--- Originally Posted On 2023-03-28 By Breedertfs ---

Originally posted on 2019-09-12 by dumb-and-jocked.

Comradirization

Jacob woke up with a start. His eyes were groggy, adjusting to what he assumed was the morning light. He shifted his arm, trying to scratch his head, but found he couldn’t move it. He flopped over, a little annoyed, and was surprised to find his arm handcuffed to one post of the bed. He tried to swing his other arm over, but found that it too was cuffed. He raised his head to look at his legs to discover that they were also chained to the beds. His whole body was locked to the four corners. Before he could panic anymore, Jacob realized he wasn’t alone in the room.

“Chacoob Kooglerr?”

In a chair next to the bed sat a young, rather handsome man. His defined body and proud beard made him look to be approaching his 30’s. He sat there confidently, his large thighs spread out as he sat there in just a small pair of white briefs. A small tattoo adorned his right arm, while the rest of his body looked as pure as an angel. Although he looked stunning, he didn’t smell it; Jacob noticed the lack of hygiene rather quickly. The man was trying to smile, but it looked more like an awkward smirk. What Jacob didn’t see coming was his thick Russian accent ruining his name. Jacob hadn’t done anything illegal or wrong, at least nothing that he thought would attract a Russian man to kidnap him.

“Vow do yoo zay eet?” the man asked, scaring Jacob. Jacob slowly pushed himself up to a comfortable sitting position, not knowing how to respond. He was too frightened to think of anything else. He had heard of people getting kidnapped before, but usually not by men who wore just their briefs.

“Ya get vaht I mean, yeh?” the Russian added. Jacob slowly shook his head, not knowing what else to do. The Russian grunted angrily, obviously irritated, before speaking again.

“Yoorrr name?” He tried to say it as clear as he could, but the exaggerated “oo” and rolling r’s brought him right back to square one.

“Oh,” Jacob replied, “Jacob Kugler.”

“Chacoob Kooglerr.” The Russian brought a hand to his face, smiling almost proudly, not realizing he had butchered the name the same as before.

“You Amereeican zand zyoorr dumb names.”

The Russian got up and walked throughout the apartment, grabbing items along the way. As he searched, Jacob took his time to figure out where he was. The room was fairly small, housing everything from a kitchen to a bedroom in it. It looked to be some sort of hotel suite, but Jacob couldn’t find any windows to tell. Jacob also realized that as he looked around the room, he found he probably wouldn’t be staying here long. The room looked clean and devoid of any decorations, in fact it barely seemed like a home at all. No photos, no scattered laundry, and Jacob quickly realized that his bed looked to be right after the staff maid had stepped in. He also discovered that he too was in a pair of small white briefs, not at all like the boxers he had last remembered wearing. He was embarrassed that he hadn’t recognized his barren body had been exposed to the world.

Speaking of memories, he couldn’t remember what he had been doing before waking up. He remembered walking out of his office early that morning to catch a meeting on the other side of town. That lead him to a train station, where he bought his tickets and went to the bathroom. Once he was in the room, the memory went black. Jacob was rather ordinary; he worked as an accountant, lived alone at 24, had a moderate build. His blond hair and blue eyes weren’t as appealing as they could have been. He wasn’t fat or skinny, tall or short, but he didn’t have enough muscularity to attract anyone of the opposite gender. In fact, the last time he had a girlfriend was in highschool. Jacob hadn’t really done much with his life yet, so he couldn’t figure out why he - out of anybody - would be kidnapped.

“I am Pasha Vajda,” he said, bringing over everything he had gathered, “Eet ees time to zbegin procezz.”

“What process?” Jacob said, shivering out of fear and being cold from his lack of clothes. Pasha slowly gathered his things and dumped it on a table behind the chair he originally sat in. First, Pasha brought over what looked to be a virtual reality headset, but it looked different than what Jacob was used to. First off, it was a dark red color, with yellow stripes across the back side. The straps that were meant to go around the head also looked different, being shaped more to look like a helmet. Jacob tried to fight back, but Pasha easily placed the device over his head. As soon as the goggles went over his eyes, Jacob felt the harness tightening, so hard it felt as if it was digging into his skull.

As Jacob sat there in quiet fear, Pasha placed the other items in their proper places. He brought over a small tube and linked one end over Jacob’s nose and mouth before hooking the other to a small tank with multiple compartments. He quickly placed two earbuds in Jacob’s ears while connecting the cord to an old iPhone, one that still even had the headphone jack. The last thing Pasha did was jump on the bed between Jacob’s legs, switching on the phone before opening a Russian music app.

“Zee,” Pasha began, “Eez my chob to zhelp creehte new comrrades.”

“New what?” Jacob said, still confused and struggling to escape.

“Eez zimple,” Pasha said, “ve need morre comrrades, yoo’ll be ze comrrades.”

Before Jacob could ask any more questions, Pasha tapped the first playlist that had appeared on his phone, titled “товарищество.” The playlist’s title was rather obvious, for Pasha knew the two would be sharing comradery very soon. Once it began to play the first track, Pasha tapped a button and switched on the VR headset. He leaned back and sat there with the phone in hand, his cocky smirk returning as the process began.

Jacob tried to protest again, but before he could his eyes were blasted with a bright light. As soon as they refocused, all he could see was a red and yellow spiral. Jacob tried to look away, but he was sucked in mere seconds. He didn’t even hear the playlist beginning, starting with the National Anthem of the USSR playing quietly. He also didn’t register when words slowly began flashing on the screen, flying in and out before his conscious mind could register anything, or when he had started to breathe the air being fed to him. A deep melodic voice also entered, saying the words that were disappearing fast, but only in Russian. Jacob tried to ignore everything that was happening, but it was all too easy for him to succumb. The process began smoothly, easing Jacob’s mind open for comradirization. The first set of messages flashed quickly on the screen.

“Real Men have facial hair.”

“Real Men do not clean themselves.”

“Real Men put brothers before others.”

“Real Men listen to other men.”

“Real Men only trust Russian Men.”

The messages were repeated for almost an hour before the first track ended. As soon as it was finished, Pasha pushed the headset up on top of Jacob's head and removed the tube from his face, allowing him to see and breathe fresh air again. Pasha pulled up a different app on his phone, showing the procedures of what to do after each segment of the playlist.

Jacob sat there dazed. He knew his mind had been flooded with certain commands, but he had no idea of what. He was still in the weird apartment, still kidnapped and in white briefs. He was still tied up, both of his hands still cuffed to the bed; the only difference from before was that Pasha now sat right in front of his crotch. Strangely, he was fairly comfortable with the situation. It must have been the essence of the Russian Man sitting in front of him, Jacob could only trust Russian Men after all.

“So,” Pasha began, “khow long ya khad ze faczial khairr?”

His accent was still as thick as ever, but Jacob understood what Pasha was asking fairly well. Jacob brought a hand to his face and itched his subtle beard. It wasn’t large, but definitely worthy of praise.

“Ever since I could grow it.”

Pasha smirked and looked at his notes before continuing, “Ven Vas ze last zime ya zhowyerred?”

Jacob thought back to the last time he’d been in a bathroom, or water for that matter. The rising stench around him suggested it had been a while, but Pasha had a noticeable funk too. Jacob didn’t care that he smelled however - real men were supposed to reek.

“I don’t remember.”

Pasha smirked again before he leaned over and placed the equipment back on Jacob. The Russian Man told him to stay still, and Jacob, knowing to listen and only trust Russian Men, did just that. Everything was loaded back on and set to its proper settings before the second track begun. New words flashed along the screen with a new scent. The last one was plain, filtered air, but the one being fed to Jacob was now raunchy, sweaty, and extremely pungent. Jacob would have vomited at how odorous the new scent was, but he was too busy absorbing the new Russian commands to care.

