Hey! Ive Always Wanted To Play Hockey But Wound Up Studying And Focusing On School. I Was Wondering If

hey! I’ve always wanted to play hockey but wound up studying and focusing on school. I was wondering if you could make me into a meathead hockey player. Happy to exchange some of my smarts for the process.

snap

Another hockey player? Maybe I need to use my Everything Powers to make everyone forget that this is a soft spot for me? Or maybe not…

I've had a couple of guys in here who wanted to become hockey players too. You should see the asses on them! Oh wait, no need to see those asses… Check out your own ass, bud! That’s the result of squats for days. You like it?

Sorry about this bud, but you’re going to lose some height. Not a lot of height, don’t panic! But it’ll be some height. Like 5’11. And you’re younger. Barely 20 years old and playing in the ‘O’. You know all about the O! That’s Junior hockey in the OHL.

Since you’re young and just coming into your own, you’re not going to be as muscular and built as some of the other guys, but you’ll get there. One thing’s certain though, you fucking love hockey. It’s all you think about! Nothing is more important than playing puck and making it to the NHL.

One thing I will give you is some extra 'flow'. That's what hockey players call their long hair. You know all about that, of course. Run your fingers through it, and feel the length. Go ahead and slick it back, makes it easier to put your helmet on! How about a bit of facial hair to go with it? Just a little bit of scruff. Looking good, man.

Here’s your gear. Get dressed and head out. The team is waiting.

This guy really goes through the whole spectrum of Latino!

Marichismo

Allen, a smug engineering student, finds himself seeking shelter from the storm in a museum for Latin American art. By the time it clears up it's safe to say he'll have a more than healthy appreciation for the arts.

Might've gotten away from me a tad but I think it turned out quite well! Latino Race and Cultural change, MG and language change ahead. Also a couple more people have hopped onto my Challenge since I last mentioned it! Otherwise, espero que disfrutes! -Occam

Allen was on a side of the campus he’s never quite made it a point to explore. In undergrad and in his Masters of Engineering program so far there has simply never been a need for him to venture too far from the engineering building or the architecture library. That is until his partner on a superfluous project requested he venture into the no man’s land that holds the campus’ main library, one that runs absolutely rampant with students he sees as far beneath him.

Even worse than simply venturing beyond his comfort zone, as soon as the pair have wrapped up their progress for the day, heading off on their less than merry ways, it begins to rain. As the first raindrops begin to fall, Allen scoffs at himself for being anything less than optimally prepared. Before he’s able to reflect too deeply, the snobbish student clenches his tech-filled book bag to his chest and sprints into the nearest building, apathetic to whatever space he noisily barges into.

Before his eyes can adjust to the dim light of the new space he finds himself in, Allen hears a crack of thunder as the heavens open up behind him. Sighing in relief at successfully staying dry, Allen keeps his guard up, eying the lobby of whatever building this is that he’s never deigned to step into before now. He grimaces as he finds himself in an art museum. He does not like art museums. It’s not so much that Allen sees himself as above fine art, it’s- well no it is that. Immediately, he begins scanning the lobby for a power outlet so he may continue working while he waits out the downpour.

Head shoved under a lobby bench Allen ignores a caution sign as he forces his charger in, causing an inevitable shock that forces out a less than respectful expletive in this place of introspection. He eyes the empty room around him, slightly grinning at just how barren the lobby is. Clearly he’s not the only one apathetic to this nonsense. Shaking his hand to reawaken its nerves, he hears the clicking of footsteps against the gallery floor as a small woman walks around the corner carrying a stack of books that block her view. Allen eyes a handful of escape routes to hide from the older woman before lightning strikes once more and she trips over in shock, dropping her small stack of books, “¡Dios Mio!”

Judgemental asshole Allen may be but heartless he is not. Setting down his bag with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, the student walks over to help the older woman gather herself. Barely avoiding reflexively chiding his elder as he offers her a hand, he helps her up. The attendant pushes a large pair of glasses up her nose and squints at him with a kind smile, “Ah! Gracias, gracias mijo.” She pulls herself up on Allen’s hand and he cringes back as some kind of aftershock of static goes up his arm. Thankfully it doesn’t seem to affect her. Dusting herself off, she does a double take at Allen and adjusts her glasses, “¿Qué te trae aqui hoy, mijo? (What brings you in today dear?)

Allen hesitates, blowing air as he tries to understand why this woman thinks he knows spanish. Scratching the back of his head he finally looks to see the text blazoned across the front desk, El Gustavo Ramirez Museo De Arte Latinoamericano. Putting two and two together as he is ever so proud of doing, Allen immediately apologizes for intruding. “So sorry uh, Ma’am. I didn’t mean to wander into your, uh, space.” gesturing to the woman and the building around him in a manner to distinguish it not so much as beneath him but as an other. Something that is simply a bridge too far for him to gap. “This place isn’t for me so I think I’ll go ahead and step out.” Thunder peels before he can start to gather his things, immediately reminding him why he is in here at all. 

The older woman also relents, switching to English since, despite some instinct saying otherwise, the man before her clearly speaks only english. “Ah don’t you worry yourself mijo. The museum is for all, para todos. Free with your student ID,” she tacks on with a wink. Allen smiles uncomfortably, baring teeth enough that it could be mistaken as a grimace. 

