#biker tf

[mrrharper]

Fitting Into The Gear

The funniest thing? He wasn’t planning to buy anything.

He just wandered into the store selling motorcycle gear to look around. He planned to get a license in the near future and wanted to check how much would he have to save for the gear alone.

So he walked in and looked around, surrounded by the rich smell of brand new leather and plastic. He was quickly joined by a staff member, a beefy bro type, who very enthusiastically started explaining to him all the details he should focus on while searching if he wanted to get the best and sickest looking gear for himself.

All this talk made him want to try on some stuff, see how it looked on him. He ended up with a helmet and a mid range motorcycle suit, which he brought into the changing room located in the back of the store. He took off most of his clothes and began the process of putting on the suit, which took him a moment as he had never worn anything like this before. When that was done, the leather was clinging to his body more tightly than he expected, but thankfully it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling.

Then came the helmet, which was another hurdle. It was supposed to sit tight on his head, or so the bro biker told him earlier, which meant that putting it on also took a while.

When he was finally done he turned around and faced the full-body mirror on the back wall to see how he looked. And he didn’t look half bad. Pretty good even. Yes, the leather suit was a bit too large for his lanky frame, but the helmet added a certain… something to his appearance which he found almost hot. Yeah, really hot.

Hot… wait, was he getting hotter? Yes, his body was now feeling significantly warmer than just a few moments before. But that must have bean because of the suit, which was all leather and thus probably good at capturing the heat radiating off of his body.

But then he moved a bit and he felt it. There was something wrong with his body and he was certain it wasn’t the suit or there helmet. His body felt different. He looked down and furrowed his brow. Did his chest look… larger? Actually, his arms looked bulkier as well. And his midsection too… his legs also! What the fuck? Why was his body expanding? And was it actually? He quickly pulled the zipper of the suit and got out of the upper half, then froze. His t-shirt was no longer there. Instead, he was now wearing a Nike compression shirt that… holy fuck, he was jacked! He had visible, quite meaty pecs! And these biceps and forearms… the fuck? How could this happen? This mush have been a hallucination, this was not real!

He was about to run out of the changing booth when the visor of his helmet started glowing and he just couldn’t look away. So he stood still as his mind began reshaping itself, his personality, thoughts, emotions, habits, all shifting, disappearing and appearing again. His brain was like clay and the helmet was remaking him into someone else.

That someone else was an obnoxious biker bro. He worked in the store, selling motorcycle gear to dudes who wanted to be just like him - jacked, with a sick bike between their legs. In the evenings he worked out or ran away from the cops with his brahs. His life was simple, as his thoughts focused on two things only, riding and lifting. There was nothing else that felt was necessary for him. He was hot as fuck after all, dudes like him weren’t supposed to worry about shit. He’d just flex and drive away on his black-and-white Ninja 700, leaving only a few skid marks on the asphalt behind him.

[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

[ki-kink]

hey bro can you do to me what you did for Chad Golden I was thinking Greece or Roman in Italy?

In Fiumicino you get an E-Vespa instead of the Fiat 500 you actually ordered. But maybe you just didn't understand the Budget employee. His English is a disaster. And your Italian is non-existent. Somehow you manage to agree that you won't be able to get your luggage into your AirBnB in Trastevere with the Vespa. He wants your address. You write it down for him. He promises to deliver your suitcase. And so you're standing in front of the Vespa in the parking garage with just your laptop bag over your shoulder and a stylish rental helmet. Yeah, it looks pretty cool. But now you're supposed to ride all the way into the city center on this lame thing. And damn it, it's only 40 percent charged. range just 20 kilometers. Your cell phone says you have 28 kilometers to go. Shit, you'll have to make a stop somewhere to recharge.

You're zooming along the country road at 40 km/h. That's all the Vespa can do. Range still ten kilometers. Shit! Thank God there's a petrol station with a charging station up ahead. While the Vespa charges, you go for an espresso. The gas station attendant asks you if that's your Diavel V4 out there. “La mio bambino” you say almost tenderly. “Un bambino con un bel caratterino” replies the gas station attendant with a grin. “Ci puoi scommettere!” you reply and drink your café.