“Real Men work out every day.”

“Real Men are proud of their bodies.”

“Real Men only respect Russian Men.”

“Real Men are only comrades with Russian Men.”

“Real Men wish to be Russian Men.”

The second track played for a little longer than the first, causing Pasha to get a little impatient, so he began to pleasure himself. Once it had ended, Pasha awkwardly found himself halfway through trying to bust a load. Not having time to finish, he quickly removed Jacob’s gear and began the next set of questions. As he asked away, he non-subtly stroked his massive steel rod, knowing Jacob was far enough along that he wouldn’t mind.

“Ya verrk out?” Pasha asked. Jacob looked down proudly at his built body. Of course he had worked out, you couldn’t be born with a body like this. He had large pecs, beautiful abs, strong biceps, and don’t even start him on his sculpted legs. Jacob made sure to always get every part of his body, ranging from the sculpted shoulders to sculpted buttocks.

“Of course I work out, bro! I always know when to get in a sesh,” Jacob replied, not noticing the jockish gym lingo influencing his deeper voice.

“Goud,” Pasha replied, “Vat do ya zink of Ruzjians?”

“I think they’re incredible. In fact, I’d say there the best!” Jacob had greatly adored the Russian race as long as he could remember. It was a deep passion of his.

“I’d be a Russian and only be friends with them if I could!” Jacob exclaimed excitedly, allowing Pasha move onto the next part of the process.

Pasha swiftly tilted himself up and once more placed the gear upon Jacob’s head. As he did, his exposed, leaking cock rubbed up against Jacob’s torso. Jacob shivered, the touch of a real, Russian man thrilling him. Once Pasha was finished, he leaned back and activated the next stage. Russian commands were fired through the earbuds again, but this time the words in front of Jacob’s eyes were now in Russian too. The gas from the tube was also replaced, now filled with a dark, yellowly liquid that flowed down Jacob’s gullet. The burning pain of the constant piss wasn’t even enough to take him out if his comradirization.

“Real Men have Russian as their first language.”

“Real Men do anything for Russian Men.”

“Real Men only love Russian Men.”

“Real Men are gay for Russian Men.”

“Real Men are Russian Men.”

After another hour of pounding commands into Jacob’s skull, Pasha removed the gear. This time, Jacob’s head really hurt, like he had just studied hours for a hard test. He brought up his hands to rub his temples, also itching at the short, brown-colored sports cut. When he opened his eyes again, Pasha sniggered as he noticed their new, dullish brown tone. Once the headache had passed, Jacob made eye contact with Pasha, feeling flushed as he observed the beautiful man in front of him. His cock began to inflate in his tight briefs, a full three inches longer due to his improved, Russian heredity. He was so infatuated with the male in front of him that he didn’t even realize he was no longer imprisoned, or the lukewarm cum drying on his pecs.

“Who do you love most in your life?” Pasha asked, speaking in full Russian.

“Um…” Jacob answered back in Russian, his thought process noticeably slower, “I dunno…”

Pasha wasn’t satisfied with his answer. As if a lightbulb flashed in his head, Pasha popped up with an idea. He leaned over to Jacob, giving his cock a quick tug. Jacob moaned in response, before muttering out, “I love other Russian Men.”

“Good,” Pasha said before continuing, “Where are you originally from?”

“Russia,” Jacob announced proudly, and as soon as the words were said, the equipment was replaced for the final part.

Pasha clicked a few apps on his phone before sinking up the last section of the playlist. The end of the comradirization was always the most difficult, as so many important parts were involved. First off, two new machines were added: a milking mechanism and an infusion pump. Pasha carefully placed each of the objects in their respective locations; one would inject the Russian sperm and the other would make room for it. The other component that made the ending the hardest was that if it didn’t go absolutely perfect, the whole process could fall apart. Pasha had to make sure everything was ready as he began the final section of the process. The final words flashed on the screen and paired track began to play. This time, lots of messages flooded the screen, while the rest of the equipment pumped Jacob’s body into the prime, Russian Man he was soon to become.

“Russian Men obey the stereotype.”

“Russian Men love football.”

“Russian Men drink vodka.”

“Russian Men love to smoke.”

“Russian Men have deep voices and are dumb jocks.”

As the new reality set in, Jacob’s mind became flooded with new memories. Memories of growing up in Russia, going to school with Pasha, learning how to be an incredible forward in soccer football, and making out with other hot, Russian Men in the locker room. The smell of vodka and nicotine always on their breaths as they passionately kissed.

“Russian Men never smile.”

“Russian Men reminisce the USSR.”

“Russian Men are Orthodox Christian.”

“Russian Men are abrasive, arrogant, and rude.”

“Russian Men are alphas.”

The milking machine chugged away, pulling out every bit of Jacob’s cum as the better, more powerful Russian semun was pumped into his veins. Pasha loved seeing the man become a comrade right in front of him. Jacob’s growing body pulsated out towards Pasha. Jacob’s once-scrawny legs not stretched over the edge of the bed, his feet bloating to a massive Size 16 - just like Pasha’s.

“Russian Men are superior above all other men.”

“Russian Men want all men to be Russian Men”

“Russian Men want to comradirize all other men.”

“Russian Men want to make all other men their Russian brothers.”

“Russian Men are Vadja Men.”

Once the final track had ended, Pasha removed all of the gear and towed it away. He placed the white briefs back over the now goliath dick and tucked the large, Russian Man into the bed. The new comrade had passed out, the final part overloading his smaller brain. Pasha cleaned up before leaving, his job done. He was ready to find the next person to comradiraze.

— —

Yakov woke up in his small apartment, the smell of a smoky, alcoholic locker room pleasantly filling his nose. He flipped over and slapped his large feet on the floor, the meaty sound echoing throughout the small room. He walked over to the dirty kitchen, grabbed a bottle of vodka off the counter, and turned on the small television to reveal a Russian football game.

As he took a swig, he picked up his old phone and looked through his notifications. He had forgotten to close out of the comradirization tracks; he could be such a dumb jock sometimes. As he scrolled through a Russian, gay dating app, a text popped up at the top of the screen. He clicked it, seeing that it was his brother: Pasha Vadja. He clicked the tab as the first set of Russian letters filled his screen.

Pasha: hey brother

Yakov: hey comrade

Pasha: how’s my little Vajda doing

Yakov: its Yakov Vadja, not little, I’m as big as you

Pasha: yeah whatever. hope you’re ready to go make some comrades

Yakov: yeah, I’ll get to it real quick

Pasha: send me a pic of you first, for fun

Yakov: alright, just a sec

Yakov heaved off the couch, mad that he had to tear himself away from the intense football game. He crouched down in front of the mirror by the bed and posed, making sure to get the best angle. Yakov knew that his brother would nut over this, and he knew he probably would too later. First things first, he had to go make some more comrades first. He was excited just thinking about it. He looked in the mirror and then at his phone before taking the pic. He was so glad that he couldn’t smile, it made him look much sexier. He quickly sent the pic to his brother, ready to go comradirize.

I request some pretty interesting changes. I like to have the body of a porn star with a nice cock and balls to go with my buff bod.

A porn star, huh?

Well, I guess I could manage that. I’m curious though, why a porn star? Is it cause you like sex? People looking at you? People getting off to you and your body? Do you want all that attention? To have the power to make guys wet just by looking at you?

Yeah, that’s it isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes. The way they’re glossing over from just hearing me say all these facts that you know have always been true but you’ve tried so hard to keep bottled up your whole life. 

