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

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

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.

Wondering if this position is still available?

1:1

"You're my 1:30?"

Leo nearly jumps out of skin and looks up at the CEO in front of him.

"Y-Yes."

Leo fumbles as he stands up, awkwardly shoving his sweaty palm for the man to shake. The man, Costas Mandelieu, is not only hot as fuck, but also the CEO of some hugely popular coffee company that has a bunch of locations around the country. Leo remembered there being a location on campus before he graduated, and then noticing a rather large influx of hot gay men walking around campus. The place became this kind of second gay bar.

And he never stepped foot inside.

He was confident he would've been laughed right out the door. Everyone there was thickly built meatheads or otherwise muscular jocks. And Leo? Leo was a chubby little nerd who kept his head down so no one would notice him. Granted, the guys walking in and out of the coffee shop looked big and intimidating but they were genuinely some of the nicest (and dumbest) people Leo had ever spoken to.

But still, one too many cruel rejections later has taught Leo not to judge books by their covers.

"Pleasure to meet you."

Costas' voice is rich, deep, coming right out of his thick chest. Leo tries to ignore the flush of horny bashfulness that overtakes him. This is professional. The job interview that could set him up for life.

Costas' smile, warm and inviting, sends a flurry of butterflies in Leo's stomach as he follows Costas to his office. Inside, it's all warm wood and the smell of a rich, cedarwood air freshener hits his nose. It's the most beautiful space Leo has ever been in, and he gawks at everything openly as Costas shuts the door behind him.

Imposter syndrome sets in like a knife. Surely there's other candidates out here? Why him? And....is his hand on Leo's lower back? This close Leo can smell him - his expensive cologne, the heady smell of masculine sweat underneath - as Costas gently guides the befuddled man some leather chairs by his desk. He motions for Leo to sit and he does, confused and feeling a not entirely unwelcome horniness settle in his body. Costas makes a glass of tea. Leo closes his legs as he watches Costas sit and rearrange himself, his massive bulge obvious through his slacks.

"Now this position is a very intimate lifetime position with me, so I don't want you to get caught off guard if I ask some personal questions."

Leo nods and looks around. The job description was so coy with details he wouldn't be surprised (or upset) if Costas was asking him to be a personal sex toy.

"Ready?"

Costas smiles again and Leo's insides melt.

Focus.

"Yes."

Costas clears his throat. He takes a sip from his tea and sets it down again. The tea smells....weird. A funky odor normally associated with the gym seems to waft from the cup. It's not gross....but it does increase the haze of horniness that's really taking root in Leo's head.

Focus.

"So how old are you Leo?"

"23."

"23?" Costas whistles as if this is some impressive age. "I remember when I was your age I had a hair trigger at the best of times."

It all happens so fast.

One second he's listening to Costas, then the next he's gasping for air, clutching onto the chair's armrest and trying to stifle his moans as his cock shoots to full attention and makes a very, very obvious imprint on his jeans. Even worse: his cock starts firing like a hose, a huge wet spot spreading across his crotch.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! I'm so sorry. I don't -."

He lifts his crotch in the air as he cums, as if he's angling for one of the ropes of cum he's firing to splatter on the floor. The entirety of his dick and balls is lit up with warmth like a Christmas tree of pleasure. Costas holds up his hands and makes placating, calming a startled horse gestures.

"It's alright. No really it's okay. You didn't masturbate today, did you?"

No. No he didn't.

That's why he's so pent up.

When he finally stops cumming, he settles down and tries to cover the huge wet spot on his jeans. God he can smell it from here. And it's so much. He's never produced that much cum before, right? He sits down and when he readjusts himself, his eyes widen when he notices that his balls feel much bigger than they should, their weight is obvious and pressing down on the chair.

"How often do you usually masturbate?"

"Onc - uh - four times a day usually. Wait that's not true."

"I understand. I've got a pair of knockers down there as well."

