How About A Minotaur Transformation Where A Guy Goes To A Ranch And Ends Up Turning Into A Buff Dull

How about a minotaur transformation where a guy goes to a ranch and ends up turning into a buff dull witted bull man pulling the plow, working as a farmhand, and all the heavy labour at the ranch, maybe being a part of a herd of minotaur ranchers.

Ooh, that does sound good. I’ll need to add that to my plate. I do have a few other stories I need to complete first.

The Military Daze series reminds me of an idea of mine of a guy turning into a buff new green army man toy, slowly shrinking and converted into living plastic before becoming indistinguishable from other green army men toys.

I remember that suggestion. Unfortunately, life has prevented me from being able to do much with it. I do have a chess piece transformation in the works, though. At least in my head. Found a perfect image to caption for it, but a lot of my time is being put into searching for a job right now. It sucks, but real life has to come first.

Hey Omni! I love all your work and I realized you never finished the Working Like A Thrall story. Are you ever planning on continuing/finishing that?

I’m glad you enjoyed those two chapters. I actually have several more posted on my FA account.Address: https://www.furaffinity.net/user/omnikitsune/

Just go into my gallery, and you’ll be able to see the other chapters I’ve written thus far in the series. I’m not sure how to complete it just yet, and I still have some commissions I need to get out of the way, not to mention rewards for my Patreon donors, but I will get back to the story eventually.

P.S. You’ll also find many stories there that I haven’t posted here yet. ;)

Pulling out the Stops (Patreon Preview)

“H-help me.”

I watched Milo as he strained at the weight machine. The man had exploded into a tower of lean, powerful muscle since the last time I’d seen him. His shorts strained against a set of thighs that were thick as tree trunks. His biceps were larger than footballs, and sweat caused the fabric of his too-tight tank to cling to his pecs and abs like a filmy sheet. I could practically see through it to the skin and weight belt that lay beneath. The bad-boy fauxhawk he used to model had been neatly trimmed down to the point where it would barely qualify as a cowlick over the patch of stubble that was now his hair. High and tight. He licked his lips desperately as he stared at me with pleading eyes.

“I tried to warn you,” I said....

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Here’s a teaser to my latest patreon story. For as little as a dollar a month, you get first view at my transformation stories before anybody else. (It also helps pay my bills, so I can have more time to write these things.) Higher tiers give you bigger perks. Feel free to stop by and take a look. Link below.

https://www.patreon.com/omnitf

Freedom

I’d put in my time, followed every exercise, modified my diet, changed my schedule, altered my social life. Anything it took to get the body I wanted.

Anything.

I worked till my muscles were sore. I pressed until I was ready to drop dead. Eventually, my body just went sort of ... numb. Then I’d push it to the next limit, and my body would ache again. I learned to love that ache. I yearned for it. Whatever it took to carve my body into that perfect bodybuilder shape.

I’d look into a mirror to check my progress, and I would laugh. I used to motivate myself with speeches or the occasional affirmation. Eventually, those would shorten to a few words. Then grunts and growls. I would flex and watch the veins rise from my skin, then bare my teeth. It became about power, strength. The bigger I got, the better the high.

I wanted, needed more. I was willing to do anything.

And then I found it. You’ve heard of Fight Club. Well, this place follows the same premise. A friend, ... well, more like a packmate, really, showed me where to go. Sort of an exclusive club, he’d said. A place where we could really beast out.

I’ll tell you what, that place taught me the meaning of being a big fish from a small pond swimming to the ocean. The men there worked with only one thing on their minds, getting as big as they could possibly get. This “friend” introduced me to the system. All I had to do was work out as hard as I could and grow as big as possible. Cameras would cover everything I did, but sacrificing my privacy seemed a small price to pay for the promise of greater gains.

The place was run almost like a kennel or a prison yard. I’d get my own cell with a twin long bed and a connecting bathroom. A thick metal plate door provided the entrance to my own private gym for the days I wanted to work alone. The walls were lined with mirrors, so I could watch myself grow.

There were only a few rules in the place. No fighting among the builders, and make sure to be in the cells again by lock-up. Meals were provided to us, and we were instructed to finish every piece of them. Sports drink powders and formulas of every kind were available for us to use. I can still recall that incredible sensation of gulping a whole bottle full without breaking a sweat and getting back to work.

