I Was Raised In A Christian Setting, But I Was Always So Proud Growing Up About Being Openly Gay And

I was raised in a Christian setting, but I was always so proud growing up about being openly gay and flamboyant. Now that I’m older, all my old school friends are getting married and starting families. I used to think those straight guys were so boring and mundane for wanting to settle down. Now I feel so bored with my long time boyfriend. I keep having this weird urge that I need to breed and spread my seed. The more my values change, I feel my breeder kink growing stronger. Can you help me understand what’s happening to me?

It's late at night, and the verse from Corinthians weighs heavily on your thoughts. "Act like men, be strong." Those words, ingrained since childhood through Sunday sermons and Bible studies, echo in your mind like a mantra. You've never truly understood them, I mean it was all just boring, conservative values your parents tried to install in you. But you were nothing like that were you. You wanted to be out and proud and attend every Pride parade you could, putting on rainbow beads and tight clothes----but that's not what those words mean "Act like men, be strong."

Yet, as you mull over these words, a realization dawns on you. Your concept of what it means to "act like men" has been shaped not only by your Christian upbringing but also by societal norms and expectations. Society has painted a picture of masculinity that emphasizes toughness, stoicism, and dominance. It's a definition that leaves little room for vulnerability, sensitivity, or exploration of emotions.

The urge to conform, to live up to these ideals, is strong. It's ingrained in your psyche, reinforced over years of conditioning.

As you reflect, your mind drifts to your boyfriend, the person you care deeply for but who seems to fall short of the masculine ideal you've been taught. You try to reconcile his kindness, his gentleness, with this notion of strength and manliness. Your lip quivers slightly as conflicting emotions surge within you.

A smirk begins to form on your face—a smirk tinged with bitterness and a hint of rebellion. You think about how predictable your relationship has become, how safe and comfortable yet lacking in passion and excitement. The thought of being with another man, someone more assertive, more daring, stirs something inside you—anger mixed with desire, disgust intertwined with curiosity.

You can't help but feel a growing anger and hatred towards your boyfriend. He's not strong enough, not manly enough to satisfy you. You start to question why you ever fell for him in the first place. His kindness seems like weakness now, his gentleness a sign of femininity.

As your self-inflicted homophobia begins to creep into your soul, you find yourself disgusted by the idea of having sex with another man. It goes against everything you believe in; it goes against the Bible. Your mind fills with rage, a rage that will fuel your changes. You know what needs to be done – break up with him and find someone who can truly make you feel alive again.

Your smile morphs into a cocky grin, reflecting a defiance against the norms that have shaped your understanding of masculinity. The rigid expectations seem suffocating now, and you wonder if you've been playing a role, conforming to a stereotype that doesn't fit who you truly are.

It starts as a simple sigh, a release of tension and uncertainty that has gripped you for so long. The weight of expectations—societal, religious, personal—pressing down like a heavy mantle. You yearn to break free from these constraints, to redefine yourself beyond the confines of what others expect you to be.

As you exhale, the sigh deepens into a grunt, a primal sound of frustration mingled with determination. You feel it in your gut—a sudden surge of energy, a tingling sensation that spreads through your entire body. It's as if something dormant within you is awakening, stirring to life with newfound vigor.

You let out a deep, loud, and obnoxious "buuuuurrrrrrrrrp" that echoes through the room. The sound reverberates in your ears as you feel it pulsate throughout your muscles, filling you with energy. You stand up straighter, chest puffed out proudly as if to say "I am here."

Your eyes narrow into a fierce glare as you think about all the changes that need to be made. No more will you settle for mediocrity or complacency; it's time to take control of your life and become the person you were always meant to be – strong, confident, and unapologetically masculine.

Your gaze lowers instinctively to your stomach, where once a softness resided, now replaced by a transformation unfolding before your eyes. The smooth contours give way to something altogether different—a ripple, a shift beneath the surface. Thick, cobblestone abs begin to form, each muscle defined with startling clarity. You watch in disbelief as your body undergoes a metamorphosis, sculpting itself into a form that feels both alien and strangely exhilarating.

A deep, booming laugh escapes your lips, echoing in the room. Your Adam's apple thickens perceptibly, your voice dropping several octaves in pitch. It resonates within you, a newfound resonance that reverberates with power and confidence.

Your biceps swell, veins popping with every flex, pulsating with strength. Your chest rises, pecs transforming into hefty mounds of muscle and flesh that demand attention. You can't help but marvel at the physical changes taking place, each movement involuntary yet empowering. "Holy shit," you say to yourself, feeling your muscles grow underneath your skin. "This is fucking awesome!" You flex your bicep and watch it bulge outwards like a rock-hard mountain peak. A grin spreads across your face as you imagine what else might be possible now that these changes have begun.

Involuntarily, you flex, feeling the newfound strength coursing through your veins. A laugh, almost primal in its intensity, escapes your lips—a laugh that breaks through the constraints of expectation and conformity. It's a laugh of liberation, of embracing what it means to be yourself, unapologetically.

As you stand there, caught in the throes of transformation, you're acutely aware of the societal expectations weighing upon you. Masculinity, as defined by the world around you, seems to demand a certain mold—one you're unwittingly beginning to fit into. The laughter that bubbles up from within feels almost intoxicating, a euphoric rush of newfound strength and vigor.

But with each laugh, something shifts. It's subtle at first, like a distant echo fading into the background. Your thoughts, once sharp and nuanced, begin to blur. The intricate web of ideas and knowledge that defined your intellectual prowess starts to dissipate.

You chuckle, the sound now more boisterous, more carefree. The complexity of language and the depth of thought seem distant, replaced by a simplicity that borders on naivety. Words become harder to grasp, sentences more challenging to string together. The transformation is not just physical but cognitive—a gradual erosion of the sharpness that once defined you.

In its place, a new narrative emerges. Football dominates your mind—Nick Bosa's stats, the plays of the 49ers. It's as if sports trivia and player statistics fill the gaps left by receding memories of literature and philosophy. Workout routines and protein shakes become your daily rituals, intertwined with memories of frat parties where showing off your gains was a source of pride and admiration.