I see you groping yourself, feeling your modest package between your fingers. I bet you want that to be bigger huh? Fuller? Longer? Thicker? Yeah, I heard about that one time your junk split the front of your briefs because you bought the wrong size before. I guess that’s why they say the only thing more swollen than your ego is your groin.

And you want a “buff bod” to go along with that enhanced package too? Just to further amplify the sex appeal dripping from your very being? That can easily be arranged. Big tits, thick arms, thicker legs. Shoulders that fill nearly every door frame you walk through. The power that radiates from your body is pretty damn infectious huh? No wonder they call your work almost hypnotic.

You’re kind of a little young to be a big, buff porn star though. I mean, especially one with such a huge reputation of making guys bust within minutes of watching your videos. What are you actually? 33? 37? What’s that? You can’t remember? Aww, c’mon you big lug, use your head and think for a minute! 

No, no that head. Well, shit, I guess we can only have one head engorged at a time when you’re prepping for your next shoot. Yeah, you still need to get that scruff trimmed up a bit, your body greased up, and all those clothes off. How much time do you have until your shoot begins? 14 minutes…? 7:26 is an oddly specific time to have a shoot scheduled. Oh, it’s at 7:30? Well then you have 18 minutes to finish getting ready, you dork. 

What’s wrong? Your head feels weird? Don’t worry, dude. That’ll probably pass when you finish your shoot. It’s just the intelligence draining out a bit. I wouldn’t freak. I mean, when your a famous porn star, who needs smarts? Right?

Good luck with your film today! I’m sure you and your scene partner are going to have a ride neither of you will ever forget.

Locked in the Laundry Room

The Origins of Heir

I was so excited to spend a week alone in the city.

For my recent eighteenth birthday, my parents agreed to give me a week and let me explore the nearby city and check out the university I had been longing to attend every since I was little. My favorite cousin, who was a few years older, volunteered to give me a tour on the first day I was there, and the rest of the time was mine to spend on my own. I was so excited, I almost jumped out of my seat when I drove out of my driveway Sunday night.

My cousin and I were best friends from almost as early as I could remember. The two of us were inseparable, and decided when we were older to be partnering doctors. After a few years passed, my cousin flew right out of high school into my dream college. Now a few years later, I was on the same path. Both of us had 4.0’s going into senior year, and I know I could last a little longer.

I was so excited to spend a day with my cousin, but also a week alone. My parents had promised that they would leave me alone and that there wouldn’t be any check-ins or “unplanned” surprises. I was always set on a straight path towards becoming a doctor, so I was usually by myself, nose-deep in my studies. I never really had time to make friends or find a girlfriend. I was also fairly average physically, so no one really put in the effort to talk to me unless they wanted to get an A on some group project. Sure, I was lonely every now and then, but it could have been worse. I always was better on my own or with my cousin.

Monday was amazing. My cousin showed me every stadium, classroom, study area… anything the university had to offer. We ate out, chatted about school, and she introduced me to her friends. When the day was over, I was exhausted. I jumped on my hotel bed and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, I explored the city’s restaurants, stores, and parks. Lucky for me, there were plenty of great sales and deals only available on that day. Who knew Tuesdays could be special? As I strolled along a path near the downtown area, I realized I had missed something on my tour yesterday at the university. I hadn’t seen any dorms while I was there! I quickly grabbed my phone from my pocket, but realized I shouldn’t text her. It was barely past noon, so I didn’t want to interrupt one of her classes. I thought about what I could do for a moment, and decided I could just find a dorm myself. I ran to a bus stop and jumped on the first ride to the university.

I hopped of the bus and walked to the first dorm I saw: Richardson Hall. Richardson Hall was one of the older buildings on campus, but it was only evident through the slightly faded look on its brown bricks. It was surrounded by oak trees and plenty of students studying and working together on assignments. The building was the only one on campus that hosted students of all ages, but for only males. As I walked closer, I noticed how truly massive it was. It only had five floors, but it looked more like ten as I got closer. I got near the doors and pulled out and fiddled around on my phone, casually waiting for a group of students. I didn’t have a keycard to enter the building, so my great plan was to blend into a group when they entered. I looked at my home screen for a while, which adorned a picture of me and my cousin at a mall. After a few minutes, a group of male students came strolling down the path. As they came up the steps, I quickly added myself in between them and was let inside.

Richardson Hall wasn’t anything special on the inside. Besides it strangely ornate main stairwell, it looked like a normal dorm. I walked around for a bit on the different floors, looking into different people dorms as I strolled by. One of the perks of looking ordinary is that you can drift by without anyone taking too much notice. After about an hour of just hanging around the dorm, I decided it was time to head back to the hotel. As I walked back to the stairwell, I noticed something peculiar. There was a small sign with the words, “LAUNDRY ROOM” in huge letters, and with it a small arrow pointing up. For some reason, I found this amusing. I was on the fourth floor, so that meant that the room was on the top floor. I’d never hear of a laundry room not in the basement, so for some reason I felt like I ​had ​to see this.

Once I got to the top of the stairs, I followed the signs that led me down an old hallway. At the end there was an old brown door that was just barely open. I opened it and was surprised to see a second door. This door was white, with a glass looking into the room. I would’ve just looked through the window and left, but it was made with the kind of glass that was more of a faded white than clear. I slowly pushed the door open and entered.

The laundry room was really nothing special. The room wasn’t too big, and it seemed even smaller due to the amount of washing machines and dryers. There was a skylight above me, flooding sunlight into the room and providing a little natural heat. After I saw the cheap flooring and the soft-colored walls, I decided the room wasn’t as fun as I thought it might be. The only strange thing about it was the smell, or, lack of. I was expecting to be blasted with some sort of detergent-soapy aroma, but instead it was quite stale.

As I inspected the room, I noticed there were two others in the room. They were whispering to each other, but I don’t think they had noticed my presence. The first thing I noticed about them was that they were ​built.​ Both of them were stacked with muscle, and they didn’t try to hide it much either. Their clothes were a little more revealing than I was comfortable with. One was carrying a sports-related bag, while the other was putting laundry in the dryer. They were probably some cocky football jocks or some stereotype to that.

The one said something to the other one with the bag, nodding and smirking, and then patting him on the back. The one with the bag began walking towards me, seeing me for the first time. He wore a tight, light and dark gray striped tee shirt and a pair of too-skinny skinny jeans. His short, dirty-blond hair brought out is kind smile as he walked closer to me, his large fleet clomping.

“See ya, Mark!” he said, his cologne wafting past me as he stomped by. By the way he walked, he was definitely confident with himself. His stride was so powerful that I felt a small breeze ruffle my shorts when he walked past. “Mall in two hours, bro!”

“Sounds good, Easton!” Mark said, still at the laundry machine. I heard Easton walk out and shut the first door behind him quietly.

“Hey, bro,” Mark said, walking forward to me, “I’m Mark.” He extended a meaty paw towards me. “Oh, hi,” I said, looking over him and extending a hand, “I’m John.” I winced a little as we shook hands. I had underestimated how strong he was. His whole body was covered in a tan that showed hours spent in the sun. I started at his chest, because sadly that was eye-level. Mark was wearing a university tee that was at least a size too small. His biceps and pecs were nearly bursting, but his jean shorts were somehow even tighter. The jean shorts barely covered half of his muscled, hairy thighs, and it was obvious by his pronounced bulge that he wasn’t packing light. After drifting my eyes past his hairy calves, I saw his huge feet, which were covered by a pair of old athletic socks and some very worn-down Nike’s. Their bright red color hadn’t survived very long, and it was now faded under a soft layer of dirt. I craned my neck past another pronounced bulge, now in his neck, and looked more closely at his face for the first time. He had a very masculine and sharp jaw, and his hair was messily styled in a way that worked with the whole “football jock” look. The last thing I noticed was his beard, which I was immediately jealous of. A beard like that was hard to grow, and it probably showed more pride than his own pride, if you get what I’m going for.

