Hey There! Becoming A Dumb, Stinky Redneck Would Be Sooooo Hot...

Hey there! Becoming a dumb, stinky redneck would be sooooo hot...

You hear a knock at the door, an unexpected interruption in your quiet day. Confused, you head over to investigate, opening the door to find a small box sitting on the ground. There’s no recollection of ordering anything, but your name is printed on the label in a hasty scrawl. Curiosity piqued, you bring it inside, setting it down on the table.

As you open the package, a wave of unease washes over you. Inside, there’s nothing but a small, unremarkable can of body spray. You hold it up, examining the label, when, without thinking, you accidentally spray yourself in the face. A sudden, sharp smell fills the air—a faint whiff of used gym socks that quickly intensifies.

As the pungent scent wraps around you, a warm sensation spreads through your limbs. Your muscles start to shift and swell, as if being pumped up by some unseen force. The tightness in your biceps intensifies, veins snaking like bold rivers across the surface, showcasing newfound strength. Each tricep and shoulder begins to expand, the fabric of your shirt straining against the burgeoning mass beneath.

Your chest swells outward, pectorals bulging, defined and powerful, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening across the surface. You feel the fabric of the tank top cling tighter, the material barely containing the raw energy radiating from your form. A faint thud echoes as your heart races, matching the rhythm of the transformation.

The muscles in your back ripple and flare, thickening into a robust V-shape, the power radiating through your core. You catch a glimpse of your reflection, and the rugged, sun-kissed skin is marked with scars—each a testament to the grit of hard labor and wild escapades. The warmth of the reddish tan feels almost primal, as if it’s a badge of honor earned through years spent under the sun.

As your quads thicken, the very fabric of your jeans seems to stretch and strain, the definition becoming more pronounced with every pulse of energy. Your calves grow solid, like rocks, capable of propelling you forward with sheer force. It’s intoxicating—the raw vitality surging through you feels both exhilarating and overwhelming.

Yet, the relentless smell remains—a blend of stale beer, unwashed underwear, and that lingering fart, wrapping you in a cloak of unapologetic masculinity. You’re no longer just an observer; you’re becoming a living embodiment of the rough, unrefined spirit of the redneck life.

As you blink, a pounding headache starts to emerge, each throb matching the relentless stench surrounding you. You glance around, and suddenly you’re no longer in your pristine apartment but in a ratty, disgusting trailer. The floors are littered with crushed beer cans, remnants of past nights spent in revelry. Used, unwashed clothes are strewn everywhere, some draped over free weights that sit like forgotten relics of a once-ambitious workout routine.

The walls are adorned with peeling posters of hunting scenes and some blonde bimbos, while the air is thick with a mix of stale smoke and something decidedly worse—like the aftermath of too many late-night barbecues. The headache intensifies, and the reality of your surroundings sinks in. You’re now in this rugged, chaotic space, and it’s as if the very essence of this hick life has seeped into your bones, leaving you feeling both bewildered and strangely invigorated. As the musky scent of the body spray bottle shifts to the sharp, crisp cold beer, you chuckle heartily. A deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through your newly-chiseled chest. You unscrew the cap of the bottle with a deft twist of your claw-like fingers, already half-drunk on the idea of indulging in your new favorite vice.

You take a long swig, feeling the icy liquid dance along your throat. It soothes the burning ache building behind your eyes, easing the throbbing between them. The TV flickers to life, the bland faces of Fox News hosts filling the screen. Right on cue, your normally sharp mind begins to slow, each thought fuzzy and indistinct. You watch in detached fascination as your worldview shifts, perspectives warping to align with the most conservative talking points you've ever heard.

One hand drifts down to cup your burgeoning erection through your pants, giving it a casual squeeze. It twitches eagerly beneath your palm, already half-hard and straining against the confining denim. A beautiful blonde bimbo materializes on screen, all big fake tits and glossy lips. Her low-cut top strains to contain her ample assets as she leans forward, a coy smile playing across her painted lips.

You groan at the sight, a low, primal sound that catches in your throat. Your cock pulses under your touch, hot and eager for attention, the swelling member straining against the confines of the fabric. Pre-cum bubbles at the tip as your thumb circles the throbbing head through the fabric barrier, teasing the sensitive flesh until you're almost panting from the lack of stimulation. The bimbo continues to flaunt her barely restrained tits on the screen, drawing your attention back like a moth to a flame even as a part of your brain struggles to understand what's come over you. The sudden shift towards the right makes perfect sense now - conservative views always held a particular appeal for the simple and uncomplicated.