With that, Leo's balls swell further. His cock once again springing to attention as his nuts droop and sag under their weight. Half of his bulge now seems to be made of his churning, swelling balls. He feels like he's being edged, cock dancing just on the edge of a lightning rod orgasm before pulling back. He's grinding his flabby ass against the seat, trying to relieve the sudden sexual pressure. He's white-knuckling the chair and gritting his teeth as beads of sweat drip down his forehead. He brings his knees together tight.

"What the fuck is - huff huff - happening?"

"An interview."

"No, something's ... Oh...."

Leo's cock begins raining pre. He can feel it travel up his cock and ooze out of the swollen mushroom head at the top. It doesn't help either that Costas is touching his own cock, the massive fuckstick spreading against his thigh.

"It's 10 inches." Costas smiles as Leo rocks back and forth in the chair. "And, sheesh, yours is, what, eight?"

Leo throws his head back, mouth falling open, as a chorus of sexual moans and sounds fall out of his mouth. His locked legs fly open into a huge V. He feels like he's actually being fucked, or an expert is giving him the best handjob of his life. His cock pulses and pounds with blood as it stretches forward, cum leaking to no end out of his cockhead, those 6 inches growing with each pulse of blood that forces his prized organ larger and larger. It swells against his thigh, thickening with proportional girth as well, slipping out of his underwear as the sensitive head flops against his hairy thigh. Leo whimpers as his cock pushes forward. It's taking all of his willpower not to touch it, stroke it like Costas is stroking his cock through his pants. He finally manages to look down at his now big cock, straining the fabric of his jeans, feeling so stifled with those massive balls, the zipper of his jeans pulling down to try and accommodate his newly massive genitals. His cock oozes more pre, as if his balls are taking advantage of the extra space to pump and produce more sexual fluids out of his cock. His brain feels like it's landed squarely in his balls. Whatever thoughts of escaping whatever Costas is doing to him are immediately interrupted by a new burning need to cum, by the dense thundercloud of hormones tearing through his body.

Costas has taken off his jacket and he's just in his expensive button down. He reaches into his shirt and gropes one of his huge pecs. Leo is so hard, so sweaty, so turned on by this. Mouth hanging open as he tries to focus on anything. But his brain is going haywire.

"Hung bottoms are my weakness."

Leo pitches forward, moaning like he's being fucked as his asshole twitches and throbs. He hangs onto the armrests to prevent from falling as his cock throbs harder, his bigger dick making him moan even more lewdly. It's pure pornography coming out of his mouth as his voice shoots up an octave, cracking a little as his gut gurgles and shifts. Everyone in this fucking office building can probably hear him.

But he.....doesn't care?

He feels the fat in his stomach sliding down into his tightening ass, the underused muscles strengthening and flexing against the onslaught of fatty mass that lands solidly in his ass, pushing it outwards and making it firm but still bouncy, and jiggly. He grits his teeth, hissing with pleasure as his ass rips through his underwear, and screams in pleasure as the sensitive, jiggling globes press against his jeans, putting immense pressure on them as the seams start breaking apart to let his massive ass take up the space it needs. He loses several inches in height, the lost mass resettling in his still inflating ass, the sensation mind-numbingly good.

The bones in his hands pop and rearrange, the palms inflating a little but not a lot, his fingers sucking away excess fat and moving it to his ass. His newly sensitive hole feels like it's burning. Burning with emptiness. He gyrates his massive ass - god they're like beach balls!! - against the leather, desperate for some relief in his increasingly horny, frazzled mind. It's the ass of his dreams. Except it's now hanging off his lower back at a severe angle, and he can feel the weight of it over his trembling thighs, as heat pours into them.

His thighs become fleshy pillars to support his fat ass. He squeezes his eyes shut as he feels the muscles grow and tone, solidifying as whatever excess fat his body can suck away in his flattening stomach falls into them, growing them big enough to split the seams of his jeans. He squeezes his thighs, like he's trying to prevent them from growing bigger, splitting apart his jeans as the muscles flex and continue growing. His calves harden and become solid diamonds pressing against his jeans. He rubs the smooth - wait, smooth!? - flesh of his thighs and shakes his legs, the rolling muscles making his eyes cross with pleasure as they close around the space of his overheated balls.