Rome and Lazio are your home. You love your city and the surrounding area almost as much as you love your bike. And you love your job as a tour guide. Guiding tourists on the best motorcycles in the world through the Eternal City and into the surrounding mountains and to the sea was an absolute gap in the market. The horde of American college jocks takes a few photos of the Colloseum. And then it's on to the EUR site. Perhaps not the most attractive sight in the city. But a good opportunity to get your baby up to speed again in between.

[worldoffetish69]

[alphajocklover]

I saw this super hot biker dude on my way home and I was wondering if you could make me like him? I’ve always been a nice guy but I want to experience life as a total bad boy. I mean everything, the muscles, the tattoos, the straight promiscuous sex, being in a gang doing crime. All the bad boy biker things. You think you could make me that way dude?

I actually haven’t done much with bikers. I don’t really know why, but besides that one wolverine based transformation I haven’t so much as mentioned bikers. I suppose it could be because I’m slightly obsessed with jocks and tend to focus on them more than others but it’s not like I haven’t reported on different transformations, like surfers, dilfs, and even greasers before. Yet I’ve almost never mentioned bikers before, and I’ve absolutely never turned someone into one. There's a first time for everything though, and bikers are really hot. However, before we turn you into a bad boy biker we need to figure out how you’re going to become one. Most of the transformation methods I have on hand are jock based. But… There is one thing I have on hand that would be perfect for you.

It’s a motorcycle. Yes I own a motorcycle. It’s not really mine, I’ve never ridden it or used it. I actually inherited it from an Uncle, but that’s another story. I haven’t got a clue on how to ride it, and if I was going to use a motorcycle I’d probably use something else. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a well made machine, and it looks cool as hell, but if I were to put the key in the ignition and start the engine… while you can probably guess where this is going.

It won’t happen all at once. It’s going to be a more gradual than you’d think. You’ll gain muscle slowly over the next few weeks, just slowly enough that it seems less like magic and more like an unexpected growth spurt. The mental changes will go at about the same rate, with you slowly losing old interest over the next few weeks, replacing your geeky hobbies with more… biker appropriate ones. You’re going to end up with a fascination with motorcycles, a love of beer, and a knack for getting into trouble. The most starling change will probably be the tattoos, as I believe they’ll just appear towards the end of your transformation. In a matter of weeks you’ll go from a skinny nothing to a beefy, beer guzzling, motorcycle obsessed, pussy fucking leader of a biker gang. Yes, you’ll be the leader. You’ll probably attract a gang quickly without much effort too. People are gonna be drawn to you, your sheer badass manliness.

No more mister nice guy for you. From here on out you’re anything but fucking nice.

**hey there guys! Hope you like the Biker TF. It was nice to try something new. And it gave me an idea for the mystery uncle I mentioned. Enjoy!**

[needofcuddles-tf]

Mixed guys are the best!

hi. I was finally given a vacation for the first time in 2 years of work, and I would really like to spend it away from home. I want to travel around the world and visit remote corners of Asia, Africa and America. but I'm afraid that with my 25-year-old blasphemous body and European type of appearance, I will look like a typical tourist, and I would like more inclusivity. what do you recommend? ;)

Thanks for your booking with FWK Vacations. Your world tour is sure to be a blast!

You wake up as your nose fills with the thick, rich smell of a man’s sweaty body odour. The smell is so strong that it takes you a moment to get your bearings. You’re in a hostel room, the other bunks full of gently snoring men. Outside the window, dawn is just starting to break.

There’s no AC in Malaysian hostels like this, so you’ve been sweating all night, and the stench is thick around you. But it’s not like you wouldn’t be sweaty again in a few minutes, so you decide to skip the shower. You ran out of deodorant somewhere between India and Myanmar, and you don’t have the spare cash to buy any more.

As you slip back into your still-wet biking gear in the bathroom, you check yourself out in the mirror. You’re paler than most of the people in this part of the world, but with your dark eyes and arresting features, everyone can see that you’re mixed. That means that you’re welcome everywhere, and no guy has ever hooked up with a boy like you before, well, you. Hopefully, by the time you and your motorbike roll up to Singapore, you’ll still be cute and sweaty enough that a hunky daddy will pay for you to continue your travels somewhere else.

