact that some paintings he had acquired from the depots of the Pushkin Museum would now fall back into the hands of the Russian state.

His conversation partner said that the preparations for Yuri's going underground were as good as complete. Now only the host was missing. Djamal had just found a tension point that he tried to release with a firm grip. Yuri said that his masseur could be a great host. “And would you like to be my host?” Yuri asked in Russian and laughed uproariously. “I'd love to, but my house is very modest,” Djamal replied. Yuri turned pale. ‘I'll call you later,’ he said. And even though Djamal was still working on his neck, the walrus turned around. ”You speak Russian? That's perfect! I have a business deal to offer you.”

It was 2:00 a.m. Djamal lay awake. The offer was too incredible to be true. Yuri wanted to swap bodies with him. In return, Djamal would receive €100,000,000.00 in an account that was frozen for five years. And full access to Yuri's body and life. Yuri was honest, it wouldn't be a walk in the park. He was being watched by the Russian secret service, tax authorities and God knows who else. He would probably have to give up almost everything except the €100,000,000.00 to save his life. But if he made it through the five years, he would be a rich man. A very rich man. However, he would also be a very fat man with a smoker's lung, a drunk's liver and broken knee joints. And Yuri would live a life of relative poverty, but in his own body. Djamal tossed and turned. This chance would never come again. Besides, the body swap wouldn't work anyway; it sounded like silly magic. Yes, this chance would never come again. Tomorrow he would make the pact with Yuri.

My God, what an unbelievably fat pig, Djamal thought to himself. Yuri had just polished off a large bowl of caviar, washing it down with Roederer Cristal. “And?” Yuri asked, looking as bored as possible. He was far from bored. It was a matter of life and death. “Done,” Djamal said, shaking His enormous paunch wobbled. What a pig, Djamal thought again. But now the deal is done.

Yuri's lawyer had done a great job. Djamal had to sign dozens of contracts. Most of them were with some offshore companies. Yuri's name was nowhere to be found. But after three days, Djamal was a damn rich man. His fortune consisted of real estate in Uruguay, shares in the Cayman Islands and a chain of gyms in Egypt. Djamal was no billionaire. But he was filthy rich. However, he wouldn't be Djamal for much longer. It hadn't been a week since he and Yuri had been on a private jet on the way to Tehran. An old Mercedes sedan took them to a villa hidden behind high walls and a large park in the north of the megacity. There were no explanations; there was just an envelope on the desk in his bedroom. For the next 24 hours, only water from the bottles provided, otherwise, remain sober. Djamal grinned. If the same applied to Juri, it would certainly be a greater challenge for him than for Djamal. He should stay in his room for the next 24 hours. There was satellite TV, internet and a Playstation, so he would survive that. And tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. he would be picked up for “treatment”. Djamal tried to distract himself from his excitement as much as possible. He did sit-ups to relieve the tension. He tried to sleep. Eventually he managed to do that. And eventually his cell phone rang. 7:30 a.m. Showtime.

The young man who picked him up didn't say a word. Djamal was supposed to leave everything in his room. The note said that he should only wear the surgical gown and slippers. He did as he was told. They went down in an elevator. The door opened into a futuristic-looking room. Juri was already lying on a table. His flabby body spilled over the edge on the right and left. He was obviously asleep. Djamal lay down on the couch next to Juri. Someone inserted a cannula into him. That was the last thing he was supposed to see. At least in his body.

When Djamal woke up, he was lying in a bed. The room looked similar to the one where he had played with the Playstation a while ago. Djamal urgently needed to go to the toilet. He wanted to jump out of bed. But he couldn't. Almost 200 kilograms of body fat were holding him back. It was a challenge to get out of bed. It was a challenge to go to the bathroom. But it was a huge challenge to look in the mirror. This was no longer the fit fitness trainer. This was a fat man. And with rings under his eyes and disheveled hair, he looked even more terrible than the Juri he knew from the Cote d'Azur. Djamal, no Yuri, looked around the bathroom. It was full of creams, serums and lotions. It looked like the cosmetics department of a luxury department store. Yuri didn't care about any of that. What use were all these luxury cosmetics to him in this body? Maybe a shower would help. Maybe he could go for a walk afterwards. Yuri showered and went back to his room with only a very large towel around his fat hips. There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Yuri said in Arabic. Sasha entered. Sascha was Yuri's chauffeur and bodyguard. “All right, boss?” he asked in Russian. Sure, he was Russian. “All right, comrade,” replied Yuri. Sasha smiled irritably. And then he began to explain to his boss what was going to happen next. Breakfast would be served in a moment. Then his butler would come and pack his suitcase. In three hours, the helicopter would take them to the airport. Where they would then go. Yuri remembered the consultations with the old Yuri. “Tbilisi,” he replied. “Business!”