A growl rises in the back of your throat and you shrug out of your jacket impatiently. The smell of stale body odor still lingers beneath the sweet bouquet of fermented hops and heavy metal riffs wafting in from somewhere nearby. In the confines of this trashy hovel, however, even that scent becomes almost inviting - a tangible reminder that everything is bigger and dirtier and better than the clean, safe world you came from.

A wince escapes your nostrils as you take a deep whiff of the stagnant air in your cramped living space. The combined aromas of stale sweat, week-old beer, unwashed gym socks and old cigarette butts assault your olfactory system. But unlike the overwhelming stench of moldy foot that normally fills your nose in a typical bachelor pad, these smells have an earthiness to them now. Like a musk of well-used gym mats, dried semen, and countless cans of beer.

You stroke yourself idly as the sultry blonde continues her coy schtick on Fox Business, one hand trailing lower to grope at your pulsing cock through your pants. It kicks up the volume of your grunting, each movement coaxing more pre-cum onto your fingertips until it dribbles down your thigh and stains the denim a lurid wet spot. Goddammit, it feels so good to let go. No more thinking about things that are good for you, no more fighting those base urges that live for indulgence in pleasure at every turn.

You inhale deeply, drawing in the rancid stench of your den of sin. The stink of unwashed gym socks mingles with stale sweat from weeks of hard living, forming a pungent yet oddly arousing perfume in this fetid space. Beer fumes tickle your nostrils, sweet and sour and headier than any brew you ever drank in college. A whiff of sex lingers in the air as well, mingling with the other odors. It's ripe and musty, thick with pheromones and body fluids. Just the bouquet you'd expect from the trailer of a red-blooded, foul-mouthed, horny-as-shit hobo.

Your fist clenches around your aching prick, giving it a few rough pumps as you eye the blonde bombshell sashaying across the TV screen. Each stroke brings fresh bursts of pre-cum drooling from the swollen cockhead, staining your zipper with pearly streaks. Your other hand skims up the curve of your abs to wrap loosely around your own neck. The muscles are rock-solid beneath your palms, even more defined than you'd ever been back home in your corporate cocoon.

Fangs and Football

In the heart of a Midwestern autumn, the woods near the small college campus were alive with color. Brilliant reds and oranges framed the path that led to a secluded spot, where the air was crisp, biting just enough to send shivers down your spine. The scent of fallen leaves mingled with the earthy undertones of damp soil, creating a comforting, yet eerie atmosphere.

Inside a parked car at the edge of the woods, Josh and Ashton were lost in each other. Josh, with his tousled scruffy hair and bright blue eyes, exuded a playful energy that contrasted beautifully with Ashton’s more grounded presence. Ashton, the slightly more muscular of the two, had raven-black hair that fell just above his deep brown eyes, which sparkled with a mix of intelligence and mischief. As Josh leaned in, his fingers trailed gently down Ashton’s neck, sending a shiver through him.

“Do you think we’ll ever make it to New York?” Josh whispered, his breath warm against Ashton’s skin.

“Of course,” Ashton replied, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Once I’m a successful coder, I’ll have enough cash to take you anywhere. Just imagine it—us, living in the city, you doing your theater thing, and me... well, probably still coding in a coffee shop.”

Josh laughed softly, their foreheads touching. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are.”

Just then, a rustle echoed through the trees, cutting through their moment. The mist began to creep in, swirling around the car, casting an unsettling veil over the vibrant foliage. The radio, once playing Lady Gaga’s infectious pop beats, crackled with static before shifting to an urgent news bulletin.

“—this is a special report. Authorities are urging residents to remain vigilant as a convicted felon has escaped from Morningstar Prison. Last year, he was involved in the gruesome massacre of a local science team, and since then, he has been subjected to experimental treatments aimed at reducing his sentence. If you see anything suspicious—”

Josh’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing as he exchanged a worried glance with Ashton. “Did you hear that?” he whispered, pulling back slightly.

Ashton nodded, his expression turning serious. “Yeah… it sounded like they were talking about that massacre from last year.”

Just then, a rustling noise echoed from outside the car, followed by the snapping of a branch. The mist thickened, swirling around them like a living thing. Josh’s heart raced, the earlier warmth of their moment replaced by a creeping unease.

“Josh,” Ashton whispered, his voice barely audible over the static on the radio. “What if he’s out here? What if he—”

Suddenly, a heavy breathing filled the air, a deep, heaving sound that sent chills down their spines. It was close—too close.

“Did you hear that?” Josh gasped, gripping Ashton’s arm tightly.