You remember vividly the time when you and your bros were goofing off, teasing each other for acting like fucking homos. Endlessly in the mirror, flexing your biceps and pecs until they shine with sweat. You could feel the burn as blood rushed to your muscles, making them grow bigger and stronger by the day. The sense of accomplishment after each workout fueled an insatiable desire to push yourself even harder next time.

You remember being at the gym with your bros, pushing yourselves to the limit during a grueling workout. The smell of sweat and testosterone filled the air as you grunted through each set, encouraging one another to go harder.

One day, things got a little out of hand when you decided it would be funny to rip a gross protein fart in someone's face during downtime. PFFFFFFTTT Laughter ensued but so did an overpowering stench that lingered long afterward – even in the showers later on, you found yourself growing dumber by the minute as if unable to process basic information like addition or subtraction anymore due solely to this lingering odor clouding your mind.

The once-keen mind now swims in a constant haze, like a permanent state of drunkenness. Thoughts are simpler, actions more instinctual. You revel in the camaraderie of locker rooms, the adrenaline of the field, and the thrill of physical prowess. Intellectual pursuits fade into the background, replaced by a newfound appreciation for physicality and camaraderie.

You awaken and find yourself at a raging frat party, where the air is thick with excitement and the beat of music pulsates through the crowded room.

As you make your way through the crowd of the party, the changes become palpable. Your face, once marked by youthful innocence and boyish soft features, begins to shift. There's a subtle hardening of your jawline, a chiseling of your cheekbones into a more angular shape. The lines of your face sharpen, mirroring a rugged determination and confidence that exudes from every pore.

The party scene materializes—a frat house buzzing with energy, filled with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and the faint hint of testosterone. You remember the cheers, the high-fives, the sense of camaraderie that surged through you like a tidal wave.

Amidst the revelry, a cross necklace slips around your neck—an unexpected accessory that feels strangely comforting. It's as if with each clasp, a subtle shift occurs within you. The liberal, woke ideals you once held dear start to fade, replaced by a deepening conservatism and a newfound faith.

You find yourself thinking about how liberals are just a bunch of whiney pansy-ass snowflakes, crying about their lame-ass woke agenda.

You find yourself immersed in conversations about sports, politics from a conservative viewpoint, and the importance of faith in shaping moral values. Your vocabulary shifts, becoming peppered with phrases like "alpha," "bro," and "dude." reflecting a growing sense of identity—one that aligns with traditional notions of masculinity and righteousness. You bump into your best bro, Chaz, a linebacker for the college football team. He's already fucking wasted as shit. He's got a beer in one hand and the ass of some sorority bimbo in the other.

"Hey man, how's it going?" you ask as you give Chaz a fist bump.

"Fuckin' great," he grunts in response. "I just beat the shit out of some faggy snowflake loser who thought he was too smart for his own good."

You nod along in agreement, feeling your blood boil at the mere mention of liberals and their woke ideals. "Yeah bro, those guys need to learn their place," you say with conviction. "They think they can just walk around being all sensitive and shit...well not on my watch!"

Chaz chuckles before patting you on the back. "That's my boy," he says proudly.

You become more assertive, bordering on brash. Your actions are bold, filled with bravado—a display of confidence that borders on arrogance. At the party, you're the center of attention, regaling others with tales of conquests both on the field and in bed. The admiration and envy in their eyes fuel your sense of self-importance.

As the night wears on, you find yourself surrounded by like-minded individuals, bonding over shared ideals of masculinity, conservatism, and Christian values. The party becomes a celebration of these newfound convictions, a reaffirmation of identity that feels both liberating and confining.

As you navigate through the pulsating crowd at the party, your steps grow increasingly unsteady with each sip from your red plastic cup. The alcohol courses through your veins, emboldening you with a false sense of confidence. Your demeanor shifts subtly, from casual revelry to a more exaggerated swagger—a display of bravado that borders on arrogance.

Through the haze of the party lights and the din of music, you spot her—a pretty girl, a pretty drunk girl with her friends, laughing and chatting animatedly. Her long, flowing hair catches your eye first, illuminated by the flickering lights. She's wearing a stylish outfit that accentuates her figure, exuding a natural allure that draws you in.

As she laughs with her friends, her smile lighting up the space around her. She's wearing a tight, revealing outfit that accentuates every curve, drawing attention effortlessly.

You find this chick incredibly hot. Her tits look huge in her tight outfit, straining against the fabric as she laughs and talks with her friends. There's no denying that she's dressed like a fucking slut, there's no way she's not looking for some action tonight.

You can't help but think of all the ways you could pleasure her; how good it would feel to have those big tits bouncing up and down as she rides your cock while she moans your name. The thought alone makes your blood rush and muscles twitch with anticipation.

Without hesitation, you make your move towards them, hoping that tonight will be the night where all your fantasies come true.

With a surge of bravado and a newfound sense of confidence, you make your way towards her, navigating through the crowded party. Your muscles tense subtly beneath your shirt as you approach, a smirk playing on your lips. You know you've got her attention even before you say a word.

"Hey there, sweetheart," you greet her, your voice carrying an edge of cockiness and slurred drunkenness. "Enjoying the party?"

She looks you up and down, her gaze lingering appreciatively on your physique. "Oh, definitely," she replies, a playful glint in her eye. "Especially now."

You can't resist showing off a bit. With a confident grin, you flex your biceps, the muscles bulging impressively. "Like what you see?" you tease, punctuating your question with a quick pec dance, causing your chest muscles to ripple under your shirt.

Her friends giggle in response, egging you on with cheers and playful banter. The girl herself leans in closer, her demeanor flirtatious and unapologetic. "Very impressive," she remarks, her voice teasing.

"Yeah, been hitting the gym hard," you boast, leaning in a little closer to her. "But enough about me. What's your name?"

As you flex your biceps, she can't help but feel the thickness of your muscles beneath her fingertips. Her eyes widen in surprise and admiration at the sight before her.

Blushing deeply, she bites down on her lower lip – a telltale sign of how horny you're making this little slut. It's clear that this girl is interested in more than just conversation; she wants to explore what else lies beneath those bulging muscles.

She introduces herself, her smile widening as she matches your flirtatious energy. The conversation flows effortlessly between you, punctuated by laughter and lingering gazes that speak volumes. You revel in the attention, enjoying the rush of attraction and the validation of your confidence.