"M - Mr. Mandelieu."

Costas' Mr. Mandelieu's cock is in his hand, all 10 slick glorious inches.

Leo's feet shrink and collapse. The size 12s rearranging onto soft size 9s, his shoes slipping off and collapsing on the floor. His socks hanging off his diminished feet. He flexes his still shrinking toes and bucks, literally thrusts into the air like a bull, as his cock starts spurting cum again, this time breaking the zipper of his jeans and flopping out, firing all over the expensive carpet and his shirt, the cum raining down on his denser, muskier pubes. With each volley of cum, he feels more of himself slipping away. His head feels emptier, his thoughts taking longer to manifest and come together. He feels a little afraid as Mr. Mandelieu says, "You don't ever skip chest day, do you?"

Leo's nipples press so hard against his shirt his hands fly off the chair and grab them, twist and pull as the fat in his chest recedes into his ass and thighs, growing them bigger and causing more fabric to buckle and break under the pressure. A great slither of his crack sits against the leather making him moan and groan, pull his nipples harder as muscle swells behind them.

"Ahhh AH!"

His back arches as small, hard pecs begin mounting on his chest, right above his flat stomach. The muscles are tightening and expanding around his skin. He yanks and pulls on his nipples like he's trying to force milk out of his growing chest. But really he's just pulling his pecs forward, coaxing pure muscle into his hands as the pink buds in his hands bloat into sensitive salamis. His chest broadens and forces his shoulders wider to make room for his burgeoning chest, muscles flexing without his control as they surge forward, big tight slabs of jock muscle that split the buttons of his shirt with their size. It takes him more than a moment to realize the little strands of his chest hair he once grew are no longer there. When he looks into his waistband, he sees that the only hair on his body is the dense bush of pubes crowning his cock. And the smell....it's so...strong. His musk and man stink has never really been that intense. Now it smells like he's just been sweating all day in a jockstrap. The flesh behind his nipples surge one final time with muscle and his pecs firmly mount themselves on his upper torso, making him unleash a low, whiny groan.

Mr. Mandelieu's pants are down now. Cock and huge balls fully in view. The gamey wallop of his scent hits Leo in the nose and makes him moan louder, as he cums again. But this time, the orgasm doesn't even scratch the surface of his horny mind. It feels good, yes, but god there's a better orgasm hiding underneath that.

"Mr. - pant pant - Mandelieu."

"Yes?"

He's tweaking one of his own nipples now, heaving his hairy pecs out of his shirt. Leo tries his best to resettle, sitting on his cushion-like ass and spasming the unfamiliar pleasure racing through him.

"Please...."

"Do you want to stop?"

Do I?

"I just want to cum."

"Then cum."

That better orgasm lances through him like a sword. He arches his back into the bridge position and just lets cum rain all over his smooth, tight chest, his smaller torso. This time, he begins to feel...scratchy in his clothes. Like they're really not fitting him right. He takes off his torn jeans and his broken shirt. Stripping out of them as his orgasm begins to subside, his still dripping cock sending droplets of cum all over the carpet. He's vaguely aware of the seductive way he's stripping out of his clothes, like a stripper almost. Thrusting out his chest, cock, and ass. Throwing his clothes away and just lying there in his ruined briefs, which finally tear off as his hips creak wider and stronger, allowing a final flood of fatty muscle to land in his ass and send another cum rocket out of his cock.

"You're turning out nicely."

"Thank you Mr. - Sir."

Sir?

He places his hands on his stomach, writhing in the chair, completely naked, the leather sending sparks of jittery pleasure up his body because of how sensitive his sweaty skin is. The flatness is weird. Hot, but weird. He runs his smaller hands over it, afraid to go higher and accidentally touch one of his thumbtack hard, and sized, nipples.

"Sir, what's - what's happening to me?"

"Well I'll tell you. But first I have to compliment that core of yours."

The wind is knocked out of him in a breathy moan, as his stomach tightens. The tightening is accompanied by a rush of blood to his kind of softening cock, as cum gutters - genuine cum gutters - carve into his waist. He throws his head back against the headrest in pure bliss as abs forge their way through his taut and sensitive skin. He barely understands what Mr. Sir is saying. But from what he can gather from his increasingly addled mind is that that previous horny wish of being a personal sex toy might actually be happening.