Enjoy your vacation!

Want to go on vacation? Book via my ask box!

[gloomwitchwrites]

Thinking about…Biker!141 AU

Biker!Gaz who turned a hobby into a career on social media. Sometimes he’s dishing out advice and general maintenance tips, while the rest of his videos are straight up thirst traps. He might not say it directly, but he adores the attention. All the thirsty comments are the perfect ego boost. But there’s a pattern, a username that keeps cropping up over and over again. It’s not just anyone. It’s his best friend’s ex, a woman he’s been lusting after for years. She’s liking his posts, and leaving filthy comments. This might be his chance.

Biker!Price doesn’t hate much, but he hates it when people owe him money. And your brother is at the top of his list. With a stacked gambling debt, your brother hands you over to Price with the hope that this might erase or lower the debt. Well, tough shit for your brother. Price is keeping you and not erasing one cent of the debt just to shove it in your brother’s face. Yes, you’re his now, and that isn’t going to change, but you’re a sweet thing…and Price intends to make you his.

Biker!Ghost is the odd one out in his small town. Rumor is that he’s a violent man with a long criminal history that ranges from petty theft to murder. No one will actually verify if it’s true, but they all repeat it like it’s the truth. As the newest addition, everyone you come across tells you to stay away from him even though he’s the only car mechanic in town. But when your cheap ass car breaks down, and not a single godly citizen stops to help, it’s Ghost that rolls to a stop. It’s he that offers you a ride home and promises to have it towed to his shop free of charge.

Biker!Soap is about to be handed the keys to a criminal empire. His father’s clock is ticking, but a war between rivals looms on the horizon. With the possibility of a bloody fight ahead, Soap’s father makes a deal with another rival gang. This one has a marriageable daughter around the same age, and Soap is the eligible bachelor. While he’s single, he’s hardly celibate. He rides fast, fucks hard, and hasn’t thought about having a wife at all. But when you arrive, he meets a fiery thing that would rather scratch his face off than sleep with him. Good luck with that, babe. Soap is about to win you over.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

TF141 + cars

SOAP is a car guy in the sense that he drives a junker manufactured the same year he was born (the significance of which, he says, speaks for itself). 

refers to the car as she and loves bringing up how sexy she is when she chugs to life. you think it's a weird flex until you realize he's not talking to you; he's talking to the car. 

often tells her he's gonna get her all fixed up as soon as he has the money.

GAZ is a car guy in the sense that he drives a sleek, sporty, low-ass car. a convertible. keeps it pristine enough that he can keep whitewall tires on his baby and they stay clean.

cream interior. all the bells and whistles because if he's gonna cruise around london when he's off-duty, he's damn sure gonna do it comfortably. 

pays to keep it protected in covered parking while he's gone on leave.

side-eyes Soap's mismatched aftermarket parts; can't help but respect his dedication.

PRICE is a car guy in the sense that he's had his since Gaz was in diapers. the thing can't possibly have any resale value anymore but it's the first and only new car he's ever bought.

uninterested in getting her fixed up because she's no ship of theseus. no sir. he fixes only what need fixing when it needs fixing. the rest is original parts. no need to fix what ain't broken and all that.

she's almost come back into vogue as a classic car. wasn't his intent, but he's glad to see so-called collectors putting respect on her name again.

GHOST is a car guy in the sense that he's a motorcycle guy.

scoffs at Soap and Gaz preening over their rides. they don't know what it is to love their rides until they've squeezed their legs around it while it purrs.

[jockedbigbro]

Hey little bros sorry for the hold up on my new training program it’s been a hectic start to the new year but rest assured I’m working hard to make sure I can get you dumbasses in shape and swole.

[deadlock-of-rodion]

been thinking about biker jazz and prowl, they wont leave my head

An anonymous stunt rider brings together a community of bikers, blasting music over revving engines and terrorizing the streets. Much to the annoyance of a very tired but undeniably skilled biker cop.

aka, jazz would 100% do wheelies around prowl

[octuscle]

Accountant wanted

Let's not kid ourselves: no one expected Dylan to have a career. He'd barely managed to get through school, and probably only got his bachelor's degree out of pity. But he really did look like he needed to be pitied. Slightly overweight, bad skin, a squeaky voice and an annoying laugh. Most of his fellow students who were not doing a master's degree had job offers in the bag before they had even started their bachelor's thesis. Not Dylan.