He can’t just tell this old lady that he hasn’t a thought to spare, in his mind: waste, on the collections behind her. Still he doesn’t want to make conversation indefinitely waiting for the storm to clear either. Fearful of the outlet he’s used thus far he convinces himself there must be one hiding somewhere in the exhibition hall. He’ll just pacify her with entry and go find some place in between ostentatious paintings and droll statues to insert himself and get some actual work done.

Producing his ID wordlessly, he hands it to the elderly woman and she quickly shuffles behind her desk to type his name into some registry. Handing it back with a smile she leaves her hand hanging for a shake, “Wonderful to meet you Allan! Soy Lupe Carvajal. But you can call me abuelita, mijo!” Pocketing his ID with a dismissive laugh he notices not that his name is apparently misspelled on his ID card, instead he packs his charger up and shakes Lupe’s hand. “Hah. Uhm, whatever you say Mrs. Carvajal.” Her hand is wrinkled and frail but surprisingly warm, as if his hand were receiving the full body experience of a hug in but a single shake. 

“You know Allan, I must have thought you know spanish because you look quite like my nieto, my grandson.” Allan puffs his cheeks to bite his tongue, holding a picture in his mind of what this granny’s descendants must look like and knowing there’s simply no permutation that lands at himself. She continues, “Es un joven fuerte! Haha!” She does a little bicep pose which allows Allan to understand exactly what she means without her translating. He shyly smiles looking down at his own thin arms and wondering why this lady seems to be mocking him. After doing her bit, Lupe moves to sit at the desk and pulls a book off her stack, “You just let me know if you need anything mijo, si?” Allan nods and reflexively responds, “Si ab- Mrs. Carvajal.”

Odd taste in his mouth at almost calling this random woman grandmas she asked, he shakes it off and wanders into the exhibit hall, decidedly less worried about using her museum’s resources to his own ends. It has probably been over a decade since anyone was able to drag him into an art museum. Even then was he vehemently against wasting his time visiting. He just didn’t get art, and not for not trying. It’s just, aggravating that some people can get so much from some splotches of paint and he just sees a picture on some paper. Feeling himself get riled up he turns to the exhibit hoping for some distraction, which he finds in an elaborate statue of some dog. himself. 

Allan stands beside a huichol coyote covered in beads about two feet high. Spotlighted in the dim gallery he circles it like a predator, inspecting the bright beaded beast from every angle. See this he gets. This took time, this took care. Leaning in close the warmth of the overhead light pleasantly burns the top of his head. Absorbed by the shimmering light off the beads, Allan is unaware as his hair suddenly begins to lengthen. The buzz he has always kept short for sheer manageability begins to curl over his ears, growing warm even quicker as it tints darker. Not quite black but certainly not the blonde shade he was always happy to keep despite his spending as few hours outside as possible.

Before curls can begin to crest over his forehead, his face is not spared the glare of the spotlight. Immediately as his olive eyes glaze over, absorbed into the intricate stitched patterns they begin to stain darker. The jade he has always seen in his own reflection shades darker ever so slightly. Not brown. No he doesn’t have brown eyes, they’re just hazel? His eyebrows match the suddenly darkened hair on his head as he stands staring at the beast. Not expanding to cover more of his face but growing thicker, denser. Almost as if to shade his eyes from the light. His lips thicken as a grin begins to tinge his face. Reaching up Allan feels stubble begin to prickle his chin and upper lip, as if he spent time shaving this morning. 

Allan moans contentedly as he gives in and reaches fully into the spotlight to touch the coyote. Rules and codes of propriety fall to the wayside as he reaches beyond the realm of rationality to touch the statue of the trickster. His hands burn as they tint ever so slightly darker under the glare of the spotlight. As soon as his middle finger feels the warmth of the first bead he recoils in shock. “Q- What?!” He falls onto his ass, no time to inspect his decidedly browner hands as the commotion made immediately summons Abuelita Lupe. The elderly attendant meanders as quickly as she can into the showroom, “¿Qué pasó Alan?” Alan flexes his hand in shock. Whatever just happened it can’t be his fault.  Surely he didn’t just unprompted mess with some artifact on display. “I, um? No sé?” He pauses, unsure of what he just said, nonsense he thinks. “I mean um, I’m not sure?”

Lupe goes to help him up with what little strength she can muster only for him to wave her off, sure that she would only get in the way. He finds standing takes more effort than usual as he does so with a grunt. Nervously patting him on the back, Lupe asks him if he’s alright after the spill, buzzing around him with concerned pleasantries. Alan doesn't quite hear her as he instead inspects his own body. His clothes are tighter. He stretches and pulls at them, presuming them to just be falling weird on him after the fall. But close inspection shows otherwise. Looking at his cardigan it is clearly strained by his chest and stomach. Blushing at the idea he’s put on weight, Alan crosses his arms and notices how snugly his arms fill the sleeves, how his wrists hang out further than they should, not only that but they are unmistakably darker. Not brown, but without a doubt a few shades darker than his usual porcelain tone.