Leo groans and shifts in his seat as his abs and core continue strengthening, his core strong enough along with his thighs, hips, and ass, to ride and milk a dick to within an inch of its life. His cock is just oozing, each pulse forcing out more cum like he's squeezing a dish rag full of cum.

"My usual, they're busy running the gym and all the other Coffee shops. I'm just looking for someone more consistent."

Leo's abs settle into place. They're beautiful. All lined up in a neat row. He runs his fingers up and down the tight, cobblestone skin.

"You smell so good sir."

"Thank you."

His laugh makes Leo whimper and moan.

"Why don't you come over here and give me a kiss with those big fat lips of yours."

And he does. He gets up and nearly falls backwards due to the weight hanging on his lower body. Sir meets him halfway and pulls him in, hand tantalizingly close to his round, voluptuous ass.

Leo's lips plump up and expand. Kissable, perky, lips to wrap around a cock and never let go. The kiss with Sir makes Leo nearly cum right then and there, made even more unbearable by Sir's big, massive hands rubbing and caressing, and spanking those bountiful cheeks. He has to stand on his tiptoes to meet Sir's beautiful lips.

Then he breaks it. Leo just whimpers.

"Flex for me."

His soft, flabby biceps expand and grow. It's an orgasm via his biceps, the fat redistributing throughout his body. Lower and into his pecs, filling them out more. Even lower and into his ass that pushes against Sir's hand as his pit hair grows bushier and stronger. He collapsed into Sir's body as his arms continue to grow lithe and muscular, strong but not overly large biceps. He kisses Sir's neck, grinding against his thigh, their fat cocks brushing against each other as Sir's grumbling moans resonate and bounce around in Leo's emptying skull. The world around him seems to warp and shimmer.

"Why don't you take a look at yourself?"

Suddenly, they're not in the office but a pool. Sir is in a Speedo with his fat cock visible right through it, the bulge making Leo's hole twinge.

A big sprawling house looms in the distance. Leo looks around, his dumbing mind confused but not at all frightened. When he sees himself in the reflection of the pool house's glass, he's floored.

Sir's Daddy's hand stays firmly on Leo's ass. Everything feels blindingly good. Except the emptiness that's been in his ass the entire time his body has been morphed and bent to Sir's will.

He's guided to one of the many couches and sits Leo on his lap, the sensation of Daddy's swollen cock between his massive ass, teasing that sensitive hole rocks Leo to his core.

"Do you want to be my himbo?"

Leo feverishly nods. To keep feeling everything this good. He doesn't feel worried, or afraid, or concerned. His old life drips and drops out of his cock. He knows that as soon as Daddy's cock enters him, that old life will be like a long dream.

A lifetime position.

Daddy lifts him up and is about to position him above his massive cock.

"Wait!"

He pauses.

"We can still stop if you don't want this."

Leo sheepishly looks around the gorgeous property. All his. His to use. His to fuck in. Do whatever.

"Can you make me a little beefier?"

Daddy nods.

Then he plunges all of his cock into Leo's ass. His brain ignites with pleasure, a huge campfire of sex just lit up. The Big One - the No Going Back orgasm - rocks his frame and he paints Daddy's big, broad chest with his cum as he bounces on Daddy's cock like a pogo stick. Working Daddy's cock deeper inside of him, stretching his hole and pounding his prostate, literally making him howl with sexual gratification. He sifts through his dulling mind and realizes that, okay, he can do basic math. He can still take care of himself. But whenever he tries reaching into that well of higher thought and concern, he simply draws a blank. Daddy wraps his arms around Leo as he cums, thick ropey cum landing deep in Leo's body.

This cum is then distributed around Leo's tight body as he groans and shakes, cum firing out of his cock again. His pecs become fuller, softer, fat filling in the space around his muscles, stretching and dragging his nipples and chest across Daddy's body, intensifying his orgasm. His ass and thighs grow jigglier but no less strong, squeezing Daddy's cock and making him groan. His abs bloat slightly and push against Daddy's stomach. He hugs Daddy tightly as he's overwhelmed with love and deep affection for him.