In the beginning, Dylan kept his head above water with his old student job. Cashier at the supermarket. Sometimes he was also allowed to help out in the accounting department. Sometimes he also helped restock shelves. Nothing you'd need a bachelor's degree for. Sometimes Dylan also checked the supermarket bulletin board, but aside from tutoring jobs or babysitting for babies or pets, there were rarely any offers. Until that one day. There was the note. Handwritten. Blotchy. Not quite grammatically correct. But it said “Accountant wanted”. And Dylan could do accounting. Sort of. While he was working, Dylan didn't dare to use the phone. But right during the first break, he called the phone number listed. Someone answered whose English was rather broken. In a mixture of Spanish and English, Dylan conducted a kind of job interview. However, his Spanish was even worse than the English of his interlocutor. But somehow it seemed to have worked, because in the end Dylan received a WhatsApp message “Come mañana at 8:00 oficina. We looking forward to seeing you. I'll send the address later.” Dylan was so excited that his puny little cock actually got hard.

The next morning, Dylan got up at 5:30 a.m. It was quite a distance to Little Cuba. And he wanted to be on time and look good. With his white shirt, unfashionable tie, and tassel loafers, he looked a bit out of place on the bus. But he was at the specified location at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Dylan. No one else. Dylan checked the location again, which he had received via WhatsApp. He was exactly at the agreed place. It was 08:15, it was 08:30. It was 08:45… At 09:30, a man on a motorcycle stopped in front of Dylan. “You Dylan?” Dylan's mouth went dry. The guy was a mountain of a man. Muscles, hair… Tattoos… Leather… The man got off his bike and gave Dylan a fistbump that nearly knocked Dylan to the ground. “Soy Enrique. Pero call me Lobo. ¿Qué pasa con esa clothes tan silly?” Opened the rolling grille of the store they were standing in front of. Lobo pulled Dylan behind him. He went to the back. Dylan stood a little unsettled in the empty room. A mixture of cafe, leather clothing store and motorcycle repair shop. It smelled of oil, leather and sweat. For whatever reason, Dylan got a hard-on again.

Lobo came back and put a pile of clothes on a counter next to Dylan. A pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a leather vest. “Take them off! Get dressed!” It wasn't a request, it was an order. Dylan looked around for a sheltered spot. But there wasn't one. And Lobo barked more than he said: Here! So Dylan stripped. Thank goodness Lobo wasn't watching because he was looking for something. When Dylan put on the jeans that were loose-fitting on his legs, Lobo put a pair of boots in front of him. Dylan shielded his soft pale man-boobs from Lobo's gaze. He could hardly take his eyes off Lobo's steel-hard, tanned pecs. Lobo noticed this and made his muscles dance. Small damp patches from his precum formed in Dylan's jeans. Dylan pulled on the T-shirt, which was actually a cut-off tank top, and the leather vest. A mirror hung next to the rack of leather jackets. Dylan looked into it. He looked so ridiculous. His pale, chapped skin didn't match the masculine clothes at all. Since he was freshly shaved, his double chin was even more visible. And the gelled parting just didn't fit in at all. Not with his outfit. And not in the store!

Dylan asked Lobo what he should do now? Lobo looked at Dylan as if he wanted to eat him. “¿Soy yo el maldito contable? ¿Sé usar este puto ordenador?” he asked. “Todo lo que necesitas está ahí, en tu despacho.” Dylan had to make an enormous effort. Dylan didn't exactly speak the Spanish he had learned at school either. But he replied, somewhat haltingly and with a heavy accent, “¡Lo tienes, jefe! ¡No te defraudaré!”