Recovering from being lost in his thoughts he looks to find Lupe staring, “Oh! Lo, uh sorry. Did you uh, ask me something Senora Carvajal?” Looking down at a sharper angle than he did earlier, he sees the abuela looking at his head with a tilt. “Did you do something different with your hair mijo?” eyes narrowing with concern and suspicion he thrusts his hair into his new curls. He immediately gasps in shock before reconsidering. This is how he’s always looked right? 

Thank god his hair is naturally curly so he can just leave them as they fall without much ado. He smiles and shakes his head at Lupe and she nods happily in return. Reaching up she puts her small hand on his bicep and squeezes it, Alan can barely hear her as he is struck with just how powerful his arm seems next to her small hand as she continues, “Well I like it mijo.” With that she aways and leaves Alan be. Having the floor to himself his expression grims as he pulls out his phone to look for a picture of himself. Something is off. His mind tells him everything is normal. When he looks at his hands he sees them as they have always been right? Why would he have a buzz cut when his hair is so naturally nice? Something in his gut screams out that something unnatural is going on. His camera roll should hold proof. Going through his phone he barely holds back a gasp that would surely summon the docent back as he is immediately greeted by a folder of his own nudes.

“Que chingado…” He whispers under his breath as his face burns redder than the scarlet beads on the coyote. He didn’t take these did he? Zooming in he is once more floored to see tattoos on his body. Looking down at his arm he sharply inhales as there's a sting and suddenly his wrist matches the image on his phone. Or no. He’s had that tattoo for years?

 Aghast at himself he still feels he wouldn’t have taken these photos of himself. Vain in many ways, his appearance is not one of them. He wonders if he’s been set up or hacked or something before he reminds himself no one would be able to do so without his knowledge. He’s a pro after all. Mind going to his technical skills, his chest puffs with pride as it grows to match the one he finds in the nudes soft-core and otherwise on his phone. Alan quickly shoves it in his pocket, finding it a much tighter fit than when he retrieved it. 

Looking around nervously, he walks close to the coyote once more. Narrowing his eyes he feels new memories come to mind from his childhood. Memories of hearing story after story of the trickster, he tilts his head as the slightest whiff of something amiss hides behind them. Staring into the eyes of the beast with suspicion the image of reading Greek mythologies by himself fades away to be replaced by his mother telling him stories from her own childhood. The coyote playing tricks and la Llorona terrorizing their little town just to make sure he stays in line. Alan smiles as he shakes out of the reverie, my mom wasn't morena was she? Headache rising as seconds pass standing near the beast he wanders away, muttering to himself without awareness, “didn’t want him in the main hall anyway.”

His hair continues to thicken and curl darker as he moves deeper into the exhibition space. Scratching at his stubble lost in thought he finds it defining itself into a goatee with a matching mustache. His phone still unlocked in his pocket shifts displays his form as he continues to change unawares. He feels himself begin to sweat intensely as his cardigan grows even tighter. His body decides to ramp up his masculinity as he starts to outright swell with muscle. His whole body twitches larger as he briefly recalls Lupe playfully flexing, “un joven fuerte!” He clicks his tongue and grins as he sees his biceps strain his sweater, almost enough to see his button up through the threads. He fights back a smirk feeling his shirt underneath hug the sides of his chest as his soldiers expand. Feeling his thicker pits start to sweat through said shirt and into the jacket he resolves to remove the cardigan.

His struggled grunts echo through the museum space as he struggles to get the cardigan off over his chest. The sound of fabric tearing rips through the room as stitches finally give way down the whole front of the garment, his pecs bursting larger into the open air. The top few buttons of his dress shirt also explode open as he is finally freed from the constricting sweater, “ayy dios- fuck…” He whispers to himself as he appreciates the ice cold air of the museum on his sweaty skin. The white dress shirt may as well be sheer with his sweat soaking it, allowing any gawkers to easily see tattoos running down his arm and the nipples almost poking through the shirt.

Only briefly does he wonder why he’s not self conscious about being exposed in the gallery before he notices a side-exhibition hall. “Ah si, uh. The temporary exhibit,” he whispers dreamily. Keeping quiet as any respectful museum-goer does. Though he doesn’t quite have the bodily awareness to mute his increasingly loud footsteps, each one growing louder as his upper body expands. He looks up to read the title of the exhibit as the sound of his shoulders widen enough to tear the back of his button up. Marichismo: Taking Back Latino Masculinity. He smirks as he finds the idea compelling, he’s uh, not hispanic of course. Nor has he ever been intrigued by ‘art’ in the slightest, he thinks. But something draws him deeper. Something pulls him further. Something in him begs for more.

His pants creak as he crosses the threshold into the new space, his ass expanding beyond the pale. Similarly does his crotch demand both more room and his attention as Arlad is immediately face to face with a deliberately provocative statue. The blush burning his face is just as soon hidden as his tan grows darker as he’s overwhelmed by everything in front of him. It’s as if Tom of Finland were Chicano. Bulges beyond belief force their way out at every angle. Rigid thick mustaches hang stoic on every face as Arlad feels his own stubble grow darker, thicker, itchier.