"You know what they say," you smirk, leaning in closer to her. "Want to see what a real man is like?"

Without waiting for an answer, you yell over the music and laughter for your bro Chaz. He appears moments later with a keg in hand, grinning from ear to ear at the sight of this potential conquest. You motion towards him and he slides the keg closer before taking off again into the crowd.

Grabbing two plastic cups from somewhere nearby, you start to fill them both up with beer before handing one to her. As she takes it from your hands, your eyes travel down her body – lingering on those "big tits straining against her top and that fat ass encased within tight jeans…god damn she's hot little slut!" you think. With each pump of the keg comes another surge of desire; any notion of your old boyfriend is washed away by now replaced instead by an overwhelming need feel manly tonight here now this very moment right here right now while also experiencing deep-seated homophobia. The thought of two dudes kissing makes you want to puke. You can't stand the idea that someone might think you're gay just because they saw you hanging out with another guy.

Your disgust for fags only fuels your desire for the chick in front of you. She represents everything that's feminine and attractive - everything that a fag isn't. As she grinds against you on the dance floor, all thoughts of fags disappear from your mind as your horniness reaches new heights

Nothing else matters; the only thing that matters is getting laid tonight. As she takes a sip from her cup, your dick hardens in anticipation. Without hesitation, you grab her fat ass and pull her closer for a drunk makeout session while Chaz cheers you on from nearby.

"Babe," you slur in your thick New Jersey accent between kisses, "you're so fucking hot." Your hands roam over her body as she moans breathlessly into your mouth. "I wanna fuck you so bad."

"Giovanni—Gio—take me! You big Italian stallion; I need your thick cock!" she moans breathlessly, with that cocky smile still plastered across your face, there's no turning back now…your fate as the biggest college douchebag ready to plant his seed across campus has been sealed. You fuck the dumb slut with all the passion and aggression of a true alpha male. The cheers from your fellow frat bros only serve to fuel your ego, making you feel cockier and cockier with each thrust. This is what it means to be a man – taking what you want when you want it without hesitation or remorse. And right now, all that matters is claiming this woman as yours while satisfying your primal urges...

You wake up the next morning, hungover as fuck but feeling pretty damn good about yourself. As you stretch out your muscles and roll over in bed, two dumb blonde cheerleaders suddenly appear – tickling your thick abs and impressive pecs playfully.

"One of you sluts gonna suck it?" you ask with a grin on your face. They both smile back at you knowingly before climbing onto the bed to fulfill their duties as groupies...

As the two hottest chicks on campus go to town on your dick, you can't help but think: "Lord forgive me." But who cares about forgiveness when you're experiencing this kind of pleasure? Their lips and tongues work in perfect harmony as they take turns sucking and stroking your cock. You moan loudly, lost in the moment – enjoying every second of this decadent morning after.

Another type of pride

Ashton was buzzing with anticipation as he paced around his apartment, the beats of Lady Gaga pumping through his speakers. Pride weekend in New York was his time to shine, and he intended to make the most of it. He had meticulously planned his outfit, a blend of glitter and bold colors that screamed confidence and pride. Pregaming shots by himself seemed like the perfect way to get into the celebratory spirit, each sip adding to his excitement for the night ahead.

Suddenly, a sharp knock on the door pierced through the music, and Ashton practically skipped over to answer it, expecting his friend Dylan. Dylan was the epitome of a twunk—tall, muscular, with an effortless charm that made heads turn wherever he went. Ashton couldn't wait to hit the parade with him, knowing they'd be turning heads and living their best lives.

But when Ashton swung open the door, Dylan's easy smile didn't greet him. Instead, standing there was Jessica, her mascara running down her cheeks, a picture of heartbreak.

"Zayne just broke up with me. It's my fault, Ash," Jessica choked out between sobs, her hands trembling.

Ashton sighed inwardly, familiar with Jessica's history of falling for charismatic yet insufferable straight douchebags. Zayne, with his rugged good looks and charming persona, was just the latest in a string of disappointing choices.

"Jess, come on," Ashton said gently, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "You know you deserve better than these douchebags."

Jessica sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I know, but… I can't help it."

Ashton glanced at his watch, aware that time was ticking and the city was already alive with Pride celebrations. "Look, Jess, I'm really sorry, but it's Pride weekend. I wish there was something I could do. But it's Pride! We've been planning this forever. Can we deal with this later?"

Jessica looked up at him with watery eyes, her expression shifting suddenly to one of determination. "Ash, I have something that can make everything better," she declared, a glint of mischief in her gaze.

Ashton raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to expect next from his unpredictable friend. "What do you mean?"

A secretive smile curled Jessica's lips as she rummaged through her purse. "You'll see," she said cryptically, producing an old, worn cap hat.

As Jessica began to murmur something under her breath, Ashton felt a flicker of unease. The room seemed to darken slightly, and a chill ran down his spine as Jessica's words took on an almost mystical cadence.

"By my will and ancient power," Jessica intoned softly, her voice carrying an otherworldly weight, "this hat shall transform in the darkest hour. From mind to muscle, charm to boast, let arrogance and obnoxiousness engross. May my vision of the perfect fool arise, as this curse takes effect under moonlit skies."

The lights in Ashton's apartment flickered ominously, casting strange shadows around them. He took an instinctive step back, his eyes wide with disbelief and a hint of fear.

Jessica chuckled, her laughter ringing strangely in the charged atmosphere. "Doesn't this hat look good, Ashton?" she asked, her voice teasing.

Ashton shook his head, trying to clear the sudden fog in his mind. "No, Jess, this isn't right," he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest.

Jessica's laughter echoed in the room as she held up the old cap hat, a mischievous glint in her eye. "It's Chet's old hat… or was it Chad's? Who cares— let me put it on," she teased, stepping closer to Ashton. But Jessica moved closer, her hand reaching up to place the hat on Ashton's head before he could protest further. He felt a jolt as the hat settled into place, a surge of unfamiliar energy coursing through him.

Ashton, feeling an inexplicable haze settling over his mind, couldn't muster the will to resist as Jessica placed the cap on his head. A strange sensation washed over him, like a thick fog clouding his thoughts. He blinked slowly, feeling his awareness dimming.