After showering, having some fruit and green tea for breakfast and sitting in a tailor-made suit in his private jet, Yuri felt a little more comfortable in his own skin. Okay, the few steps from the helicopter to the private jet had been exhausting. But he would get back into shape. Faster than he would have liked. As soon as they had left Iranian airspace, they were accompanied by two Russian fighter jets. She would not fly to Tbilisi. They would fly to Baku. And there she would be received by an envoy of the Kremlin. His jet and his luggage had been confiscated. And Yuri would be placed under house arrest. In a guest house of the Azerbaijani government.

Old Yuri would rage. At the Russians' audacity. At the collaboration of the Azeris! At the unworthy conditions in the shabby guesthouse, which was idyllically situated on the Caspian Sea. On board the plane, there had only been Sasha, the pilot and the flight attendant. But he was separated from Yuri. Yuri was alone and on his own. In a not particularly large house with a sea view. He was prepared for the fact that pressure would be put on him. That he should cede all claims to his assets in Russia and its satellite states. That he would have to pay a ransom for his own freedom. Yuri would have liked to consult with someone. But he no longer had a telephone, he was cut off from the world. So he did what he had done before: sports.

For a full four weeks, Yuri was locked up in his rather gilded cage. Then a “prosecutor” appeared and presented Yuri with various documents to sign. Yuri had no idea what he even owned. But it looked as if not much of it would remain. In fact, there was even a passage that stipulated that any mobile and immobile assets that would become known in the next three years would also be confiscated. Yuri was compensated with his apartment in Zurich, one million Swiss francs, and the luggage that he had had on board his plane. And he would be allowed to use this plane one last time for the flight to Zurich. Just under five years… He had to endure just under five years in these, for him, not particularly modest circumstances. And after that, he would get the secret account. And be incredibly rich. Yuri signed.

Obviously, he hadn't gotten all of his baggage back. Sasha, who was flying with him to Zurich, had helped himself to his jewelry and watches. It wasn't his. And Sasha had never been his confidant. But he knew that old Yuri would have been incredibly disappointed in his chauffeur and bodyguard. The new Yuri was just disgusted by a collaborator, who was now adorned with Yuri's tasteless gold jewelry. Yuri himself looked miserable. Thanks to plenty of exercise and a healthy diet, he had lost almost 40 kilograms in the four weeks. His tailored clothes hung on him like sacks. When they arrived in Zurich, Sascha Juri was taken to passport control with his suitcases and bags. He still had his Swiss passport, so entering the country was a mere formality. He had enough money for the taxi ride. And then he found himself sitting in a tacky apartment, which he would hardly be able to afford to keep with the little money he still had, and he began to make plans. He booted up the computer and googled “compression garments in XXXL”. And then he set out on a long and sweat-inducing walk.

Djamal was still in good shape and athletic. But for the owner of one of the largest fitness studio chains in the Middle East, he was not fit enough. He had heard wonderful things about the club's head personal trainer. And indeed, Yuri was one of the best in his field. “My Life Without 300 Pounds” had become a global bestseller. And his fitness channel was one of the most successful of an influencer over 50. Djamal was unsure. “Have we met?” he asked. “Vaguely,” replied Juri.

[octuscle]

Holy crap, I should have known this was bound to happen eventually. Jerking off in the office bathroom. And now what the heck do I do? Damn, I've got a killer bod and my dick is off the charts. But there's no way I can just stroll back to my desk like this. Looks like I have no choice but to wait until everyone's gone. And then order a pizza. And pray that I can at least bribe the pizza delivery guy to give up his pants for a hefty tip.

Your last like is your new body. Who's winning?

Dumb muscle himbo for me it seems!