The student is torn between instincts, just as he feels increasingly torn between two worlds. His body continues ballooning and his shirt bursts clean off, buttons scatter to the floor and sharp tears launch down his arms. He can’t help but hungrily scan the floorspace as the bright lights bore into him, exposing him as if he were a piece of art on display. He looks down just in time to see his cock burst large enough to blow his zipper out which only addles his mind further, “Tal vez, just a minute…” He wanders into the exhibit hall proper as his eyes finally make the jump into a rich chocolate brown. He trips over his feet, gasping as he feels them stuffed uncomfortably tight in his oxfords before kicking off the shoes altogether. Just as soon do his pants rip off and he is left almost entirely nude in this exhibit hall.

His mouth hangs open as his cock acts almost like a dowsing rod in between pieces. The language in which Arcad thinks rapidly begins to change altogether, already a bilingual medley, with each starved look at photographed vaqueros or bulge forward paintings does English drift farther away. Maintaining fluency in both of course, the man would never let that tongue take predominance over that of his madre y su madre before her. His pecs pump even larger with pride as thick curls begin itching up from his crotch. He scratches at his stomach as he smirks at his body finally getting on brand. This whole show is about displaying masculinity and he needs to be the apex. He needs…

Arcad twitches as these definitive thoughts cut through the fog in which he has been going about. Why does he care so much about this place? He doesn’t like art. Certainly not this uh smut. He twitches as he argues that being provocative is the point, sexualization of the male form is the point. Why could he know that? How does he know anything about this exhibit? Looking around at the photographs he sees men who are almost a parody of masculinity. Fighting back the overwhelming pervasive horniness issuing forth from balls bulging larger he takes a deep breath and ignores the temple to the male form around him. 

It’s impossible for him to notice as his thoughts crest fully into español. After all it simply is the language in which he has always thought, no matter what his teachers demand of him. Back to the matter at hand he is struck with the urge to create. Mierda- this exhibition really inspired him, he should really write an essay about this. Or, no. He moans and clutches at his temples as the shining lights out of sight gleam even brighter, sparkling off his sweaty muscled form as he’s racked with the pain of opposing realities. No, that isn’t right. He doesn’t do essays anymore. That’s not how he creates. 

Memories of long hours at the lab and in dark rooms sitting at a keyboard dissipate. Haughty superiority over fields and forms he deems insignificant thankfully blast away as images of the photographs and artworks around him come to mind with an ease that makes him uneasy. Creeping in from the edges of his lived memory are other exhibits, many that he has visited, some that he has put on of his own accord. 

Tattoos continue to drip down his arm as his treasure trail rushes onto his chest, blooming out to cover his pecs. The space in between his mustache and goatee is quickly filled, as are the entirety of his cheeks as his eyes shut even tighter. Independent muscle groups twitch as his body struggles to forge him even larger, to be more. The lengthy curls on his head fall away as his head returns to a buzz cut, this time black as the night. This time impossibly deliberate. 

Arcadio buzzed it himself, he loved his curls. But he knew for this exhibition he had to sacrifice. Anything for his art. The phrase burns across his mind, Marichismo. It, it was his exhibition. Arcadio opens his eyes to find himself standing across from an oppressive statue staring down at him in disdain. His blood boils as his fight or flight activates. Though staying strong he just clenches his fist as his body bulges larger one last time. “Papa.” He made that statue, he isn’t about to be shoved around by his own art. The feeling of confidence filling him at standing up against the domineering statue is more than he could have held within him as Allan. Reverbs of confidence go through his psyche as he finally gets it. Turning around the confidence that fills him rapidly dissipates as he sees a man posing like a dog.

He exercised complete creative control of the exhibition, but did he take this? Memories of being behind the lens of the camera dance through his mind for most of the images, this one seems obscured. He ignores the cold sudden sting of a nose ring as he leans in close to inspect it, smirking all the while. Who’d he get to model this? Looking at the jockstrap he nods approvingly, mierda it is certainly hot though. His underwear stretches to its absolute limit as he forces his large hand down to paw his cock at the image. Looking down at his hairy forearm he gasps as he sees the tattoo on his forearm perfectly matches that of the model. 

At that moment his underwear burst free from his body and he suddenly realizes that being nude in this space is far worse a breach of etiquette than touching that coyote. Arcadio sprints to his bag and digs around for anything he could possibly use to hide his still bulging cock at half mast. “¡Gracias a dios!” he whispers under his breath as he wraps a towel around his waist, perfectly mimicking a photograph behind him. He smirks at the man thinking how proud Jose will be when he gets to see himself on a gallery wall. Arcadio grunts and clenches his head as memories of the man ahead of him fill his mind. Lightheaded he leans against the wall grimacing as he leads a sweaty handprint on the pristine white wall.

Turning around seeing the exhibit hall as a whole he almost falls over with a rush of memories. Advanced math and the life he once lived as Allan are dust in the wind as his childhood growing up the son of first generation immigrants in San Antonio rises to take their place. Living alone with his mother before his abuela moved up from Mexico to help raise him as if he were her son. Understanding himself and the world around him as he discovered who he was and what he had to do. Finally achieving success, winning grants, booking galleries as an artist. Not too bad for a maricon eh? He winks at the statue of his father, smirking as he feels his power as a man and artist grow.