"Yo, bro," Ashton mumbled, his voice now deeper, the once-present lisp vanished, "my head feels all funny and shit"

Ashton stared blankly at Jessica, his eyes losing their usual sparkle of wit and intelligence. The transformation had begun, and he was becoming increasingly aware of changes happening to his body.

His pride outfit, meticulously planned and vibrant, swiftly morphed into something entirely different. The glitter and bright colors faded away, replaced by a smelly tank top clinging to his burgeoning muscles and athletic shorts that reeked of sweat and the gym floor.

A surge of energy flowed through Ashton, igniting a transformation that defied belief. Muscles that had been barely noticeable before now swelled and expanded. Pecs emerged where there was once a flat chest, defined and powerful. Abs rippled into existence, carving lines across his abdomen that had previously been smooth. His biceps, triceps, and lats bulged with newfound size and strength, each muscle group accentuated by the growing definition and mass.

Even his legs ballooned with muscle, thighs thickening and calves sculpting into powerful forms. Ashton felt the weight and strength of his transformed physique, a stark contrast to his former self.

Jessica watched with a mix of awe and amusement, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Looking good, Ash," she remarked, her voice filled with a knowing amusement.

Ashton blinked again, trying to comprehend the radical changes he was experiencing. The fog in his mind persisted, making it difficult to grasp the full extent of what had happened. He flexed experimentally, feeling the power in his newly muscular frame, a strange blend of confusion and a burgeoning sense of self-assuredness washing over him.

Jessica looked at Ashton's boyish, babyface. "Oh, this won't do" retrieving a gaudy, oversized gold necklace from her purse. Its ostentatious design shimmered under the dim light of Ashton's apartment, catching the eye with its exaggerated opulence.

"Behold this token of swagger and noise," Jessica proclaimed theatrically, holding the necklace aloft, "from gold's glint I summon a jock's poise. With this necklace, I bestow the brash and bold, transforming their essence to fit this mold!"

Ashton stared at the necklace dumbly, his vacant expression betraying the confusion swirling in his mind. Without a word, he reached out and took the necklace from Jessica's outstretched hand, the chain clinking softly against the pendant as he clumsily put it on.

Instantly, Ashton felt a shift within himself. His previously boyish charm and hint of baby fat seemed to melt away, replaced by a jawline that sharpened and chiseled into a more rugged, masculine form. His features morphed, taking on a douchey fratbro aesthetic—strong, angular, and exuding a cocky arrogance.

A dumb, cocky grin spread across Ashton's face, permanently plastered there as if it belonged. He blinked slowly, his gaze settling into a new-found swagger that seemed to emanate from his very core.

Jessica clapped her hands in glee, delighted with the transformation she had wrought. "Perfect!" she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with mischief and satisfaction.

He flexed unconsciously, admiring the rippling muscles that now adorned his once slender frame, reveling in the newfound sense of confidence that coursed through him.

Ashton's mind felt like a jumbled puzzle, scattered pieces that refused to fit together. The once sharp and witty thoughts were now elusive, slipping through his grasp like sand. He blinked slowly, feeling a disorienting fog settling over his consciousness, blurring the boundaries between clarity and confusion.

The Lady Gaga song that had been pulsing through his apartment suddenly shifted, morphing into a Kanye West track. Ashton let out a dumb chuckle, finding humor in the unexpected change, though he couldn't quite remember why.

He ambled over to the TV, his movements clumsy yet filled with a strange new energy. With a sluggish movement, he flicked on the screen, the bright colors and exaggerated personas of a WWE match captivating his attention instantly. Ashton hollered and shouted at the screen, his voice loud and boisterous, caught up in the drama unfolding before him.

In the midst of the chaos on TV, Ashton forgot all about the Pride parade he had eagerly anticipated just moments ago. The vibrant colors of his carefully planned outfit faded from his memory, replaced by the primal excitement of the wrestling match playing out in front of him.

His phone buzzed with messages from friends asking where he was, but Ashton barely registered them. His focus was consumed by the spectacle on TV, his laughter and shouts echoing through the apartment, drowning out the outside world.

His demeanor shifted, becoming more boorish and oafish. He lounged on the couch, spreading his legs wide in a blatant display of dominance, taking up as much room as possible. It was a gesture that seemed to amplify his newfound sense of entitlement and arrogance. Gone was the consideration for others' space or feelings. Ashton's behavior began to border on jerkishness, his actions driven by a need to assert his presence and dominance in every interaction.

Memories jumbled themselves in Ashton's mind, reshaping his sense of self. Thoughts of kissing boys and celebrating Pride blurred into a desire to appear as the hottest, biggest guy around.

Ashton's memories twisted and warped before his eyes, leaving him feeling disoriented and confused. The once-vibrant images of Pride parades filled with rainbows and joy were now replaced by hazy recollections of hooking up with random girls at a frat house. His mind fixated on the idea that he was no longer attracted to men, but instead found himself drawn to women - specifically Jessica, whose breasts seemed even more alluring than before.

A growl escaped Ashton's throat as he tried to make sense of these newfound desires. He couldn't help but notice how her chest heaved enticingly under her tight top, causing an unfamiliar stirring in his pants. His cock began to harden rapidly, growing thicker and longer until it stood proudly at an impressive 12 inches long - a size that would make any man envious. The thick shaft felt almost painful as it stretched the confines of his jeans, begging for release.

"Hey, Jessica," Ashton called out with a cocky grin, flexing his newly muscular arms for her. "You like the gun show, babe?" His voice had taken on a deeper tone, laced with a self-assuredness that bordered on arrogance.

Ashton's transformation was nothing short of staggering. His once-average physique had been replaced by a chiseled masterpiece, every muscle defined and bulging beneath his tight tank top. Jessica couldn't help but stare at the impressive display of masculinity before her, her eyes tracing the contours of his newly sculpted abs and pecs.

"Oh my god," she breathed out, squeezing one of his biceps gently. "You look incredible." Ashton flexed for her again, enjoying the way she ogled him like he was some kind of sex god. "Almost perfect, Ashton" she cooed in admiration. Ashton's cocky grin widened as he heard Jessica's statement. "Who the fuck is Ashton?" he asked, clearly unaware of who he truly was beneath all that muscle and bravado.

Ashton's commanding tone left no room for argument as he turned to Jessica, ordering her around like a loyal dog. "Grab me a beer, babe," he grunted before adding with a smirk: "Then you can suck my cock."