The whole time I was looking him over, he was inspecting me to.

“You’re not a student, are ya, bro?”

“No, I’m just touring,” I said, a little neglected.

“Well, this is great school! We have some of the best sports around the nation… and best professors,” he quickly added, remembering who he was talking too.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I replied, already knowing both.

“Well, I gotta head out, but it was nice meeting ya, bro!” Mark smiled and patted my shoulder as he walked past me. I heard him walk over to the door and grab the handle. Mark fiddled with it for a second and groaned. He grabbed it again, a little more vigorously and a little less patiently, and tried to open it, but to no use. I turned to see Mark looking at me; he was angry over something.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, sighing, “my bro, Easton, he accidentally locked the door.”

I stood there, puzzled, “How?”

“The first door is always supposed to be left open because it locks on its own. That doofus closed it.” Mark took a deep breath, but he was obviously pissed. “Ya got your phone on you?” “Yeah one…” I began, but as I reached down into my pocket, my hand felt nothing. I tried again, but it was still empty. I reached into another pocket, and still came out with nothing. After about a minute of searching, Mark stopped me.

“So ya don’t got your phone, and mine’s charging in my room. Great.” Mark walked past and sat down, resting his back on a washing machine. I walked around to where he was sitting, placing myself opposite of him.

“Is there anything we can do?” I asked, sounding ignorant.

“Not really,” Mark replied, “Janitors only come up here on Saturdays, but Easton will probably know I’m missing so hopefully we won’t have to stay too long.” We sat there in silence for a little bit, but then started to talk to keep each other company. I got to learn a ton about Mark. He had always been into sports, especially football, but once he got to college he put his major before sports. According to him, he was luckily​ ​convinced by the school’s head coach, Coach Sorenson to continue football and join the team. At first, Mark was reluctant, but as soon as he joined he knew it was the right choice. Mark also talked about the lack of numbers on the team, and how he had an idea to get them back up. He had pitched the idea to Coach Sorenson, and it was so good that he offered Mark a job after he graduated next year as Assistant Coach. Mark agreed and immediately changed his major from Business to Physical Education.

“Bro, I was so nervous about switching, I mean, I’m one of dumbest people I know.” Mark chuckled at his own joke. It was a slow, emptier laugh.

“At least I’m not as stupid as Easton, though!” Mark added. We both laughed at that real hard. We sat there for a moment, trying to catch our breaths, before Mark spoke again.

“Hey, bro, would ya be alright if I take of some of my clothes?” Mark asked. During the whole conversation, I hadn’t even noticed the heat. The room was boiling. There was no air conditioning, and skylight was still shining light into the room, making it much hotter than comfortable.

“Yeah, of course,” I said, removing my own sweater. I now noticed the sweat stains scattered along my shirt. Mark carefully removed his own shirt, carefully. It was soaked through with sweat and stuck to his chest like another skin. As he pulled it off, I got a full look of his torso. I was a little jealous before, but now I was bursting with envy. His chest was perfectly defined; it was what every man wanted but couldn’t have. It was hairless, unlike the rest of his body, but you could see every ab and muscle. I was definitely straight, but this truly tested my sexaulity.

The whole time I was gawking at his chest, I didn’t notice him toss his shoes and socks next to me. The smell of his feet instantly filled the hot and stale room, making it so steaming that it brought me out of my trance.

“Size 15,” he proudly stated, smirking, ”biggest on the team.”

I looked at his huge feet, and then at his huge shoes. They reeked so much that it was making me a little dizzy. Then, I noticed another scent begin to fill the room, and for some reason it was familiar. I tried to find the source, and Mark took notice of me immediately.

“Oh, that?” he asked, his smirk grew a little wider as his tone became a little more menacing, “that’s the smell of my cologne: Heir.”

Mark took a little bottle out of his pocket with the word “HEIR” written in big, messy letters. He then put the bottle away and casually lifted both of his arms placed them behind his head. He fully exposed his armpits to me, which were filled jungles of wiry hairs. All the hairs that should’ve been on his chest were obviously there. I then realized why the scent was familiar; I had smelt it on Easton as he left.

“Remember the idea I had talked about earlier, bro?” Mark smiled as he scooted towards me. The scent of his shoes and cologne were making it hard to concentrate.

“When I was taking my Business major, right before I switched to Physical Education, I took a class on funding. An assignment was to fund a new and upcoming company. I stumbled upon a tiny company that made personalized scents located a few miles from here. I brought an idea to Coach about making some colognes, and he approved of it. See, together we made a cologne for all the football jocks to wear, that way we could recruit new players.”

I tried to understand what he was saying, but the two scents were blinding my other senses from working properly. Mark scooted again so he could sit next to me. He slowly took my head and placed it on his crotch with my facing up. He then brought one of his armpits down to my face and uttered a simple command.

“Sniff.”

In my state of confusion, I immediately complied. I began to sniff, at first tentatively, but after a while more confidently. After sniffing his armpit for a little bit, I began to moan as the effects of the cologne set in.

It started with my height. My legs and torso began to stretch to each new breath I took. I felt new muscles tense and release as I got to a height a little over 6’2”, which was a little under Mark’s 6’4”. The next thing I felt was my chest begin to expand. Each new breath made my torso rise a little more. Hard pectorals began to slowly develop, pushing their way into the open. A cobblestone path began to appear as my non-existent abs began to form from thin air. Next were my legs. I groaned a little as my quads began to tense into solid muscle, perfect for the running I’d be doing every day. As soon as my thighs were done pumping up, my calves followed. My calves became meatier, with solid muscle adding itself on top of more muscle. I felt my butt plump up a little too, becoming bubblier.

My arms followed quickly after. Years and years of training kicked into my arms to make them better for throwing and tackling. My biceps and triceps inflated like little balloons, and my hand beefed up to make it easier to catch the ball and high-five my bros. As soon as my hands were done swelling, my feet kicked into gear. My feet, which were already pushed away due to my new legs, began to expand. I could feel my toes slowly move farther and farther towards the ceiling from the floor, until they themselves plumped up. New veins appeared over my feet, giving them a truly masculine look.

“Size 14,” Mark said, admiring my feet as I continued smelling his armpit, “good for you.”

For some reason, it felt good to know that Mark was happy with me. I kept sniffing and felt my neck expand. My moans began to grow deeper and emptier; my voice sounding dumber with each new breath. By the time my neck was finished transforming, my voice sounded almost identical to Mark’s and Easton’s; a now truly sounded like a football jock. My neck was followed up by my head. I quickly dug my head deeper into the dense forest that was Mark’s armpit, trying to help progress the change. My head began to stretch longer. I felt my cheekbones move up and my chin push down, causing my cheeks to suck themselves in. My hair began to turn blond, cutting the sides and growing out on top. As soon as it stopped growing, it coiffed itself up. My nose shrank a little and my lips grew a little wider, and my eyes tooks on an vacant shade of blue.

“Here comes the best part, bro,” Mark said anxiously, pushing me even deeper into his armpit, “this is where the name comes from.”

I sniffed passionately, wanting whatever Mark was so eager about. Suddenly, I began to feel rather itchy across my entire body. I tried to squirm, but I realized that smelling Mark’s armpit was more important. As I gave my full attention to sniffing, I realized I had hair growing all over my body. Blond hairs were heavily covering my legs, arms, butt… there was hair everywhere. There was hair on the tops of my feet, a new bush in my pouch, and my armpits looked like a blond version of Mark’s. The only place where there was an absence of hair was my chest. Once the hair stopped growing, I began to produce my own, pungent body odor. It was then I realized what Mark meant. The cologne was named Heir, but everytime he had pronounced it as “Hair.”