Looking down at some engineering homework scattered from his bag the last pangs of a headache buzzes through him before he shakes his head and the work is gone. The last shreds of a life he once lived dissipate. Walking out into the lobby he sees his abuelita. She smiles at the massive man before adjusting her glasses and shouting out, “¡Ay! ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¡Ponte algo de ropa! (What are you doing! Put some clothes on!)” Arcadio laughs and waves her off, knowing the museum is closed while he preps his exhibition for opening tomorrow. 

His new voice is rich on his tongue as he speaks up, “Espero que les guste. La universidad no sabe lo que pagaron ¡ja! (Hope they like it. The uni doesn’t know what they paid for ha!)” His abuelita clicks her tongue, she loves her grandson more than the world but boy if he hasn’t made her old beyond her years. She digs through the lost and found next to her for something that might fit her larger than life grandson and throws it at him. The man laughs and his abuelita can’t help but join in the reverie. She wouldn’t dream of going through his exhibit- que obsceno, que cachondo! But he could do no real wrong in her eyes. So far he’s blown her expectations out of the water with his success and she can’t wait to see what Arcadio gets up to next.

Bravo on this masterpiece.

So I'm a chubby gay White guy, any chance you could turn me into a muscular gay East Asian guy that's a jock that still likes stuff like anime? Or biracial, as long as the more dominant heritage is something like Chinese, Japanese, Korean or Taiwanese.

I'd prefer a build anywhere between a like swimmer/tennis players build, a baseball players build, or a football/rugby players build, I'm not really that picky as long as I have decent abs.

How can a package smell like that?

That's the first thing you think when you pull it from outside. Jesus it's like an armpit in your place just that quickly.

You ordered a bath bomb from that weird website, just out of curiosity and half expecting it to be some kind of scam. You were watching Chainsaw Man when you got a knock on your door. It's one of those soft packages that Amazon sometimes uses but with YourNewBody stamped on it. And at the bottom, rolling around, is the bath bomb.

You open it and get a gamey wallop of pure musk to your face. Images flash through your skull: used jockstraps and cups, sweaty hairy armpits just inches from your face, locker rooms.

You've never even had those thoughts before so why do they feel so....familiar. Like memories almost.

Oh.

You're hard. Your cock pitching a serious tent in your boxers. The muscles flex involuntarily and you groan.

You take the bath bomb out of the package. It's see through and kind of murky from the fluid inside? You've never seen one like this. Hell you've never smelled one like this. You bring it to your nose, take a big whiff.....

And nearly cream your boxers right then and there. Another image: this time of you bent over in a dugout while your teammate - wait teammate - fucks you from behind, your smells - smells? - mixing together despite the open air space. Stranger still, you can't even imagine your body in this memory - fantasy, not a memory, a fantasy - which adds to the artificial feeling of it. You want to see what it'll smell like when you drop it in water.

So you go to your bathtub and fill it. Not even fully comprehending you walking to the tub and plugging in the stopper, and turning on the water. There's a distinctly quieter voice telling you that something is very, very wrong. It's drowned out by this increasing fuzziness, like TV static is filling your head. You should be thinking about your D&D session tomorrow. You should be thinking about trying to get some sleep.

But you're not thinking about that, are you?

Your swollen cockhead seems to become your actual brain. You're fondling the bath bomb like a pair of balls in your hand. What kind of balls? For a split second it's a baseball. Then it's the swinging, sagging, fat, sweaty, hairy, musky balls of one of your teammates, pent up and swollen after a long, hard game. He's fucking your throat while his balls slap your chin. "Good boy." His voice is deep and rough.

That fantasy memory is particularly powerful and compelling.

"UHHHHH."

You open your eyes, both of them bugging out. Both at the loud, whimpering moan you just unleashed and at the involuntary word switch. The static in your head clears just long enough for you to accidentally drop the bath bomb in your bathtub, and it starts dissolving the moment it contacts the water.

The murky liquid spills out and turns your bathwater into pure jock sweat.

The smell it unleashes is intoxicating. Your bathroom is becoming a steamy sauna. The mirror fogs. Your glasses fog and you take them off. Dampness appears on the walls, smelling just like your sweaty bathwater.

You stagger and collapse on the toilet, squirming as you roll your underwater down and kick them off. Tossing them in a pile on the corner. You take your socks off and toss them on top of your boxers. You grip onto the sink as your cock becomes steel. You've never been this hard in your life.

I need to - I need to cum! Holy shit I need to CUM!

You flex your cock - voluntarily this time - and that's all it takes to start cumming. Your orgasm is mind numbingly intense. All you can do is curl your toes and clench your fists, throw your head back and squeeze your eyes shut as you shoot a fountain of cum, it splattering loudly on the tile floor.

After about a minute, it's over.

You open your eyes.

Your cock shouldn't still be hard.

You should be in your - in your - in your...

You should probably be a little scared at the fact that you cannot think of the term refractory period. In fact, it feels like 90% of higher thinking is just shut off for right now. The other 10% is frantically trying to claw back to the surface of this dense, but pleasant fog that's settled in your head. The 90% of you that's in command gets off the toilet and steps towards the alluring smell of your bathwater. You stare at the musky steam rising off it. Your dazed face looking back at you in the water.