Jessica couldn't help but feel her heart race at the thought of pleasing him in such an intimate way. She nodded eagerly, unable to resist his charm or the allure of his massive cock. "Anything for you---Zeke" she replied breathlessly before hurrying off to fetch him a beer from the kitchen.

As soon as he heard the name "Zeke," everything clicked into place for Ashton. He was Zeke - a 26-year-old obnoxious douchebag who partied hard and fucked even harder. Memories flooded his mind of hooking up with whatever slut was dumb enough to give him the time of day, treating them like disposable playthings once he got what he wanted from them.

His behavior had always been obnoxious, but now it seemed even more so in retrospect. He loved nothing more than showing off his muscles at the gym or flexing in front of mirrors, admiring how much bigger and better he looked compared to everyone else around him. And when it came to women? Well, they were simply there for one thing - his pleasure - and once that need was satisfied, they could go back to being nothing more than background noise in his life.

Zeke couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at who he had become since becoming Zeke again; an unapologetic alpha male who took what he wanted without remorse or regret.

As Jessica returned with two cold bottles, Zeke took one from her hand and downed it in one gulp. He then motioned towards his crotch with his head, indicating that it was time for Jessica to put her mouth where her mouth was - literally. With trembling hands, she undid his belt buckle and unzipped his jeans before taking out his impressive member - hot and throbbing with anticipation. Without hesitation or any sense of shame or regret, Jessica wrapped her lips around Zeke's cockhead and began sucking him off like the obedient slut that she truly was. The moment he came, she'd be out the door.

I keep seeing a few of the university’s football players on Grindr and I don’t really get it. I’ve messaged them too and they get all offended if you ask if they’re gay. I just don’t get it and was hoping to understand why straight bros keep using Grindr

That's 'cause you're not on Grindr---you're on "Bro-ndr" As the letters on your phone rearrange themselves from "Grindr" to "Bro-ndr," you feel a strange jolt shoot through your body as if an electric shock has hit you. Your vision blurs momentarily, and when it clears, you find yourself surrounded by a multitude of jock bros. They vary in physique—muscular, lean, some even hefty—but all embodying different facets of the jock ideal.

"Huhahauh," you let out a laugh that surprises even yourself. "Duh. Bro-ndr is for connecting with your bros," you mutter, the words feeling oddly natural as they escape your lips. You realize with a start that you're hardly the same person you were moments ago. Another electric pulse courses through you, and suddenly, anything you studied in college feels like it's slipping away, replaced by a flood of business school basics and an overwhelming knowledge of football.

You find yourself inundated with football facts—plays, trivia, stats—you name it, it's there in your mind. Travis Kelce becomes your favorite player, and your allegiance firmly roots itself with the Kansas City Chiefs. The nuances of the game that once seemed distant and foreign now feel intimate and familiar, as if they've been a part of you all along.

You join in conversations effortlessly, discussing offensive formations, defensive strategies, and the latest game highlights with a newfound confidence. The intricacies of football strategy feel like second nature, and you find joy in debating the merits of different quarterbacks and the strategies of various coaches.

On Bro-ndr, you navigate with ease among fellow enthusiasts, swapping stories of games watched, fantasy league victories celebrated, and the occasional friendly debate over the best football movies of all time. You revel in the camaraderie of your newfound bros, sharing in the thrill of victories and consoling each other during defeats.

As you scroll through Bro-ndr, you realize that this app has transformed not just your interests but your identity. You've embraced the bro culture with gusto, finding fulfillment in the shared passion for football and the camaraderie of fellow jock enthusiasts. As the transformation takes hold, you feel an intense surge of power coursing through your body. Your once-average physique bulges with newfound muscles, each group swelling to a steroid-enhanced size. Your biceps expand to the dimensions of footballs, straining against the fabric of your shirt. Your stomach thickens into a heavily muscled gut, and your pecs swell outwards, defining your chest in a way you never imagined. Though your legs bulk up too, they remain somewhat neglected in comparison to your upper body, a reminder of your disdain for leg day.

Your facial features shift, taking on a heavier, more rugged appearance that matches your newfound physique. Your hair recedes into a tight jock cut, and your face changes into a nice lantern jaw. As you gaze into a mirror, the reflection staring back at you looks as dumb as you feel—yet strangely empowered by the brute strength and aggression pulsating through your veins.

A deep-seated rage begins to simmer within you, a simmering fury directed at anything that doesn't fit into your newly defined image of manliness. You find yourself picking on nerds, belittling anything perceived as less macho, and asserting dominance wherever you go.

On Bro-ndr, you engage eagerly with other bros in discussions about manliness, workout routines, and conquests of all kinds—both in the gym and with women. Messages flood in, inviting you to join raging frat parties and wild nights out where the alcohol flows freely. Despite any previous reservations, you find yourself compelled to join, craving the validation and acceptance of your newfound peers.

One particularly enthusiastic bro invites you to a nearby frat party. "Bro, you gotta come down, it's gonna be epic," the message reads. You feel a primal urge to comply, to immerse yourself in this world of superficial camaraderie and instant gratification. The prospect of a drink beckons, promising a temporary escape from the complexities of your former self.

As you head towards the party, you revel in the feeling of power and dominance that now defines you. The transformation may have been jarring, but in this new reality, you find a sense of belonging that fills a void you didn't even know existed.

As you step into the frat party, the chaotic scene unfolds before you. Red Solo cups are scattered across the floor, crunching underfoot as you navigate through the throng of people. The air is heavy with the smell of beer, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat and the distinct atmosphere of youthful revelry. Laughter and shouts echo off the walls, punctuated by the occasional burst of music that pulses through the crowded space.

Your buddies are already in full swing, crowding around a keg stand with raucous cheers and high-fives. You join in eagerly, grabbing a Solo cup and filling it with the nearest beer, which you down in a few large gulps. The alcohol hits you quickly, warming your chest and clouding your thoughts with a heady buzz.

"Yo Brody, what's up man?" Chad's voice cuts through the noise, accompanied by a friendly slap on the back. He grins widely, clearly enjoying the festive atmosphere. "I got this girl you gotta meet," he continues excitedly, steering you towards a group nearby.