Mark then lifted me out of his armpit and turned me around to face him. I was still a little dazed, but I was coming back to my own consciousness.

“The cologne isn’t the only thing the company makes.” Mark reached past me and grabbed one of his shoes, he pulled out a faded, slightly wet shoe sole. “They also make scented shoe soles.” I was still confused, the smells hadn’t worn off.

He explained further, “The cologne does the physical work, but we have to make sure ya also become a team player mentally. These were a little harder to afford, and they come with some side effects, but bro, it’ll make ya into what you’re supposed to be.”

“Wha… side effects?” I was finally coming back, my head starting working as thoughts came back. I began to realize the danger I had been in all along.

“Oh, nothing,” Mark grinned, bringing the huge boat to my face, “let’s just say that you’ll truly be a bro. You’re gonna be as bright as Easton and have the libido of frat president.”

Mark shoved my head into his shoe, and right as I came out of my state of confusion, I was shoved back in. I began to sniff again, feeling my mind replace itself. Memories of my family and high school began to disappear. My loneliness was replaced with tons of friends, girlfriends, and secret relationships with other bros. My new family was more athletic, with my parents both being high school coaches. Memories of being alone with my cousin were now replaced with drunken homecoming bashes and late night bangs. As I sniffed Mark’s shoe, I realized this was all true. I had ​always dedicated myself to sports, and if I had always dedicated myself to sports, that means I would’ve had no time for an education. All my intellectual thoughts and ideas began to flow down through my system, all the way down into my pouch. My balls began to expand, churning my own intellect into pure, jock testosterone. They got bigger and bigger, slowly reaching the size of two tennis balls. My 4.0’s slowly became B’s, which dragged into C’s, and in turn dragged into barely even graduating. I remembered the only reason I had gotten into college was a football scholarship.

Memories of college began to flow in as well. For some reason, I’d thought I was touring as a future student, but I remembered that I was already a student here. I was in my third year of my Exercise Science major to become a physical trainer. I remembered the countless parties that had been hosted at my frat, the multiple professors I’ve had “extra-credit seminars” with, and when my main bros Mark and Easton helped me discover I wasn’t actually straight. After that, we shared so many brojobs and “study-halls” together. I remembered the countless games my football team had won, and how good I felt whenever I could please my coach, Coach Sorenson, or my broski Mark. Sure, I was very close to dropping out of college, but I remembered that as long as I did what Coach Sorenson told me, I would graduate.

Mark began whispering commands to me, edging me on to a spectacular release. He told me how it had always been this way, how I always had this perfect life, how all I needed to do was smell the shoe and release. I kept getting closer, feeling my average member get longer and longer until it reached a permanent eight inches, just barely shorter than Mark’s. Mark kept whispering into my ear and told me to take a deep breath and hold it. I followed his instructions, taking one more huge breath and sealing my IQ at an eternal 89. Then he whispered one last time in my ear.

“Just do it.”

I did exactly that. Streams of white erupted and spread all over my chest, Mark’s chest, and the pile of ripped clothes around me. My old memories were now gone forever. I was still John, but now as a hot, popular jock who would do anything for his Coach and bros. Now, thanks to Mark, I’ve learned who I truly am. I’m about as bright as best bro Easton and have the libido of frat president, and that’s what I’ve always wanted.

As soon as I snapped back to reality, Mark explained to me that we were just doing laundry and got bored, so he decided to give me a good ‘ole brojob. When I noticed I was naked, I asked where my clothes were.

“In the laundry, bro,” Mark guffawed, “we were doing laundry, remember? Why else would we be in here?”

I gave a dumb, hearty laugh back. He opened a dryer and tossed me a pair of gray sweatpants. I brought them to my nose and took a sniff. Mark, Easton, and I never actually use washing machines, we just throw our dirty clothes into the dryer to amplify the smell of our dirty clothes. If people complained, we’d just apply the football team’s awesome cologne: Heir. I pulled up the sweatpants while Mark put back on his socks and shoes. He pulled his shirt over his head, which now stunk of sweat and cum. We began to walk towards the doors, and suddenly, we both heard a click as the first door swung open. There stood Easton, smiling a dumb grin as he came in.

“Hey broskis!” Easton said, coming in to join us, “You meatheads left your phones in the frat house.”

Easton searched through his bag, handing Mark back his phone before grabbing mine. After getting my phone, I leaned up against a counter and checked looked at my home screen, which was a picture of Easton, Mark, and I at the beach in our speedos.

As I searched my phone, I overheard Mark and Easton talking.

“Has he passed the final test?” Easton whispered.

“Not yet, but I think he’ll pass,” Mark replied back confidently before strolling over to me.

“Hey, John,” Mark said, coming close to me. I could smell him. “Are you missing anything?”

“Uh,” I paused, my empty voice rumbling, “my jock?”

“Yes, but that’s not what I was going for, bro. Commando doesn’t count.” Mark came over and grabbed my accentuated pouch. I loved when he did that. Then I figured out the answer.

“I’m missing nothing when I’m with my bros!”

“Bingo!” Mark said, nodding to Easton.

“Hey bro!” Easton said, coming in to join us, “Where’s your shirt?”

“He was too dumb to notice he was missing it!” Mark laughed, and Easton and I quickly joined in. How could I have been so dumb to forget a shirt?

Easton pulled out a blue sleeveless shirt with the Nike symbol out of his sports bag. I smelled it, and realized it was used. Just how I liked it. He also handed me a pair secondhand of black and gray Nike trainers. I investigated the shoes, looking right at the special soles before I put the shoes on. They looked huge, but fit my feet perfectly.

“I can be so dumb sometimes, bro.” I laughed at myself as I put on my clothes. “Such a meathead.”

“That mean’s your keeping what’s important in mind,” Mark added before also reaching into Easton’s bag. He pulled out a small bottle with a label. I raised my arms, showing off my pits, and Mark sprayed a hefty amount of cologne into the dense hairs. He put the Heir bottle back into Easton’s bag.

“Let’s go, bros!” Mark said, leaving the laundry room, “Don’t want to be late for practice!”

Hi, i was hoping my Touristics trip would take me to Greece?

Well of course we can arrange a journey to Greece, we even have multiple packages to book. Looking at you I think you would it would be good for you to book our Mt. Olympus package. Climb the mountain of gods if you like or drive to the coast, it’s only about 5 minutes by car. But that would be up to you. Oh you would like to climb the mountain first. We can arrange that. 

As you leave my shop, you find yourself on an uncommon street. It isn’t the same you entered the shop through, but you aren’t bothered at all, it feels just right to be here. You wander around and finally a man speaks to you. He is cute, a twink and reveals to have a soft almost feminine voice as he speaks to you: “I have searched for you, you are the tourist the man at Terrence & Ford told me about, aren’t you?” You confirm this and the man leads you down a few roads and then you are able to see your destination, Mt. Olympus.

The little man shows to possess a whole lot of endurance as you climb the mighty peak. Just as he struggles with a particularly high stone you notice his butt, it’s really big from what you see through his pants, and it looks really round and firm. “But wasn’t I supposed to be straight.”, you think as you scratch your head, only the noticing how big your biceps are. You look at them in awe, totally entranced by he twitching of the mighty flexed peaks and the criss-crossing veins running along them. 

Carefully you approach the still struggling mountaineer, grab his ass and help him shove him further up allowing him to climb the rock. Then you reach out and pull yourself up in one fluent motion, earning awestruck gazes from your companion. “Man, it must be nice being this tall.”, he squeaked looking up at your chiseled bearded face.