You put one foot in. Then the other. You start hyperventilating like you're getting into a cold pool, but the water is so warm. So cozy and inviting. You hold onto the bathtub as you sink into the water. First your ass, then your legs, then your balls and twitching cock.

Then the rest of your body falls as you lose your balance, feet scrambling on the slippery floor as the water envelops your cock. The sensation is so intense you just spasm and let yourself fall. As the entirety of your body falls into the water, droplets landing into your open, panting mouth and on your flushed face, your body sinks a little into the water. You're more compact now. 5'5". Pocket sized really. That shedded mass lands squarely in your balls and they become swollen with your lost height. They touch the bottom of the tub as your legs kick and writhe, splashing water onto the floor. They grow into the huge baseballs you like squeezing when there's downtime, just to feel balls in your hands.

Bigger balls mean more hormones.

The flush of them causes your cock to stretch. And while it's stretching, your pubes grow into the perfect, tangled mess of a landing pad for the syrupy pre-cum that's leaking into the water. You surpass your average length of 4 and a half inches with ease and cruise steadily into 5 and a half. You're moaning with wanton abandon now. That 10% that was concerned about such silly things such as "modesty" has evaporated to like 5% now, and it's a losing battle, because you're leaking with no end in sight as your cock crests to 6 and a half inches. You pump an even larger amount of pre as your beard falls out and lands in the water. With each gush of thicker pre, your body hair just melts away and floats like flotsam in the water. Your armpit hair is still as thick - if not thicker. Your cock finally stops growing at 7 and a half, pulsing, throbbing, inches.

You try your damnedest to steady your breathing. Your cock sticks up proudly in the water, the swollen, purple-ish head nearly breaching the surface. You use all of your might to look down and see that bigger cock. The thicker pubes. Your legs are spread wide to make room for your balls. You place your hands on your lower stomach, your fingers caught in your pubes. It's trembling, quaking. As you look down, huffing and puffing, your chubby stomach suddenly collapses.

The fat doesn't disappear, no, it just makes its presence known behind your nipples which pop out like a distressed belly button. The skin stretches and the nubs pop out and into the water. You're practically screaming with pleasure as the fat in your stomach melts away and slides to your pecs, your abs popping out one by one into a tight six pack, cum gutters sprouting in your thicker waist and pointing to that unbelievably hard cock of yours.

Your pecs inflate with fat and muscle, like big floaties strapped to your chest. You can feel the weight of them as they blow up with muscle and fat, all of the underdeveloped muscles breaking and tearing, strengthening and becoming so much stronger, so much more powerful. You're squirming like a caught rattlesnake right now, water just going everywhere. The crease between your pecs is mouthwatering. Your pink nipples are so suckable. Your abs finally finish growing and settling in. Your pecs heave one final time and crest over them, your underboob just as sensitive as the massive flesh sacs above themselves. You're flooded with memories of your teammates tugging and playing with your tits. Some of them sucking on the fat nipples. Coach massaging oil onto them after a good workout.

Your cock is leaking a steady stream of actual cum but it's not a true orgasm, just a mini one because your body cannot handle this constant edging. Something has to give, right? There's less water in the tub since your body is absorbing the sweaty, thick water.

Your traps fan out and help your shoulders thicken with powerful muscle. You can feel how strong and powerful that neck of yours is. The growth flows downwards into your biceps, arms blowing up so quickly they start rubbing against your pecs, making up come harder and yelp. Your forearms thicken up and your hands - your small little hands - blow up into meaty paws. You take your arms out of the water - god they're so heavy - and expose your rank pit to the air.

None of your teammates are around so your own pit will have to do. Your other hand worships and rubs your abs.

You lick and kiss your fat, bulging bicep. Your feet stretch bigger, wider, longer. The less than 1% of the old you left marvels at your size 7 feet bloating into massive size 14 stompers, your toes and soles crawling up the tub and breaching the water's surface.

You're fucking an invisible ass. With every thrust of your stronger, wider hips, your own ass starts growing. You've experienced a massive amount of weight loss and fat redistribution, and conservation of mass requires that shaved off mass to go somewhere. It can't go to your pecs, so it fills up your ass and stretches your hole like it's made of rubber. Your ass is going to be the talk of the town. You won't be able to hide it. Visible through your pants, chewing up boxers and briefs, absolutely stretching out any jockstrap you wear. Jiggling and so enticing, literally striking men dumb and horny. And once they get a taste of that puckering hole - or even better, fuck it - they'll be just as blank and dumb as you are.

There's nothing left of the old you. All of those old worries and thoughts flood into your ass, converted into pure, strong muscle, making that fat ass perky and sit higher on your lower body.

Your thighs expand with muscle and fat, inflating and rubbing together, squeezing your balls and making you squeal. Your calves brush up against the tub, flexing and becoming massive. Your legs have the ability to carry that dumpy of yours and then some. You can carry your teammates for miles. You can straddle and ride a dick into the sunset. Your hole is built for milking every last drop out of your teammates' - and Coach's? - balls. They're pure bulk, those legs, and strong enough to crush a watermelon.