Chad introduces you to Taylor, a blonde girl with a bright smile and a playful demeanor. "Hahaha, just like your hero Travis Kelce, he's dating that Taylor chick" you think. You chuckle along, feeling slightly out of place but willing to go along with the flow.

"Hey Taylor," you slur as you approach her, "let me show ya how a real man handles his drinks." You grab a bottle from the nearby table and chug it down in one go before slamming it back onto the table with a loud clang. The crowd around cheers at your display of bravado.

Taylor giggles appreciatively at your antics but doesn't seem entirely convinced yet. Undeterred, you decide to up the ante by challenging another bro to an arm wrestling match right there on the tabletop amidst all those watching eagerly for some entertainment during this drunken party scene filled with youthful revelry & debauchery .

As the party continues to rage on, you find yourself alone with Taylor in a dark corner of the room. The music is still blaring, but it's muffled by your heavy breathing and her moans. You've been eyeing her all night, and now that you have her alone, there's no stopping you.

You grab her by the waist and pull her closer to you as she giggles nervously. "What are we doing?" she asks between kisses on your neck. You don't answer; instead, you undo your pants and guide her hand towards your erection through the fabric of your boxers. She gasped at its size as it sprang free from its confines; clearly impressed by what she saw before them both!

Without further ado or hesitation from either one of them anymore – driven purely by lust & hormones at this point – you two fall onto a nearby couch making out passionately while their hands roam freely over each other’s bodies exploring every inch possible underneath those tight clothes they were wearing earlier tonight during this wild frat party filled with youthful revelry & debauchery . As your lips part momentarily allowing air back into lungs starved for oxygen due intense make-out session just had ,you whisper huskily into ear :"Do me baby girl…show daddy how much fun college life can be!"

Her response is immediate - unzipping fly quickly followed suit revealing your hard cock already leaking pre-cum anticipating what was about happen next between these two young adults caught up midst midst chaos surrounding them .

Your fucking is loud & passionate echoing throughout house filling everyone present vicariously through walls separating them from scene playing out right front eyes unable look away even if wanted too badly! As climax approaches, she breathlessly moans "Brooooody" for the entire party to hear.

As you emerge from the dark corner of the room, your face flushed and hair disheveled, Chad gives you a high five. "Damn bro! You nailed that!" he exclaims excitedly. "She's a total slut, right?"

You grin widely as you nod in agreement. "Yeah man," you say proudly. "I couldn't wait to get my dick inside her."

Chad slaps your back again and laughs heartily. "That's what I'm talking about! You really showed her who's boss." He takes another swig from his beer bottle before continuing, "So what are we gonna do now? There must be some other dumb sluts around here just waiting to get fucked by us!"

You chuckle along with him as you survey the room once more. The party is still going strong; people are dancing wildly while others engage in various acts of debauchery throughout the house filled with youthful revelry & debauchery . With a newfound confidence coursing through veins thanks recent conquest ,you decide it’s time find next victim join ranks those already seduced tonight amidst chaos surrounding them all !

"Let's go find some more pussy," you say decisively before grabbing another Solo cup filled cheap beer down hatch quickly followed suit by Chad.

My roommate Spencer has always been the nice scrawny nerdy type. A bit of an activist, straight ally, always in his books when he's not making a sign, always empathetic. The only thing is that he's taken up an interest in the frats on campus after he met this bro during one of his usual runs in the gym.

The guy came from some fraternity that practically stands against everything Spencer stands for! I told him about it, but he said I shouldn't judge a book based on its cover and that the guy was really friendly. I really hope nothing changes between us...

As you enter your apartment, Spencer's presence immediately captures your attention. He's sprawled out on the couch, legs wide apart in an exaggerated manspread, sipping on a beer—a sight that surprises you since you can't recall the last time you saw him drink. The TV blares at its highest volume, broadcasting a football game, and Spencer is fully engrossed, chanting loudly, "Let's go Philly! Let's goooooo!" with his fist pumping in the air.

Taking a closer look, you notice something unsettling about him. Spencer seems larger than before, his muscles more defined, his shoulders broader like that of a linebacker. But it's not just his physical appearance that strikes you; there's a noticeable change in his demeanor too. He appears… simpler, less sharp-witted than usual.

"Hey, man. What's up?" you greet him, setting down your bag.

"Watching the game, bro. You should join. Beers in the fridge," he grunts in response.

You sigh, shaking your head slightly. "Oh, that's fine. I'm not really into football—or beer. I didn't think you were either."

"Dude, what are you talking about? I love football and beer, bro! Especially my man Zeke's home brew. It's sick. You should try it," he insists, his tone unusually forceful.

"I don't know," you reply, unsure of how to respond to his insistence.

Spencer suddenly stands up, towering over you at least 6'4" now, his demeanor more imposing than you remember. "That wasn't a question, dude," he says, walking towards you. You feel a knot of unease forming in your stomach. "Open up, bro," he commands, grabbing you and forcefully pouring the beer down your throat.

You choke and gag as the liquid hits your throat, and you involuntarily let out a loud burp right in Spencer's face.

"That was sick, dude," he says, laughing as if it's all a big joke.

"What—what—why do I feel so weird?" you manage to say, feeling disoriented and dizzy.

"It's the brew, man," Spencer replies casually, though his words seem muffled and distant to you. "It's going to help you fit in."

As he speaks, an intense headache suddenly grips you, as if someone has slammed a football helmet into your head repeatedly. The pain is overwhelming, and you struggle to focus. Football plays, statistics, and scores flood your mind, pushing aside your usual clarity of thought. It feels like your brain is being reshaped, rewired into something… different.

You stumble back, trying to make sense of the confusion swirling in your mind. Spencer's words continue to echo faintly, but you can barely comprehend them. The headache throbs relentlessly, and despite your efforts to resist, you feel yourself succumbing to whatever strange influence that beer seems to wield.

A sensation starts to wash over your body. It begins with a subtle warmth spreading from your core, as if a furnace has been ignited within you. This warmth intensifies into a radiant heat, enveloping your muscles and skin, making you acutely aware of every inch of your body.

Your chest tightens slightly as you feel it begin to expand, muscles beneath your skin pulsating and growing with newfound strength. Each breath feels deeper, more powerful, as if your lungs are expanding to accommodate the changes happening within. Your abs tighten and firm up, the muscles contracting and defining themselves with a chiseled precision you've never experienced before.