“Fuck I can’ take it anymore.”, you exclaim in a powerful baritone and pull the man upwards, planting a sensual kiss on his lips, as you rip his pants away, as well as yours. About 10 minutes later you find yourself behind a corner, rapidly jackhammering your new godly cock deep into your companion’s big ass. Another 30 minutes and more than a few loads later you descend down the mountain again.

Though you didn’t reach the peak fully, you still gotta show the mortals on the beach what a true Olympian looks like.

Not In The Exhibit Brochure

It was a hot summer day and the city was filled with people coming to be a part of one of the biggest fantasy conventions in the country. Video games, board games, tabletop RPGs, LARP, movies, TV shows, theater shows, even musicals. If one fancied themselves a fan of a franchise that existed in any of these forms, they could be found spending a sunny August weekend in the convention center.

Mark meandered between countless people in the Second Pavilion, getting tired having spent the last five hours walking around the convention area, being asked for pictures and catching up with his friends. This year he came wearing a full cosplay of one of the characters from his favorite first person shooter. He put on a tactical vest, helmet with a full headset, a tactical belt with a bunch of accessories and camo pants. In his hands he was bearing a perfect replica of the most famous gun from the game.

He spent a long time perfecting the costume, both by searching for just the right gear and by spending hours in the gym. Now his broad and thick shoulders, football-sized biceps and veiny forearms were visible for all attendees, which garnered Mark a lot of attention, which he enjoyed.

It was exhausting, however. The temperature inside the convention center got uncomfortably high at times, so he decided to take a break. He fold the few friends who joined him during the day that he was leaving for a while to take in some relatively fresh air, then pushed his way through the crowds until he got to the exit.

Thanks to the fact that the center was basically in the middle of the city he didn't have to go far to get to a park and relax, then find a place to eat and just take a walk through the city.

Mark was aware that many businesses and institutions had various perks for the convention ticket holders, to keep the attendees in the city for longer and spread the economic effects of the convention. He was reminded of this fact just as he was walking by the giant building of the art museum. His curiosity was piqued and he checked if he would get a discount of a ticket. It turned out he could walk in for free, the only requirement was to show his pass at the entrance.

What Mark saw after getting through a quick but awkward security check truly amazed him. He slowly walked from one part of the building to the next, taking his time to watch every piece, all displayed in a well air-conditioned space, which was a nice bonus. The museum had a bunch of different special exhibits currently open to the public and they were all pretty stunning, each in its own way.

Finally, Mark made his way to a part of the museum furthest away from the entrance where he saw a recent collection of sculptures from a local artist. Each statue was an extremely realistic depiction of a person, and they were supposed to collectively represent modern society. There were athletes mid-run, businessmen in the middle of walking in between offices, chefs tasting their newest creations, it was all incredible to watch, every sculpture most likely taking weeks or months to complete. Mark stood in the middle of the room as he looked around and every time he managed to find a new detail in one of the statues. While his eyes were jumping from one piece to another, inspecting every curve and small detail, he was unaware of just how much time has passed since he entered this space.

And then he tried to move.

Mark heard his phone buzz loudly in his pocket. It was probably one of his friends wanting to check up on him. He tried to move his hand to take the phone and answer the call, but it wouldn't move. Neither would his head. Or any part of his body. He was immediately alarmed. Mark tried as hard as he could to get any element within his human form to move even an inch, but it didn't work. His whole body was suddenly completely stationary and he could not control its movements, because he couldn't cause any movements. He started to panic and hoped someone would notice that he wasn't well. There were a lot of people at the museum so it would be just a matter of time before one of them came to this room and noticed a guy in a military cosplay was standing weirdly still.

Except this did not happen. Visitors just passed by him with no interest in the person standing frozen in the middle of the room. As Mark looked with his unmovable eyes at the tourists wandering around the space right in front of him he felt like he was losing the track of time. Was it a minute ago that he realized he couldn't move? No it mus have been almost an hour by then. Nah, it couldn't be.

Then Mark realized something horrifying. Not only was no one coming up to help him, they began to stop in front of him and just look at him, as if he was just another...

Did he turn into a fucking statue?! That terrifying thought seeped deep into his mind wreaking havoc along the way. How could this have happened? Magic? But magic wasn't real! That was impossible, this was a dream, for sure! He tried to move his body even a little bit, but again he failed every time. He desperately tried to force his hand to move so that he could pinch himself and wake up from this terrifying nightmare. But no part of his arm changed position, not even an inch.

A larger group of tourists, mostly retirees, led by a young woman slowly moved through the exhibition space and passed by Mark, who continued to struggle and try to move.

"Huh, the guide didn't say anything about this one. Did that lovely lady talk about this soldier, Harold?" An elderly couple stopped in front of Mark and they stood there and admired him for a moment.

"No, Mary, I'm pretty sure I'd remember" The man, Harold, took a step closer towards the statue.

"Harold!" The woman shouted at him. "You can't walk up too close to the sculptures dear."

"Oh, calm down" Harold responded, slightly annoyed at his wife's comment. "I'm in an art museum so don't tell me to not look at the art." The older man stood just a few steps away from Mark. "There's no plaque or rope or anything, this is a free country, Mary!" He was a few inches shorter than Mark, so he couldn't clearly see everything but it seemed he was just looking at Mark's gear.

"Look. The artist — that Gary what's-his-name — knew what he was doing with this one. I recognize all that gear this man is wearing. Nice work." Harold's tone of voice suggested he was weirdly pleased with the statue that used to be Mark. "This is what a real man's supposed to look like. Not some sissy sitting behind the desk all day."

"Of course Harold, of course" The woman walked up to her husband and put her arm around him, then started gently pushing him towards the other statues.

Mark's brain struggled to comprehend what he had just witnessed. He had really turned into a statue! People thought he was a part of the exhibit! How could this have happened? He couldn't come up with any even remotely plausible explanation for what he was experiencing. He then thought that his only hope would be his friends - they knew he was downtown, maybe some would guess that he used the opportunity to get into the art museum for free, which would lead them to the place where Mark was currently stranded.

The group of retirees came back, walked next to Mark and was about to leave the room when the tour guide looked at him and murmured to herself.

"This statue was not a part of the exhibit. How did it get here?" She grabbed her phone and quickly led her group towards the rest of the museum.

Mark again realized he couldn't tell how much time had passed since any of the recent events. It was as if his internal clock had stopped working, ran out of batteries. This whole experience was so confusing that he had issues fully registering everything. He tried counting in his head, but got lost after 20, maybe? The only thing he was sure of, for now, was that the day had not yet ended, but he could not tell what part of the day it was, as the whole museum was constantly lit with this slightly weird diffused lighting.

Three people suddenly came into view and stood some distance away from Mark, clearly looking at him. He couldn't hear the conversation they were having because of the noise from surrounding visitors, but he could clearly see that they were all agitated, talking over each other and aggressively pointing at themselves and Mark. As he looked closer he realized they were all museum employees, meaning they were probably debating what to do with a statue which has suddenly appeared within the premises of the musem they worked for, a rather uncommon occurrence.

Not long after they left Mark's view and he was once again stuck in this feeling ot timelessness. Tourists stopped in front of him every now and then, looked at him for a moment and moved on, while he stood still, holding the gun in his hands as if ready to fight, and yet incapable of it because of some indescribable force.

The employees from before came back, one of them holding in their hands a metal stand of come kind. It had something written on it at the top, but Mark couldn't see what it was. What he could see was the employee putting the stand in front of him and them all looking at it.

"That will have to do for now" One of them said. This time they were standing closer and Mark was able to hear what they were saying.

"Yeah, I won't be able to make a proper one until tomorrow."