The horny fog finally lifts.

When Costas pulls out with a slick pop! , Leo sees his finalized form as he slumps into the empty space on the couch, exhausted and content.

"How do you feel big guy?"

Leo rests his head on Costas' chest, wraps his thicker, beefier arms around his body and begins drifting off to sleep with a faint smile on his face. Costas laughs and kisses Leo on the top of his head, pulling him in tight.

Truthfully, Leo's the happiest he's ever been.

I hate my job as a professor. I've been doing this for three decades. I see this big oafs that come on a football scholarship or wrestling scholarship and just wonder how easy my life would be if I was one of them.

snap

Professor, what’s another word for pirate treasure?

That’s right. Booty! Now back that ass up and let’s embiggen it. Embiggen? Is that a word? How would you know - you’re fucking dumb as shit. Look at you, laughing at your own farts.

But wait, your arms are too thin. Flex 'em for me and watch them grow. Amazing, right? Oh I forgot you're slower now. Let me take it down to your level: Arms big, bro!

I’ll add some muscle here, flatten this part there. Tighten up your pits a bit (I love jock pits). And there you are. A football muscle jock. Lift up that jersey and show us what you're working with you sexy beast.

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...

I love cop TFs.

Cop Out

Nick, a young, headstrong journalist, had been investigating strange goings-on at the police department for months. Odd reports of trainees at the police academy disappearing while the number of senior cops seemed to increase, and without any known source of extra funding. But his only informant, a trainee at the academy himself, soon mysteriously vanished as well. Convinced the police were covering something up, Nick felt compelled to investigate.

Before they fell off the grid, Nick’s informants mentioned a company that seemed to be tied up with the disappearances - New You Industries. But despite his best efforts, the intrepid investigator couldn’t find any reference to such a business ever having existed. The last he heard from his mole was that a shipment was due to arrive at the police training academy in a week.

And so, seven days later, Nick found himself staking out the storage garage of the academy in the dead of night. From a long distance in the safety of his car, he snapped pictures of a man getting out of an unmarked car and handing three small boxes to someone Nick recognized the city’s police chief, Chief Barrow. But this evidence was meaningless without knowing what the shipment contained.

He waited patiently for all parties to depart and snuck up on the garage, snapping the lock with bolt cutters and using his camera’s flash to illuminate the pitch-black room. Nick was dismayed to find two police badges sitting on the shelf, along with three boxes, now empty.

“Did I just stake out a shipment of police badges?” Nick muttered to himself. He jumped back in fright as the lights were suddenly switched on.

“C-Chief Barrow?” Nick stammered as he turned to see the police chief standing next to the light switch.

“You think we didn’t know you’d been following us?” he growled as he stepped toward Nick.

“What happened to the students?! Did you kill them?!” Nick yelled as if to try and bolster himself against the fear he was currently experiencing.

The police chief stopped in his tracks and made a sly expression, “They’re not dead. They’re in the station, working.”

“W-what?” Nick replied with the same look of bewilderment, “I-I was told students were vanishing from the academy?”

“They got - how should I say this - fast-tracked through the program,” Barrow responded with a smirk, “You’re about to find how. Catch!”

Nick flinched as the chief tossed a small metallic object at him. Reacting instinctively, Nick caught it in his hands. It was a badge, just like the two behind him. He shuddered and his hand tensed around the badge. Incredible energy surged up his arm and spread through him. He desperately wanted to let go of the enchanted badge, but he couldn’t.

“Sorry, but we can’t have you reporting on this,” Barrow chuckled as he exited and slammed the garage closed behind him. As the door crashed down Nick’s legs gave out and he fell to his knees, his fingers still firmly grasping the badge. The young journalist was terrified, but at the same time engrossed in the power bubbling through his body. Finally, his fingers unclenched and dropped the badge to the floor, but the damage had been done. Nick pushed onto all fours and let out a long moan as his body began to change.