Moving down your arms, your biceps and triceps swell noticeably, filling out with solid, sinewy mass. As you flex your arms, you can see the veins standing out prominently beneath the surface, a testament to the increased blood flow and muscle development. It's as if every fiber of your being is responding to an unseen command, transforming your physique into something more robust, more powerful.

Simultaneously, your legs grow thicker and more muscular, each muscle group defined and strengthened. The sensation of power surges through your thighs and calves, making you feel grounded and steady. Your legs feel like they could propel you forward with incredible force, a newfound agility and strength coursing through them. Your mind is bombarded with memories—vivid recollections of intense workouts with Spencer. You remember the sweat-soaked gym sessions, the grueling sets of weights, and the challenging runs. Spencer's voice echoes in your mind, urging you on, pushing you to your limits. The heat radiating from your body intensifies, almost as if the memories themselves are fueling this transformation. You remember the weightlifting sessions in Spencer's makeshift gym in the apartment. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of sweat and iron. You pushed through sets of bench presses and squats, your muscles burning with exertion. Spencer egged you on, his voice mixing with the clinks of weights and the grunts of effort, the stale air of the gym lingering in your mind and in the air around you. You blink, trying to shake off the disorienting sensation, and as your vision clears, you notice the transformation of the room. Empty beer cans litter the floor, scattered haphazardly around a new gaming console that gleams under the dim light. Pizza boxes, once filled with greasy remnants, now lie discarded and crumpled.

You shake your head, trying to clear the cobwebs from your mind. As you look around, you notice that the posters on the wall have changed. Cheerleaders and famous actresses wearing barely any clothes now adorn the space, their images taped half-hazardly to the walls. One in particular catches your eye - Sabrina Carpenter.

"Damn," Spencer says, pointing at her picture. "She's fucking hot right? Don't ya just wanna shove her to her knees and have her suck your dick?" You blink in surprise; this isn't like Spencer at all. He never talked like such an asshole before… but then again, maybe it is him? The way he grunts and leers at Sabrina Carpenter makes it seem more likely than not that this really is Spencer… only different somehow.

"That's it bro," he continues with a grunt of satisfaction as if reading your thoughts correctly. "Let all those pathetic faggy thoughts just fade away bro." You stare at him blankly for a moment before realizing what he means by 'faggy'. This isn't just any change; this is a complete transformation – both physical and mental – into someone who doesn’t even remotely resemble who you used to know as Spencer.

You blurt out, "Yeah, bro. She's so fucking hot." Immediately, you cover your mouth with one hand as if to hide the words that just came out of it. But it's too late; they've already been spoken.

As you stare at Sabrina Carpenter on the poster, something strange happens within you. A warmth spreads through your body and settles between your legs where a growing bulge begins to form beneath your jeans. It starts small but quickly grows larger and harder by the second until it feels like an iron rod is pushing against the fabric of your pants. The very idea of being gay washes away as if it never existed in the first place – replaced by this overwhelming desire for female flesh wrapped around a cock.

And on the couch where Spencer sat moments ago, there's now a worn-out, ratty piece of furniture, a testament to the passage of time and the changes that have unfolded.

As Spencer tosses you the sweat-stained tank top, gym shorts, and baseball cap, you take them without hesitation, slipping into the familiar attire. The tank top fits snugly around your newly bulked-up chest and arms, while the gym shorts hang comfortably on your powerful legs. The baseball cap sits low on your forehead, casting a shadow over your eyes, so you turn it around like the bro you are.

As you dress, you feel a subtle shift in your demeanor. Your expression morphs into that of a typical "dumb bro"—a confident smirk playing on your lips, eyes slightly narrowed with a laid-back, carefree attitude. It's a look that speaks of muscle-bound bravado and a penchant for partying.

"Thanks, man," you say with a grin, raising your hand for a high five. Spencer reciprocates eagerly, the sound of your palms meeting echoing briefly in the room.

"This party is going to be sick," Spencer declares with enthusiasm, and as he speaks, memories begin to flood your mind. Images of rushing the Beta Rho Omicron House—B.R.O. for short—flash vividly before you. The brotherhood of the B.R.O. boys, renowned for their muscular physiques and wild parties, fills your thoughts.

Suddenly, memories flood your mind. Wild frat parties where you got blackout wasted and hooked up with random hot chicks. Talking about your gains at the gym with your bros, laughing as they high-five each other over their latest conquests. You realize that this is who you've become – a dumb frat bro who lives to party and pick up chicks. There's no room for anything else in this new reality; there's only one person who could ever understand or accept this version of yourself. You've become a dumbass bro. You love your muscles and the way they make you feel powerful. Your cocky attitude is second to none, and nothing gets you going quite like showing off for the ladies or getting drunk as shit with your bro Spencer. The thought of another night filled with beer, boobs, and bad decisions makes your heart race in anticipation.

You nod to Spencer, a knowing grin on your face, ready to embrace the night ahead with the same fervor and enthusiasm that has defined your time with the B.R.O. boys.

I feel like I’m studying all the time without a break, and find myself always just waiting for the weekend when I can hit my pen and relax. Can you make me able to do that a little more. I wanna see what it’s like to really become a stoner bro huhuh

As you strain to focus on the dense text before you, your eyes begin to blur, fatigue settling in from hours of study. The rhythmic scratch of your pen on paper is suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door, breaking your concentration. With a sigh, you rise from your desk and open the door, expecting perhaps a delivery or a neighbor—but instead, you're met with an unexpected sight.

Standing before you is a cute hipster guy with a scruffy beard, his style a stark contrast to your own. He grins at you in a blitzed-out manner, his words flowing with a laid-back cadence, "Hey, man. Wazz bro. I'm your new roommate, Kush." Without waiting for your reaction, he saunters past you into the living area, dropping his backpack on the floor with a casual thud. His belongings seem minimal, giving the impression that he's a traveler rather than a settler.

"How ya' liking college, bro?" he asks casually, as if this encounter were a routine exchange. Confusion mingles with surprise; you hadn't anticipated a new roommate, let alone one who appears to be a chilled-out stoner hipster straight out of a movie.