You scream as your face collapses and rearranges. Bone structure becomes more defined as your jaw hardens and your cheekbones become softly pronounced. Your nose pops bigger into the crook of your elbow and your sense of smell actually improves. You take in all your musk, and all the musk of the bathwater all at once. You can even smell the cum boiling in your balls, so you know you're closer than ever.

Your brain shrinks even further. You're only really able to piece together basic sentences and even then, it's gonna take a while for you to construct it and speak it. And when you're horny? Forget about it. You're only thinking about your teammates and pleasing Coach. The next game. You don't really play all that much, but you're a good distraction for the opposing team. No matter how good of a pitcher, they'll make easy mistakes because they'll be too busy staring at your bountiful ass squeezed into your uniform. And if you remember to wear a shirt, your nipples poking against the fabric and those swaying tits when you don't remember to wear a shirt. The latter option happens more often.

You grab your cock with both hands - yes it's a two-hander now - and you start fucking your fist. As you fuck your fist, your body goes through the last change. Your white skin begins darkening, well beyond a normal tan. You're changing race. You open your eyes, for just a second, as you watch your face rearrange one final time and you become Korean. You shut your eyes again as the tan spreads to your tits, beefs them up further, the color spreading to your pink nipples and making them dark and even more sensitive. It spreads down to your abs and arms. Wherever it touches, that area of your body beefs up.

Bigger biceps, bigger shoulders, stronger abs.

Thicker pubes.

Stronger thighs and bigger calves.

Then it hits your cock.

And you explode.

Your cock darkens and your balls become even bigger. You gain that half inch and become a full, mighty, 8 inches hard. Your cum is so thick. Musky. You hug yourself as you cum hands free, hips bucking, balls swinging. You don't see the water absorb your cum, keeping it clear but even smellier.

You finally stop cumming.

Open your eyes just a bit, prettier eyelashes fluttering.

You are hot shit.

You slowly rise out of the water. Muscles exhausted. Cumming is its own workout. You step out of the tub and onto the tiles with your bigger feet. Your cock softens yes but it's gonna exist at a permanent, dripping semi 99% of the time. The 1% reserved for sleeping really.

"Oh, I should probably let the water out huhuh."

You reach into the water. Moaning as the smell hits you in the face. You let it drain, along with your cum and lost body hair.

You see your boxers and socks on the floor but even from here they look too small. You don't think anything of it - mostly because you can't really think anymore. You must've bought the wrong size by accident. You're not totally helpless - hey you've made it this far in life with that dull brain of yours, you've got your own apartment and everything - but sometimes you let easy things slip by you.

You stumble out of the bathroom. Holding onto the walls for support. You're not used to this weight. This sensitivity. The way everything feels so heavy. You let slip a dumb laugh as you creep into your bedroom.

Your laptop's on the bed. The screen open. It's buzzing with notifications. You don't recognize the names. You try your hardest to force a connection in your cotton candy brain but nothing comes up.

"What's a D&D?"

Your meaty chest rises and falls. You close out the text messaging app. People are asking for some guy whose name you don't even know, asking if you're ready for tomorrow's session. Probably the wrong number. The only thing you've got going on tomorrow is practice. Which lets be honest - the only thing getting "practiced" is that insatiable hole of yours, and your throat.

You search around but can't find anything to put in your twitching asshole. You shrug and stick two fingers in your ass and start fingering yourself. Your just used cock rising to attention, as you look at your computer screen.

Holy shit you forgot you were watching Chainsaw Man! You fill with glee. You love this show! Any anime really because it's pretty easy for you to follow and you don't get bored.

Now, if only you could just remember what episode you were on .....

LIKE OR REBLOG IF YOU WANT TO TURN INTO A SWEATY, BELCHING BODYBUILDER OVERNIGHT!

To just give in and let the change take you... Perfect.

More Than a Costume

It was supposed to be just a one-time gag. At least, that was what Jake told himself when he first bought the bodysuit. And maybe he did believe it at first. He’d buy the bodysuit, wear it, and show up at his friend’s costume party for cheap laughs. Jake was certainly the talk of the party when he showed up with an all-new identity. After all, who could’ve expected that the lanky white guy would come looking like a genuine Latino with tattoos and a goatee? The bodysuit was so realistic that people didn’t believe him when he said he was actually just Jake wearing a costume. It even earned him 1st place in the costume contest, too!

Once the costume party was over, Jake didn’t know what to do with the bodysuit. He couldn’t return it now that it was used, and after spending $100 on it, Jake didn’t feel right about just throwing it out after only wearing it once. So he decided it would just remain hanging at the back of his closet until the occasion called for it. But as time passed, Jake found himself wanting to wear it again. No matter what he did, his mind wandered back to the Latino bodysuit. It was almost like it was subliminally calling out for him, begging him to wear it again. Jake tried to resist its call, but then he gave into the temptation one night. 

Jake took out the bodysuit from the depths of his closet and held it in his hands. The rubbery suit felt cool against his fingertips. When he first bought the suit, Jake was shocked by how lifelike the synthetic skin looked and felt. Even after some time, he was still thoroughly impressed by it. 