In the corner that Lobo called his office, there was a surprisingly new and high-quality laptop with a Post-It with “clave: Lobo” stuck to it. Not exactly a high-security wing, Dylan thought to himself. But then, he wasn't employed for IT security. There were a few pieces of paper with notes next to the computer. Maybe there was a folder somewhere where he could file the notes. Dylan opened a drawer. And dollar bills poured out of the drawer. Small, large, hot off the press, worn… There had to be thousands of dollars. Lobo called out to him that he would like to know what yesterday's takings were and what outstanding debts there were. Well, counting the money was still the easiest task. Dylan was done with that by lunchtime. Then he had 18,743.00 dollars neatly bundled on his desk. His hands stank of money. It was hot and stuffy in the store. Dylan's hair was wet with sweat. He was hungry and thirsty. Lobo called out to him to get some tacos. And a few bottles of beer. Dylan took 20 dollars from the pile, made a note in an Excel spreadsheet and ran to get lunch. For Lobo, himself and, just in case, one or two of the guys who occasionally came into the store between errands.

Miguel greeted Dylan with a fist bump and asked if he wanted the usual. Dylan replied “¡Claro, amigo! Para cuatro personas, por favor. Y dame una botella extra de cerveza, estoy sediento como un buey hoy.” The two talked about the usual while Miguel prepared the tacos at his street food trolley. Soccer, the cursed Republicans, motorcycles… A few of the other guys, who were already eating or waiting in line behind Dylan, joined in the passionate discussion. Gringos rarely strayed into this neighborhood. Especially when it came to talking shit about Trump, there was no need to mince words. One of the guys asked Dylan how he spoke ghetto Spanish so fluently. Dylan shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea. It was just the Spanish he knew not only from Miguel, but also from Lobo and the boys. And Lobo was now snapping at him on the phone in exactly the same Spanish. He wouldn't be paid to blaspheme and gossip.

Dylan said goodbye to Miguel with a fist bump. He would have preferred a deep French kiss. But Miguel was a prude. Too bad, really. Well, maybe Dylan would be able to suck off one of the boys in the store later. As the youngest in the team, he was the one furthest down the hierarchy. And as an accountant, he was worth less than the money collectors, pimps or protection racketeers on the team. The others chose when and how he was allowed to have fun. When he arrived with the tacos, he took a quick look in the mirror: yes, he was the gringo on the team. But he worked hard on his body, his language and his attitude. He did everything he could to fit in.

It was only a short bus ride to his apartment. He shared a room with a couple of guys who worked in one of Lobo's restaurants, with whom he laundered money. They were cool. They helped Dylan improve his Spanish, they always brought food from the restaurant in the evenings and if none of the guys from Lobo's headquarters felt like playing with the gringo, Dylan always had the chance to fill a hole or get one filled. Not that early though, the guys rarely finished work before 10pm. So Dylan took the opportunity, swapped jeans for nylon shorts and boots for sneakers and headed for the pull-up bar in the small park around the corner. Time for a little workout.

The next morning, Dylan's morning wood led him straight to the bathroom. The boys hadn't come home until around 02:00 and he didn't want to disturb them. But fuck, his morning wood was almost painful. He stood in front of the mirror, sucked in the smell from his armpit and jerked off with his other hand. Shit, he was 19 years old now, this permanent horniness of puberty had to be over by now. But…. No… It…. Was… FUUUUUUUCK! Not over yet. Dylan wiped the mirror and the sink clean. Shit, too late to shower again. The boys had probably dropped off the last day's takings by now and if he didn't finish booking them by the time Lobo arrived, there'd be trouble. So he quickly wiped his upper body with the washcloth, brushed his teeth and set off.

When Dylan arrived at the store, no one was there except Juan. Juan repaired the boys' bikes. He'd been doing that since Lobo was still shitting in his diapers. And now he was working on Dylan's baby. Technically, it wasn't his yet. But if the month went as he expected, it would be his bike by the end of the month. Finally, no more of this damn bus driving. He hated riding the bus, almost like he hated that his parents had given him that silly name “Dylan”. That's why he'd been nicknamed “Gringo” by Lobo and his boys right from the start.

17,776.00 dollars. Less than the day before. Lobo would be fuming. But Dylan's job as an accountant was done. All the income had been properly booked to the restaurant, the laundry and the motorcycle workshop. Even though he himself stank of sweat and musk, his books were all clean and tidy. Maybe he could give Lobo a blowjob to thank him when he arrived. And then Dylan would take care of booking the expenses.