"Mind if I blaze up?" Kush's question catches you off guard, his bong already in hand and being readied for use. Before you can protest or even respond, he lights up and takes a deep draw. Almost immediately, the room is filled with a thick haze of smoke, swirling around you.

Coughing uncontrollably, you stumble back, your body reacting to the sudden intrusion of smoke in your lungs. But as you cough, something inexplicable begins to happen. You feel a strange sensation spreading through you, starting from your chest and radiating outward. It's as if the smoke is triggering a transformation within your body.

You notice your posture straightening, your limbs stretching slightly. The familiar softness around your midsection seems to melt away, replaced by a subtle firmness you've never felt before. Despite never hitting the gym, your body takes on a lean, toned appearance—like someone who effortlessly maintains fitness without trying hard.

As you try to make sense of this bizarre turn of events, Kush exhales another plume of smoke with a serene smile, seemingly unperturbed by the scene unfolding. You glance down at yourself in disbelief, realizing that somehow, your abs, biceps, and pecs start to grow more defined and muscular. Tattoos seemingly appear out of nowhere, snaking their way across your skin in intricate patterns. You feel a newfound sense of confidence emanating from within as you take stock of the physical transformation taking place before your eyes. This is who you were always meant to be – strong, powerful, and unapologetically yourself.

As the fog descends on your brain, the once clear concepts of Calculus 101 blur into a meaningless jumble of numbers and symbols. "Integrals… derivatives… what were they even for?" you mutter to yourself, feeling the information slip away like sand through your fingers. Computers, too, seem like a distant concept—what were they used for again? "Uh… uh huhuh," you mumble nonsensically, struggling to grasp even the simplest of thoughts.

In this haze, your well-decorated apartment seems to deteriorate before your eyes. The walls lose their vibrancy, the furniture fades into shabbiness. The once plush couch is now a ratty, broken piece of shit held together with duct tape. Oddly, none of this bothers you as the television flickers on, playing an episode of "Ted". You realize that Seth MacFarlane is like the fucking funniest dude on the planet, the only thing that seems to penetrate the fog in your mind.

Amidst this surreal scene, Kush appears, offering you a hit off his bong. "Dude, you look like you could use this," he says with a knowing grin, the smoke swirling around him like a mystical haze.

You hesitate for a moment, then shrug, thinking, "Why not?" Taking a deep inhale, you feel the smoke fill your lungs, and a wave of sensation washes over you. Your hair feels wild and unkempt, your thoughts swimming in a sea of newfound relaxation.

"Man, isn't this just the best?" Kush remarks casually, settling down beside you on the decrepit couch. "Like, everything just mellows out, ya know?"

You nod dumbly, finding it hard to formulate a coherent response. "Yeah… it's… it's pretty awesome," you manage to mumble, your words trailing off into a lazy smile.

The longer you sit there, the more you find yourself drawn to Kush. His deep blue eyes seem to hold a magnetic pull, and in your altered state, all you want to do is lean in closer, to feel his presence more intimately.

"Hey," you start, your voice slurred but earnest, "you've got… really nice eyes."

Kush chuckles softly, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of amusement and understanding. "Dude that's so fucking gay."

And in that moment, as the fog continues to cloud your thoughts, all you can think about is how much you want to lean in and kiss him, to lose yourself in the warmth of his presence and the haze of smoke that surrounds you both.

As soon as the thought of wanting to kiss Kush enters your mind, the atmosphere in the room shifts again, almost in response to your altered state of mind. The once dingy walls of your apartment begin to transform before your eyes. Posters of hot women materialize, their images vivid and enticing. Among them, you notice a poster of Miley Cyrus, her provocative pose capturing your attention with a mix of curiosity and fascination.

Alongside the posters of these attractive women, other images take shape—posters for bands like Broken Bells and Bob Marley. The walls, once faded and dull, now seem to pulse with a vibrant energy, as if reflecting the eclectic tastes and influences that now permeate your consciousness.

Your own appearance undergoes a subtle but noticeable change as well. The clothes you wear shift into well-worn, slightly smelly oversized knitwear, shirts, and jackets that don't quite look clean or put together. It's a stark contrast to your usual neat and orderly attire, but in your altered state, it feels strangely comforting and familiar.

Your gaze drifts from the posters to your surroundings, taking in the scene with red, bloodshot eyes that betray the effects of Kush's potent smoke. The hot women on the posters seem to stare back at you, their images stirring something within you that feels both exhilarating and surreal.

"Miley Cyrus, man," Kush remarks casually, noticing your attention drawn to the poster. "She's something else, right? Got that whole rebellious vibe going on."

You nod slowly, still mesmerized by the posters and the shifting dynamics of your perception. "Yeah… she's… she's cool," you reply, your words slightly slurred but genuine. As you stare at the poster of Miley Cyrus, your heart races and your palms begin to sweat. Her curves are perfectly accentuated by the tight clothing she's wearing, leaving little to the imagination. Her breasts stand out prominently against her chest, begging for attention. You can almost feel their weight in your hands as you imagine running them over her soft skin. The other posters around her feature equally attractive women with voluptuous figures and ample cleavage on display. Their faces are seductive and inviting, beckoning you closer with every glance.

In this altered state, surrounded by posters of hot women and the music that fills the air, you find yourself drawn deeper into the moment, eager to explore where this new connection with Kush might lead. As the television switches to lesbian porn, Kush's eyes light up with excitement. He quickly pulls out his already erect cock and begins stroking it vigorously, lost in the erotic scene unfolding before him. Despite your initial discomfort at the gay undertones of the situation, you find yourself growing aroused by the sight of two women pleasuring each other on screen. Old you would have found it hot to watch the hipster Kush jerk his thick cock, but the new you is disgusted. "Dude, bro," he says reassuringly as he glances over at you, "no homo right?" His question only serves to heighten your desire as you both continue to stroke your cocks together.

As you continue to masturbate alongside Kush, you find yourself slipping into a new persona. You become a total stoner loser who spends most of his days watching porn and movies while jerking off. Your once active social life has been replaced by hours spent alone in your room, lost in the world of online entertainment. Despite this change, there's something oddly satisfying about the routine you've created for yourself – it feels comfortable and familiar. And as long as Kush is around to share these moments with you, well… who needs girls anyway?

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