Not wanting to waste any more time, Jake zipped down the zipper on the back of the bodysuit and stretched the opening wide. Jake stuck his leg down the leg of the costume then did the same with the other as he began to pull up the suit to his waist. The sensation of his flaccid dick slipping into the bodysuit’s much girthier cock made goosebumps run up his spine as the cold, rubbery skin touched and wrapped around his warm groin. A shivering moan escaped Jake’s lips as his junked settled into the bodysuit like a snug jockstrap cup. 

Jake was much skinnier than the bodysuit, making for a loose fit as he continued putting it on. He stuck his arms into the sleeves of the bodysuit. His thin fingers slipped into the suit’s burly hands. He brought the suit up to his shoulders, then threw the head of the costume over his face like a helmet. Jake bounced around with glee once he had the suit completely on. The suit hung loosely over his face, chest, and other spots around his body like baggy clothes. Although it was clearly much too big for his small body frame, Jake wasn’t worried. All it took was a few minutes for his body heat to “activate” the bodysuit and bring it to life. He took a deep breath as he felt the oversized bodysuit shift and adjust to his size until it was a perfect fit. What was once a cold, lifeless suit made out of synthetic skin transformed into a living, breathing person like any other once Jake put it on. So long as he kept his lips shut, nobody would ever be able to tell there was a white man controlling this synthetic Latino body. 

“Mmm… ¡mi nuevo cuerpo se siente magnífico!” Jake purred as he ran his forefinger through his scruffy facial. He massaged his neck as he spoke with his new, thick Puerto Rican accent. As someone with a relatively high-pitched voice and couldn’t grow anything beyond peach fuzz, Jake was jealous of other men who had the masculine features he always found attractive. 

He took a look at his handsome new face in the mirror and winked at himself. Jake felt right at home in his new skin and identity. As he donned the multiple piercings that came with his purchase before heading out for a night of fun as Rodrigo, Jake had no idea what putting on the bodysuit for a second time would do to his psyche. Bodysuits were addicting to wear. They made every physical sensation stronger, including and especially pleasure. That was a lesson that Jake would have to learn the hard way as he continued living as Rodrigo for days on end, refusing to take it off as he had fully convinced himself that he was always a Latino man and not some rubber bodysuit.

Would love to see what other versions of myself are out there!

Hey there, cutie. I've been carefully observing the timelines across the multiverse and I think I've found some interesting ones I would say. Let me first start with one not far from ours. 😉

Meet your brazilian self.

In this sun-kissed universe, your parents were Brazilian, and it shows in every sultry curve of your body. You're a free spirit, always chasing the next wave or beach party under the tropical sun, where the only thing hotter than the sand is the lustful gaze of the locals.

Your olive skin glistens with a sheen of coconut oil as you soak up the rays, and your dark hair flows in the ocean breeze like silk threads begging to be tangled in a passionate embrace. When night falls, you trade in your caipirinha and board shorts for a tight pair of jeans that hug every inch of your physique, ready to heat things up on the dance floor or in a private cabana.

Now, I want you to imagine a reality where Arabs dominate the world and shaped every corner of existence, blending all races into their superior form through generations of intermarriage and genetic manipulation, with lesser races either becoming arabized over time or enslaved.

In this universe, you're the epitome of Middle Eastern masculinity - strong, commanding, and unapologetically in control.

You're a wealthy and powerful alpha male at the pinnacle of this genetically superior race. Your dark hair is always perfectly coiffed, framing a face that exudes confidence, power, and an insatiable drive for achievement.

You exude an aura of confidence and dominance, attracting both admiration and desire from all who lay eyes on you. Every inch of your chiseled body is honed to perfection - from the defined ridges of your chest to your powerful bulge straining against your luxurious clothes.

Next, in another parallel universe, your DNA took a different path, resulting in athletic prowess and an unrelenting passion for the game of basketball.

You're an unstoppable force on the basketball court - lean, muscular, and dripping with sweat after a grueling game. Your chiseled muscles were honed from hours at the gym and a work ethic that leaves opponents in the dust.

Your dark skin glistens with sweat as you leap for a dunk, your brawn and agility making you nearly unstoppable. Off the court, you're charming and charismatic, always ready to charm your fans or give back to your community.

Last but certainly not least, meet your latino fuckboy self in a reality where you're part of an irresistible majority. Here, everyone's got that extra je ne sais quoi - those piercing eyes, that chiseled jawline, that uncanny ability to make anyone fall head over heels in love with just a wink and a smile.

In this realm, you're a tatted-up playboy, always high on life and weed as you navigate the vibrant streets of your city. Your inked skin tells stories of your adventures and conquests, while your confident swagger and sly grins leave women and men weak in the knees.

You're the ultimate player, always on the lookout for the next conquest... but deep down, you crave something real, someone who can handle your wild side without getting too clingy.

So there you have it! As we gaze into these alternate realities, we're reminded that our perception of ourselves is fluid and malleable. These versions of you challenge traditional notions of identity, proving that with a shift in perspective, even the most familiar aspects of ourselves can be reimagined in provocative new ways. So the next time you catch your reflection, consider the infinite possibilities lurking just beyond the mirror...