Pic by @ki-kink

[ki-kink]

hey bro, I just went to college, and ny roommate is this guy from ecuador. I don’t really like him that much, all he does is walk around in his underwear, or go drive around on his loud bike. And don’t even get me started on all the biker gear he has…

It's really no fun coming home, you think to yourself as you stand outside your room. You take a deep breath and open the door. A rush of air hits you. It smells of leather, cigarettes, sweat, musk… Actually, you should find it disgusting. But that's something else. Something that is not disgusting. Something that makes you… makes you horny?

Mateo is lying on the bed. At least he's not just wearing his underpants. He's also wearing a leather jacket. He exudes an animalistic smell. You can see his cock twitching and growing in his underpants. And shit, yours is growing and twitching in your underpants. «Hermano, ¿a qué estás esperando? Es hora de tu carga de proteína latina» You don't understand a word. Mateo pulls the waistband of his underpants down a little. His glans becomes visible. A silvery thread of precum connects the waistband and the glans. Now you understand. You know what you have to do. And you get down on your knees at the foot of his bed. You urgently need a portion of proteína latina!

It's been two weeks now. You finally have your motorcycle license. The two to three portions of proteína latina a day are having an effect. Your beard and chest hair are getting manlier and manlier. Your Spanish is good enough to talk to Mateo and his buddies about motorcycles and fucking. And the new dress code in your dorm: simply epic, isn't it?

[worldoffetish69]

[malestransforming]

I’ve always wanted to be a young stud biker. Dumb, smelly leather gear, and obsessed with fucking.

snap

Welcome, slut. I love leather too. Bikers are fucking hot, right? And you’re about to become one!

That’s it, take off all your clothes. Swing your dick around just like that. You’ve got some extra weigh on you, let’s get rid of it. You’ll need to be slender and aerodynamic. You’re not jacked, but you’ve got some muscles. A nice flat stomach. There, that’s nice. You have a big ass too; some perfect cushion for those long rides. And with a perfect hole that will beg to be filled, but I’ll get to that in a second.

You want a bigger dick? This thing is a two-hander! Go ahead and give it a rub. Feels good, amirite?

Back to that hole of yours. You’re gonna crave dick inside you. You’re gonna love it when guys cum in your ass, sloshing their seed up in you. You’re gonna drip cum out your asshole and love it. You’re a fucking cum slut.

I got the last piece for you - your very own motorcycle leathers. Go ahead and throw them on. You don’t need underwear! You’ll be able to rub one out on the side of the road this way. Trust me, it’s easier. Slide into those boots. You don’t need sock either. Let your feet get nasty inside. The smell makes it better.

Fasten your helmet and straddle your bike. You look fucking gorgeous. Now ride off and find a dick to worship.

[alphajocklover]

Hey bro, I have a bit of a strange situation going on. You see, I’m a big nerd, like playing dnd, good at math, into card games nerds. And I never really questioned it. But recently, I’ve found myself wanting to be more active, I’ve been wanting to become something I am not, a big strong guy. And it all stared when I rediscovered the Xmen through the show and upcoming movie. Could you, I mean, would you mind helping me become like my ideal man, Wolverine?

I want to be the small hunky and hairy beats he is, oozing with libido and sex appeal.

It's a little strange, but I’ve been getting a lot of superhero requests recently! Not that I’m complaining, I love writing about superheros. They’re interesting characters who have long histories and decades of lore to use. Plus they’re usually hot as fuck. And Wolverine is one of the hottest. Muscular, with a thick layer of hair, and gruff as can be. He’s traditionally a loner, but he has a certain rough charm to him. There’s a reason he’s been a part of almost every superhero team at one time or another. People can’t get enough of the guy. It could be his inventive power set, his ability to change with the times and still remain interesting and relevant. Or it could be that he’s an incredibly manly hunk whose animalistic nature makes people weak in the knees. He’s everything you ever wanted to be, or at least everything you’ve wanted to be since you saw those new X-Men cartoons. When you watched them, something awakened in you. And now… you’re becoming just like him.