The highs I got from those pumps, the sheer power and rush of endorphins. I’d never felt anything like it.

The first few days were a struggle. I had to prove myself to the rest of the workers, show them I was serious about making the gains. It took time to get to their level, but I was determined. The music helped. They’d play things over the speakers. I’m not sure what they were, but they got me riled up every day. That music filled my ears and I was awake like that. It set my pace for morning prep. I showered to it, brushed my teeth to it, got changed to it. Then the track would change, the locks on the doors would disengage, and I would file out to join the others.

Half the time, I couldn’t even recall what food got put in front of me during my workouts. I just wolfed it down and got back to work. I became a creature of habit. I grew as large as the others, and I reveled in that fact. The thought of steroids did cross my mind, but I found no negative effects, whatsoever. No mood swings, no frailties, and best of all, no *ahem* shrinking body parts.

Someone would take my clothes and clean them for me, then return them again. It was a continuous process. I’m still not sure how the laundry crews kept everything straight, but they did. Not that it really mattered, once I shredded out of my old clothes. Once that happened, I really became one of the pack. I got my own set of gym clothes and shoes, just like the rest of the guys. And the bigger I got, the less my shirts seemed to cover. To this day, I still prefer tanktops to anything else. But can you really blame me for wanting to show all this off?

Anyway, you know that numb feeling I mentioned before with my body? Well, the brain sort of functions the same way. If you do the same thing long enough, it’s sort of gonna get bored and shut off, because there’s no stimulation for it, or at least minimal stimulation. That’s the best way I can describe what happened. My brain decided to switch off for a while. It went numb, and my muscles did all the work for me.

I don’t know how long it lasted, really. I just know that when I came to myself, I was this giant of a man with a masculine beard and a perfectly sculpted body. I hardly recognized myself in the mirror. I had everything I wanted, and for the first time in a long time, I felt a different desire. I wanted to show off. I wanted to actually interact with friends, family, people.

You’d think the men at this facility should have counted, but they don’t. They didn’t. Not because I worked with them every day, but because they function on a different level. Their brains were numb, like mine had been. I still remember when I chose to leave. And you know the funny part? The door was never locked. I tested them. None of them were, not really. Maybe they were engaged just before wake-up or something, but it seemed that was all part of the training regimen.

I’d approach a cell and I’d see what, for all intents and purposes, was an animal. Some would ignore me in favor of flexing or sleep. Others would come to the door and glower at me, as if I were some sort of threat. Half the time, I felt my body want to rise to the challenge. But I didn’t want that. Not anymore.

I’d gotten what I wanted. I still remember the shock on the attendant’s face when I approached the stairs that led to the exit.

“They won’t accept you out there, you know. You’ll just be another mindless meathead to them.”

I hesitated for just a moment, but then calm took its place. I’d done my time. I’d gotten what I wanted. If hypnosis was involved in the club, then I guess my subconscious decided it had had enough. I don’t know. All I do know is I smiled at him and responded, “Then I’ll just have to prove them wrong.”

I’m not a meathead, and I’m not some dumb animal. I was once, probably, during my stay there. But I’m not anymore. I’ve worked hard to show that to everyone I meet, and I’m happy where I stand now. I’m a certified trainer with a steady income and a gym that I love, helping customers that I have great personal relationships with.

Is it hard? Of course it is. I usually work out to blow off steam and let my stress go. But I’ll tell you what, it’s worth it. Every second is worth it.

I’m not some dumb animal. I’m a human being, and I’m glad to be a properly functioning member of society.

Looking back, I’m sure you’re wondering if I would make the same decision to leave again, if I had the chance to go back.

I don’t even have to take the time to wonder about it. I’ve had plenty of time to go over it all.

My answer is yes.

Pavel Fedorov

Champ

You know, it’s funny. I should be freaking out over all this, but I still feel absolutely calm. I have doctors looking over me while I’m typing this. Aside from having to mind how hard I type on the keys, things don’t seem to have changed all that much. Well, barring the fact I’m incredibly strong now, and I feel an intense need to lift things.