His legs stretched out from his slacks, exposing more and more of his shins. Likewise, his arms extended from his sleeves while his entire torso was pulled longer and longer. “What’s ah… happening to me?!” Nick groaned as his cock hardened to full mast.

Muscles fluttered and twitched all over his body. They grew across his arms, bulging from his biceps and triceps as his shoulders grew wider, tearing at his shirt. Pecs slowly protruded from his bony chest, growing large and dense. Abs rippled out along his stomach, leading down to a sharper, V-shaped set of cum gutters. His legs surged with strength, copious amounts of muscle growing and forming in his thighs and calves, stretching his fly apart and revealing the wet, hard, bulging underwear underneath. Behind him, his flat butt began to press outward, bigger and rounder, matching his thick, muscular thighs.

He couldn’t help himself, clasping at the exposed muscle as hairs darted across the surface. Soon he found himself grabbing fabric, much to his surprise. He opened his eyes to see his tattered clothes repairing and reshaping into the uniform of the local precinct. His bulging arms still strained the new shirt. A bulky, heavy vest replete with a radio and utilities formed over the top.

“Ngh! Fuck!” he grunted, bucking his hips involuntarily as his feet stretched and pressed against his tight leather brogues just as they too morphed to accommodate his changing body. The pressure lowered as his size nine dress shoes rapidly bloated outward into heavy, size fourteen boots. Long toes shredded through his socks, clutching at the insole as they stretched along with his extending soles.

Nick clambered to his feet, clutching his head, only to feel his hair pulling inward, short and tidy. Not only that, but he could feel some hair vanishing completely from his temples, leaving him with the slightly receded hairline of a man maybe five or more years older than he was. His fingers cracked as they began to slide longer across his scalp, pushing through the neat, handsome cut of hair. He held the stretching, trembling hands in front of him, gasping as he watched them swell huge and powerful.

He slammed his massive fists into the wall with a deepening roar, feeling his head creak and reshape. His features broadened and enlarged. A strong chin and jaw pressed out of his face and light stubble sprouted from the skin. “Must be… some way to s-stop this…” Nick groaned, his eyes widening at the sound of his new and completely unfamiliar voice. Nick frantically reached for the police badge on the floor that had started all of this, hoping, praying for some way to revert his changes. His eyes scanned the metallic chest piece, but there was no sign of any method to stall or revert what was happening. Rather, he caught a glimmer of his new reflection in the shiny metal. Nick’s wide, handsome jaw fell open at the sight. Not only did he look easily seven or more years older, but he looked completely different; he couldn’t help but think he looked much manlier and sexier.

Meanwhile, downstairs, his hard cock ached for touch as it stretched down the leg of his pants. “Oh, god!” Nick gasped. His balls swelled larger while his python thickened and lengthened against his muscular leg. He couldn’t contain himself anymore, pulling the fly on his new pants down and fishing his swelling cock out, allowing it to stretch into the open. He couldn’t believe how big it had already gotten, easily inches larger than what he was used to. Reluctant but unable to resist, he gripped it in his hand and pumped, growling loudly with every stroke. Nick was too busy relishing his increased size and virility to realize his mind was filling with policing skills and years of experience. Before he knew it he had an eight-inch weapon in his hand. He couldn’t take it anymore; his height, his muscles, his size. He felt so virile, so masculine, so powerful. Screaming in ecstasy, Nick blew load after load against the concrete wall.

Once the post-orgasmic fog lifted, Nick quickly tidied himself and brushed a large hand through his shorter hair, dazed and confused. His memory was intact, but they competed for attention with new skills, desires, and traits. The muscular sergeant lifted the garage door with ease, spotting Chief Barrow waiting for him in the car park just in the distance.

“Ready, Sergeant?” Barrow asked.

“I… I…”, Nick stuttered as he looked down at his muscular frame, suddenly noticing how much taller he was now. His huge cock twitched in response, causing Nick to moan just a little. “Y-Yes, sir!” he parroted as he proceeded toward the car, eagerly accepting his new life as Officer Nick Collins.