You’re not becoming him, if that’s what you’re thinking. Whatever is happening to you can’t give you claws like Wolverine or coat your skeleton in adamantium. I mean, in our world adamantium doesn’t really exist, and even though some transformation methods could turn you into a perfect replica of wolverine or add onto the periodic table, this one won’t do that. It’s more fun to be a stud without the responsibility of being a superhero anyways, especially since one of his main powers is to survive incredibly painful situations. Now you get all the pleasure, none of the pain, and an absolutely studly body.

One common fun fact that people like to bring up about Wolverine is the fact that he’s… while he’s short. Really short. Since Hugh Jackman is over 6 feet tall, people tend to forget that in the comics Wolverine is a complete shortstack, standing at 5’3”. So, I’m afraid to say that you’re going to shrink quite a bit. Luckily, being shorter just makes your new muscles look even bigger and better. Your biceps are enormous, your pecs are amazing, and your abs are almost inhuman. That, plus a heavy layer of manly, thick hair, and you look like you walked right off the pages of a comic book. Or out of a very suggestive movie. Of course you don’t want to just look like Wolverine. You want to be like Wolverine. Which means a few… adjustments to your personality.

That might seem daunting or scary at first, the idea that your personality is going to change. But you won’t feel that way very long. Nothing is going to faze you anymore. Just like Wolverine You’re tough as nails and you act like it. Literally nothing throws you. You’re a certified badass. Yes, you have a sensitive side like the real Wolverine, but most people aren’t gonna see that. Most people, from your manly new friends to the girls you hook up with, are going to see the manly man, the strong warrior, the beast.

There are some small differences between you and Wolverine of course. The main one being that the guy in the comics doesn’t hook up with people very often. Too busy saving the world. And when he does get a love interest, the feelings between them are pretty serious. You don’t have the same patterns. You’re the type of guy who has a new girl every night and is constantly looking for more pussy. You can’t help it, with a massive cock and an even bigger libido. You’re the best at what you do, and what you do is fuck.

**Hey guys! Hope I did Wolverine justice. He’s a super hot character and I had a lot of fun writing a tf inspired by him. Hope you enjoyed!**

[kylestfs]

Think I’m gonna take this Kawasaki Ninja. I know nothing about bikes - seems kinda dumb, but this one looks pretty sick. I can probably handle it, even with my twunky body.

Know nothing about bikes…? « Twunk »…? Yeah, none of that is true, and I have no idea where you got that from. Must’ve been a bad dream, you’ve literally always been absolutely obsessed with motorcycles, mechanics, cars….and you’ve always been straight as a pencil as well. Typical biker, all you want is to breed, dominate and be superior to others, and your body certainly helps with that. The constant sweat coming from your armpits, the horrendous funk emitting from your feet, filling your Nikes with a cheesy strench makes you a true alpha, and you’re full of that, although you don’t even care. You’re too dumb to realise that you smell, and you don’t care about anything except your motorcycle.

Statistics :

Identity :

Age : 20

Name : Matt

IQ : 72.

Personality : Dumb, arrogant, childish and immature, dominant and bro-ish. Very annoying, loud, and obnoxious. Extremely and excessively egocentric and full of yourself.

Sexuality : Straight, but doesn’t mind filling a twink when your alpha instincts take over. All you want is a hole to fill, « no homo ». 100% top.

Body :

Body type : Jock bro & biker boy

Overall attractiveness : 10/10, absolute stud.

Private’s size : 7.5 inches hard.

Rear end size : Small, firm and closed hole, making sure you never use it for anything that’s not farting, and other things related.

Overall B.O : 9/10 (very strong, manly and sweaty smell.)

Armpit scent : Sweaty, salty, strong funk.

Gassiness : 10/10, can’t stop farting around your biker bros, the rotten egg smell getting stuck in your leathers, and making your entire body stink of fart scent.

Foot smell : Absolutely odiferous strench, smelling of rotten cheese, sweat and old socks. Your shoes smell even worse, as the smell keeps piling up, and you obviously never ever washed them, filthy biker boy.

Muscles : Strong, gym-goer muscles.