... And I have a massive increase in appetite. I suppose I should go back to the beginning. See, I’m an amateur bodybuilder looking to get into the big time. Or at least, I was. I felt like I had pretty good form and nicely sized musculature. I went to the gym on a regular basis, still do, and I made sure to maintain a proper diet for myself. When I wasn’t working on building, I would dedicate my cardio to Pokemon Go. Yes, I’m a Pokemon nerd. And there’s nothing wrong with that, no matter what other people may say. Anyway, a friend of mine knew I was about to try my first competition, so he sent me a special package with a black speedo and a very familiar belt with gold studs and a red P engraved on the top of the buckle at the front. Found this at a weird store. Made me think of you. Good luck, man. Don’t machoke on me, all right?

~Felix

I rolled my eyes at the pun, but it really was thoughtful of him to send me something that reminded me so much of my favorite pokemon. I chuckled and tried it on immediately, of course. The material hugged closely to my frame, and I smiled as I showed off the veins and striations I’d developed in my thighs, torso, and glutes. No matter the angle I took, the underwear fit perfectly. I smirked and struck a pose in front of the mirror, hunching forward as I ground my pectorals together and flexed.

“I’m not a choke. I’m a champ,” I said. I remember that well. I also remember the giddy rush I felt after the fact. I chuckled again and growled out a gravelly, “Chaaaaaaamp,” for extra measure. The belt warmed quickly, and I smiled at how comfortable it had become. The material was so light, it felt like I was wearing nothing at all as I stepped into the hall and progressed to check-in with my other posing straps and speedos for the competition. On top of height and weight, I also had to show them what else I might be wearing for future phases of the competition. On the plus side, the dope test had already been performed, and I passed with flying colors. I offered my CD and picked up the number to attach to my belt. The rest of the process was tedious, but worth it. The prejudging was nerve-wracking, but I think I did well. The faster my heart beat, the more exhilarated I felt. You see, bodybuilders have to keep at least semi-tensed during these examinations, because the judges are watching us the whole time. My research told me most judges choose the winner during this phase, rather than out on the live stage with the audience. I had to stand out with two other men and pose for the judges. With each successive pose, I felt the pump in my muscles growing stronger. Everything felt so taut and vibrant! I could hardly keep still, so I put that energy into maintaining the poses for as long as the judges required. The lat spreads and double bicep poses left me feeling positively euphoric. I swear, I wasn’t on drugs, but it sure felt like I was.

That night, the free-posing round left me even more hyped. My biceps looked like over-inflated footballs. My traps writhed behind my back, causing me to shudder each time I flexed or stretched them. I felt so big. And I reveled in that. My skin was smooth and glistened in the stage lights. I was positively ecstatic when I got called up for the posedown. Me, a rookie! The music faded. The crowd’s cheers faded. Honestly, those moments on the stage still feel more like a dream. I remember transitioning from archer to crab to chest to traps. Every pose, every flex, flowed one into the next. I heard a number, my number.

Sixty-eight. Sixty-eight. Sixty-eight!

It rang in my brain like some sort of chant.

And somehow, I just felt so confident, so powerful, so self-assured. I knew that I was going to win. I knew that I was a champion. That title was going to be mine, and I would always keep it, no matter what anyone else might say against me.

The sensation of a new set of arms growing out of your back is ... difficult to describe. As I said, my body was overriden with a sense of utter pleasure. It was, I guess like I was getting a massage, and every nudge and knead of growth sent surges of heat and pleasure down my shoulders and back, and into my swelling legs. 

That same kneading pulled at my skull as three great fins protruded out the top. I didn’t care. I don’t know if I even noticed. I just had to keep posing. Two hands clenched. Two arms writhed behind as new muscle groups knit together to support the structure of my new anatomy. By this time, the dull cry of the crowd had managed to permeate the fog. I thought I had won, that those screams were cheers.

I soon found out otherwise when I came out of the haze and saw the gaping judges. The music had long since stopped. The crowd stared at me. I stared back. I remember one of my fellow competitors asking me if I was all right, if I was still me. You know the cliche.

I responded in what I thought was perfect English. The step back he took from me indicated otherwise. So, I opted to give him the only sign I could, a thumbs-up.

Only, I did it with my two right hands.

I think that’s when the shock set in properly. Go on, you can say it. I know you’re thinking it. MACHAMP IS CONFUSED!

And I was. My whole body was literally coursing with power and energy, but it wasn’t my body anymore. My legs still moved fine, and I was grateful for that. But I now only had two massive toes. My feet had widened with my stance to make up for all the extra weight on my top and help carry it. I fell the first few times I tried walking. Too easy to lose my balance. But the thing is, it didn’t hurt. I mean, seriously, no pain. Not even a scratch. It was just ... I don’t know, a light tap?