"Okay, but it has to be there by Monday afternoon, otherwise we're fucked. Jesus Christ, still'can't believe this happened."

"No time for moaning, Jacob. We have work to do." Another one replied. They all nodded their heads, took one last look at the stand and quickly left the scene.

Mark thought about what he had just witnessed, and it took him a moment to understand - this was a stand with information about the statue, which meant him. It was the same kind as dozens more throughout the museum that visitors could look at for further information that was meant to enrich their experiences. This was meant to hide the fact that he was not here just mere hours, or minutes, or days, or-- he was certainly not here when the exhibition was opened. That fact was probably what had made them so angry and confused before - from their perspective a random statue of a soldier randomly appeared in the museum.

His mind immediately asked one question - I wonder what did they write on there? What was his title, his author, his artistic description or statement? Wait, his author? That was a strange line of thought, Mark realized.

I am Uncontrolled Power.

Wait, what was that? Who said that? Where was that deep voice coming from?

I was created by Greg Duchaime Arreman.

Was there someone standing behind him?

I am meant to represent unchecked aggression and power of the Military Industrial Complex.

Wait a second, what this voice inside his head?

I am the physical manifestation of toxic masculinity and bravado.

Holy fuck, this was a voice inside his head. Was this... what they had written about him on this stand?

Fuck yeah, I'm an alpha who follows orders and crushes any sign of disloyalty.

The voice was talking to Mark. Shit, the voice was talking to him! What the fuck?

You scum, get ready to experience the primal, animalistic force of a toxic man! I'm gonna crush you!

Mark wanted to sigh loudly, but of course he couldn't. Great, the museum employees with their great art wisdom made him a stereotypical aggressive soldier. Obedient muscle. The armored tool of American imperialism. And this soldier character seemed to have appeared inside his head.

I am here to blindly follow orders, enforce them and show everyone what masculinity really means!

If Mark could have rolled his eyes, he would. He was stuck, like an NPC frozen mid-frame, standing in the middle of an art museum, possibly forever. And from now on he would represent toxic masculinity, aggression and military prowess.

Whoever stands in my way will be violently crushed with the power of the American Military and my primal force! Toxic and proud, that's who I am!

Tailgating

--- Originally posted by TheBurdenBorne around 2015 ---

--- Want to read more? View all stories by TheBurdenBorne ---

Like every Saturday in October -- it was game day. Which meant while I was trying to enjoy my Saturday off from college and work, everyone else on campus was getting drunk and partying. Already by 9:30, the traffic picked up and everyone was wearing school colors. Soon the streets would be filled with game-goers, and all I wanted to do was make it to the library and get some homework done.

I heard cheering from a balcony above me as I walked past one of the streets filled with students. Across the road was a parking lot which was already packed with people unloading their trucks and vans to start tailgating.

"Hey dude," one guy called out to me. "You want a brat?"

"No thanks," I replied trying to walk past him.

"C'mon man! It's a free brat! Where's your team spirit!"

"Fine..." I said, taking the bun from him. I kept walking, hoping I could get out of sight and just throw it away. I wasn't vegetarian, but my usual diet did not contain a lot of meat. I was a skinny, twig of a college student, and meat just wasn't my thing.

"So do you go to school here?" the guy insisted before I could take a step away.

"Yeah..." I answered, still trying to walk away.

"Cool bro!" He lifted his hand in the air, expecting a high-five. Figuring this was my only way out of the conversation, I returned the five. As I did, I felt a shock run through my arm and into my head. I closed my eyes and shook my head a little, trying to figure out what the shock was all about.

"Your brat is getting cold," the man replied as he turned back to his grill.

"Right, forgot about that!" I realized I was suddenly really hungry, so I took a bite and swallowed. It was delicious! I took a second and a third bite, unable to control the hunger growing inside of me. There was only a few more bites left and the man handed me another one.

"Looks like you found your appetite," he said. "Oh, my name's Wes by the way."

"Peter," I replied between bites. "My name is Peter."

"All right Pete, slow down and chew. Better wash that down with something."

He walked over to a keg, grabbed a red solo cup and poured me a beer.

"You're welcome to stay as long as you want," Wes said.

I drained my cup, filled it up again, grab a few more brats and a hamburger, and headed over to the back of his pickup truck. I hopped onto the tailgate and looked around. The parking lot was full of people like me, chowing down and laughing as they celebrated the big game. After swallowing the last gulp of the beer, I let out a huge belch.

"Still room for more," I thought to myself, completely forgetting about everything except my most basic urges. I scratched my chest a little and realized how hot it was getting. I took off my sweater and set it on the bed of the truck. The sun was beaming down on me and reflected off the frame of the truck, so I decided to move. I walked back over to where the grill was, hoping there were still some brats or burgers left.

I stood over by the keg, listening in on the conversation.

"Yeah, well Johnson is the best tight end this school's ever seen," said one of the guys wearing a fan jersey. "Sure, but is he any match for their defense." said another guy. Even though I hadn't watched a single game that year, I suddenly blurted out, "The way McAllister runs the option always gives Johnson important field position ... so as long as he keeps performing, they should be in good shape."

The guys nodded in agreement as I walked over and filled up my cup again. One of the guys brought over some barbecue from his truck and we continued chatting about the game. I continually surprised myself with how much I knew about my school's football program.

"Incoming!" someone shouted behind me. A football sped towards our group of guys, one of whom flinched and spilled my beer and barbecue all over my shirt and pants.

"Fucking-a!" I shouted.

"Don't worry about it, Pete" said Wes, who seemed to suddenly appear. "I've got extra clothes in my truck."

We walked over and he pulled out a pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt. My shoes and socks were soaked too, so I set those aside, letting my feet breathe on the hot concrete. I slipped on the blue jeans, realizing that they also contained a huge belt and buckle.

"Man, I owe you big," I said.

"Don't worry about it ... looks like they fit you perfect."

I pulled off my stained shirt and threw it in the back of the truck. I changed into the jeans, which fit tightly but comfortably, as if I had worn them for years.I fastened the belt buckle and looked around for a clean shirt. My stomach growled and I looked down and saw a paunchy beer belly filled with booze and brats. As I watched, the fat retracted until my stomach was flat and lined with a six-pack of abs.

"Must be seeing things," I said. "Or maybe it's all this beer!"

I didn't see any shirts lying around, but noticed that my chest and arms had filled in with muscle and probably wouldn't fit any of my old clothes anyway.

"Dude, is this your hat and sunglasses," said one of the tailgaters in a casual way.

"Yeah, bro," I replied. I put on the shades and turned the hat around. I felt strange at first, but soon my mind went black and I realized I was hungry again. It was turning out to be a perfect day, so I grabbed a few chicken wings and another cup of beer from the truck next to us.

"Game's started," shouted one of the guys. I jumped down off the tailgate, realizing that I was a lot heavier and thicker than remembering. All that meat and beer was helping me pack on weight, most of it muscle.

"Hey, we're packing up to watch the game at our place," said Wes. "Hey, Pete. Why don't you take your truck back to the house."

"Sure thing, man," I replied as he tossed me the keys. I jumped in the driver seat, put in the clutch, and started the ignition.

"Wait," I thought to myself. "He said your truck, did he mean that..." But as I looked around cab, it all seemed so familiar that I put the big black rig in reverse and squealed the tires as I left the lot. Instinctively, I drove a few blocks and pulled into the driveway of a rundown house that was converted into student apartments. A few guys were already nearly passed out on the couch outside.

"Hey Pete," they said to me. I nodded back.