Yes, I know. MACHAMP HURT ITSELF IN ITS CONFUSION. You don’t have to rub it in. Though, like I said before, my fall(s) didn’t really hurt. The audience was speechless. So was I. I mean, what do you say when you spontaneously turn into a pokemon? Other than your name, I mean, obviously. I see you trolls out there! Don’t get any ideas. This is one builder you do not want to mess with. I had to motion for pen and paper. Fortunately, my hands were still just as capable of writing. Machamp is mostly humanoid, barring the weird feet and extra arms. And the whole head fins thing.

On the plus side, I don’t have to worry about shampoo and conditioner anymore. But anyway, yeah, I wrote I was okay, still me, and requested that someone call a doctor, and maybe the police. I had to file a statement, after all, and better to get my name and face out there as soon as possible, rather than give anyone in the government the chance to hush it up and haul me off somewhere for experimentation.

I have been approached asking for consent to that effect, by the way. Being a super strong entity that has superhuman endurance and is capable of taking most any blows, which I assume would include bullets, given the fact my new species can literally take a beam of pure solar fire shot from the blossoms of plant monsters, kinda makes me a hot commodity from a military standpoint. I could be an asset, if I were to consent to serving my country.

Yes, an asset they’d send in as a tank in warfare to be blown up or watch others he cares about get blown to bits in a pointless conflict. No, thank you, Mister President or whatever shadowy aspect of the government is asking. I mean, seriously, it’s not like I could be some sort of super spy with this body and mug. I am literally one of a kind.

And if any foreign actors happen to get any ideas, they should know that I can break out of any prison they try to put me into. I am highly resistant to drugs and poisons, and I don’t give in to blackmail. In short, I’m not going to tolerate any shenanigans, but I’m not going to be a threat to anyone either, except in my capacity as being inexperienced with this body, which is why I am typing this up now as I work out my other arms under careful observation.

I didn’t agree to be the military’s property, but a coalition of biologists and scientists were very anxious to learn about what happened to cause the change, and how my genetics have been altered. They’ve been very helpful, providing me with a synthesizer I can type into to speak for me. It’s designed to fit around my wrist like a brace, and it doubles as a monitor for other readings. Yes, I am still only capable of speaking in what has been dubbed Pokespeak. It sounds normal when it comes out of my mouth, but no human can understand me.

That being said, I’ve made some demands of these scientists, as well as of the nations that are concerned about me as a potential threat. I am to be allowed to see any phase in the experiments, and we are to have round-the-clock security composed of a coalition from each of the nations who are concerned about my “welfare.” There is also going to be an interior security team composed of UN forces to keep the peace. Any blood or tissue samples are never to leave this facility, and are to be destroyed after the tests have been carried out to ensure no one can get hold of my genetic structure to attempt anything.

I’ve already broken several of their measuring machines in regards to testing the strength of my punches. And I found, much to my surprise, that I really can rain a flurry of blows at a pace that’s almost faster than the eye can see. They had to use a slow cam to show the individual strikes. So, that means I’m probably going to have to be registered as a lethal weapon and act accordingly. That’s to be expected, I suppose.

At least I still have my rights as a US citizen, and the UN has offered me proper protections with my visa as I stay here in Switzerland. Overall, it’s turned out a lot better than it could have. Naturally, as a large part of this research, I am allowed to speak with whomever I wish and text, call, video chat, etc. accordingly. It’s not like they can stop me from leaving a session, anyway, if I really want to do something else.

I’ve put in a few more failsafes, just in case anyone tries anything like falsifying videos of me or voice messages. It’s about all I can do for now. Anyway, yeah, that’s where I stand. I guess I really did become a champ, though I don’t think I’ll be able to compete in bodybuilding anymore. On the plus side, with strength like this, I can be my own moving crew or warehouse worker. Just don’t ask me to do any fine tuning. I’m still learning how to coordinate for the more delicate tasks.

The government, naturally, interviewed Felix about the mysterious store and its proprietor, but there was no sign of either. I get the feeling this is one of those things that will likely wind up in the X-files. But hey, gotta look on the bright sight, right? At least I’m still me.

And honestly, I can’t wait to get back to my normal life again.