I walked upstairs to what I assumed was my room and put on one of the shirts in the drawer. The room was covered in sports posters, dirty laundry, a makeshift weight-lifting area, and some hockey gear in the corner. I opened the mini-fridge and pulled out a six-pack of beer bottles and walked downstairs where the game was playing in the living room.

"Did I miss anything," said Wes when he walked in the room.

"Not much," I said as I tossed him a bottle and cracked mine open, draining it in a few seconds and letting waves of contentment flow through my new body, sitting in my new home, at the beginning of my new life.

I wondered what else I would ever want to do on a Saturday ... and I couldn't think of anything else...

Ostello della Moda: Bruno

--- Want to read more? View all stories by TheBurdenBorne ---

Dylan hated Italy so far. It wasn't really "Italy's" fault, but his travel plans had been messed up. His plane leaving New York had been delayed, which meant he missed his connecting flight in Amsterdam, etc...but he was finally there. The airline had helped him arrive only a few hours later than expected in Milan, but it was frustrating nonetheless. He hadn't slept for hours and was exhausted by the time he arrived at "Ostello della moda." He had received some texts from Walter and Tyler, both of whom were supposed already at the hostel, but Nico at the front desk seemed confused about their arrival schedule. He insisted that everything was fine.

"Just need passport and paperwork. All is good," he said re-assuredly. "Your friends are coming. Or, maybe they go out for the night. I will help," he said. Dylan was too tired to eat any of the food. Even though he was a picky eater, he had managed to get a plump belly and flabby chest by his mid-twenties. Italian food wasn't really his "thing" and he just wanted to sleep. He dragged his suitcase to his room, panting and sweating in the hot humid hallway. He unlocked the door and threw his things on Bunk B. Someone was in the shower and Dylan wondered if maybe it was Tyler or Walter, but before Dylan could leave the room to avoid an awkward encounter, out stepped a steaming, muscular Italian man.

"Hi...I'm Dylan ... I mean ... 'Bruno,'" he corrected as he pointed to his name tag.

"Ciao! Antonio," replied the man without hesitation. "Eh, welcome to room ... eh, I go out ... eh ... downstairs?"

"Sure," said Dylan. "Have you seen someone named Walter?"

"Ooh-alter?" replied Antonio. "No."

Antonio left the room, leaving Dylan to himself. Since two of the beds were already occupied, he wondered if there was some mistake. Dylan was sure that they had ordered an entire room with five bunks, but maybe he missed something in the translation. In either case, Dylan was exhausted. He laid down on the bed, his eyes immediately closing.

He woke up a few hours later and the room was sweltering hot and it was dark outside. Dylan was still wearing his dirty travel clothes, so he stripped down to his underwear and walked over to the window, hoping to maybe let in some fresh air. He looked out across the street and saw dozens of young people walking around and enjoying the busy nightlife.

"So much for going out tonight..." he said as he rubbed his throbbing head and tried to swallow saliva from his dry mouth. He went into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face and drank with his hands. He looked in the mirror and saw a pair of dark brown eyes staring back. He blinked and his eyes returned to their blue-green.

"Fuck..." he whispered, realizing how exhausted he still was. He slumped back into bed letting the cool night air and the sound of the street wash over him as he lay on his bunk.

He tossed and turned, and the sheets felt like pin pricks and his body was hot. After maybe an hour, his two roommates burst into the room. Discussing in rapid Italian and clearly staggering from too much beer.

"Dov'è Bruno?" they shouted, followed by "Bruno, sveglia!" They pulled Dylan from his bed, but he was still half-asleep. They handed him a bottle of beer and helped him into a shirt, jeans, and sandals.

"No ... let me sleep ... I'm not Bruno ... I'm ... tired ..." Dylan protested. But they insisted and pulled him into the hallway. On his way down, he drank a little of the bottle and felt more relaxed. They had dressed him in a pink brotank and tight jeans and marched him towards the door. They crossed the street and Dylan finished his beer as they plopped him into a chair. A man took a clippers and shaved his head. He heard a high buzzing sound and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. Groggily, Dylan saw himself in the mirror. The reflection was a muscular, hairy, man with cropped hair, scruffy stubble, and arms and chests covered in tattoos. The man worked with the needle on another tattoo.

Surprisingly, the chubby, blonde boy that had come to Italy was erased with the very definition of "macho." Even in his pink tank top, he looked every inch like an Italian brute. As the alcohol took more effect and the hypnotic whining of the tattoo needle continued, he heard a name repeated over and over until it became his own. He was Bruno. His friends convinced him to go out tonight, and he was glad they did. Bruno was always looking for a good time. And everytime he partied or caused mayhem, it was another badge of honor for his image as the "Uomo supremo." He would get another tattoo to prove it.

Great mental change/hypnosis story.

Original post is dead. Use the "Keep reading" provided by @imsrtman to read the rest.

I’m a dumb jock

God, I ached all over. You’d think that a first workout at the gym wouldn’t hurt so much the day after. It felt like I’d slept in a pretzel position, and my head was pounding. All I wanted to do was shed a few pounds from my overweight frame, and it looked like I had my work cut out from me.

I craned my neck, it was so sore. It had to be super early in the morning, my alarm hadn’t gone off. But as my alertness set in for the day, I realized the ceiling light was on.

Why had I slept with the ceiling light on? I bolted upright, which led to some pain and stiffness, but I disregarded it as I looked around the room. Which was definitely not my room. It maybe wasn’t anyone’s room, the walls were all gray and boring, save for a mirror on the wall. Also strange is that there wasn’t a door.

Naturally, being abducted I started to freak out. What the hell was going on? My fears started spinning around my head. I wasn’t sore because of working out, I was sore because I was abducted! I fervently looked around the room for any escape, trying to evaluate my situation.

Dumb jocks don’t panic.

What? Where did that come from? There was no speaker, and I didn’t hear anything out loud.

Dumb jocks don’t panic.

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Hey are you still taking transformation applications? Just found this blog and it's great. I was wonder if you could turn my into a dumb himbo surfer? I'm white, 5'9 and a little on the fat nerdy side, but I'd love to be a tall tanned lean surfer dude!

“Alright dude, welcome to the Amalia Aquatics Center. We have been looking for more surf instructors and you are the man for the job. The name’s Kellan and I’ll be your boss.”

You look at the tall surfer guessing he had to be about 6′7″, almost a foot taller than you. His muscles are lean and his skin is tan. He looks like a stereotypical, but tall and slightly more built, surfer. He even spoke like one. Hardly the professional you were expecting from what you saw at the front desk.

“I’m just here to help you get used to your job. I’m sure it won’t take long for you to fit in, brah.” He chuckled, “Now why are you wearing a shirt?”

You look down, a little embarrassed for even trying this. You look back up at Kellan and he his simply looking back at you with a smirk on his face. Your eyes look down at the beginnings of moobs and gut pushing at your shirt. 

“You want to be a surfer or what?”

You grip the hem of your shirt in frustration. Struggling to pull it  off, you finally do, red in the face. Kellan is just chuckling, “See that wasn’t so hard.”

A blush fills your cheeks again. You look down at your lean, tanned torso wondering why you wouldn’t want your shirt off. You love going shirtless. 

“And we like our surfers to be blonde. Longer hair is preferred.”

You run a hand through your hair, remembering you got it died a few weeks ago.

“Oh and the clients usually like a big cock. From your swimsuit I see no problem there.”

You smirk, thinking of the 7-inch soft torpedo in your swimsuit.

“And our surfers always love getting fucked as a tip instead of cash.”

Your ass suddenly feels very hungry and your cock grows to a full 9 inches at the idea at your prospects for sex. Not that your brain even knows what a word like “prospects” means anymore.

“So dude I think your ready to start.”

You smile dumbly, not even realizing you had changed, “Awesome dude.”