“Yeah,” Ashton replied, eyes wide, scanning the foggy darkness outside. “It sounds like—”

Before he could finish, the sound of footsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate, as if someone—or something—was approaching. Josh pressed his back against the seat, fear gripping him, while Ashton’s jaw clenched, instinctively reaching for the door handle.

“Maybe we should just drive away,” Josh suggested, his voice trembling.

“Wait,” Ashton urged, holding him back. “What if it’s nothing? We can’t just panic.”

But as the breathing grew louder, the tension in the air thickened, and the shadows of the woods seemed to draw closer, both boys knew that whatever lay outside was anything but nothing.

As the mist thickened around the car, a monstrous figure emerged from the shadows. A jock, almost larger than life, loomed by the window. His broad shoulders strained against his shirt, and his beady eyes glinted with a wild hunger. Drool dripped from his lips, pooling on the ground as he leaned closer, confusion and intensity etched on his face.

With a terrifying ease, he yanked the car door open, metal groaning in protest as if the vehicle itself were trying to resist him. The door flew wide, clanging against the frame with a sickening thud, sending Josh and Ashton recoiling. “Get back!” Ashton shouted, instinctively shielding Josh. But the jock was relentless. He lunged forward, his hands like bear traps as he seized Josh’s wrist, dragging him toward the open door. The jock’s breath was hot and foul, a wave of rot hitting Josh like a physical blow. Saliva dripped onto Josh’s skin, burning like acid as it splattered across his arm. “Josh!” Ashton yelled, panic coursing through his voice, but the jock’s grip tightened, his fingers digging in deep. Josh felt a sharp, searing heat radiating from the drool that dripped onto him, spreading like wildfire across his skin, a tan forming in its wake as if it were more than just saliva—it was poison. Before he could process the pain, the jock leaned in closer, his mouth opening wide. In one swift motion, he bit down, teeth sinking into Josh’s arm, the pain sharp and overwhelmed him, pumping the young boy with energy and lust.

​​With each passing moment, he could feel his body changing. Muscles began to swell beneath his skin, transforming him. The sensation was surreal—his twink frame slowly adapting, filling out, becoming something more powerful.

His biceps pulsed, thickening like coiled steel cables, pressing against the fabric of his shirt as they grew. He could feel the fibers of his muscles tearing and rebuilding, each contraction sending waves of warmth through his arms. The veins on his forearms became more pronounced, tracing a path that hinted at the newfound strength surging beneath the surface.

As his shoulders broadened, he sensed a weight settling in, making him feel both grounded and liberated. The deltoids expanded, rounding out into smooth, powerful contours that complemented the tapering of his waist. It was as if his body was sculpting itself, each muscle group harmonizing into a new form that radiated confidence.

His chest swelled, pushing outward and upward, filling out the fabric tightly. The pectorals surged, a firm wall of muscle that gave him an exhilarating sense of solidity. He could feel the strength there, an undeniable power that made him want to test his limits.

As his abs began to form, he felt a delicious tightness pull across his midsection. The definition deepened, each muscle segment chiseled and sharp, creating a landscape of ridges that called out to be touched. It was an embodiment of strength, a core that spoke of endurance and tenacity.

As Josh slowly staggers up, his shredded shirt hangs off his muscular torso in tattered strips, exposing his glistening physique to the moonlight. His pecs are visibly bulging, each one larger than the last. The moonlight dances across his abs, highlighting the defined V-lines leading down to the waistband of his shorts. His broad shoulders taper to narrow hips, the muscles rippling with every labored step. A light sheen of sweat coats his skin, accentuating his toned physique. His arms hang heavily at his sides, the triceps flexing with minor movement.

Across from him, Ashton stares in awe at his boyfriend's transformation. His blue eyes roam hungrily over his body, taking in every dip and curve of his sculpted muscles. He licks his lips unconsciously as he imagines all the things he wants to do to him. But as Josh begins to shout, his voice growing louder and more manic with each passing second, Ashton's expression shifts. Josh's eyes glazed over with a desperate, animalistic hunger. "BABE.....BABBBBEEE....BABBBBBEEEESS....Must find BABES!" he bellows again, his voice cracking. "MUST FUCK HOT BABESSSSSS!" Ashton swallows hard, realizing just how far gone he's become. Ashton watches in stunned horror as Josh careens through the woods, his mind clearly fractured by a potent cocktail of adrenaline and lust. The primal need to rut consumes him entirely, pushing aside all coherent thought. "Gotta... gotta get 'em..." he grunts with each heavy step, grunting as he slams through the underbrush. His hands paw clumsily at his crotch, fumbling with his belt buckle in his desperation to free his straining erection. "Football... babes... working out..babbbess. beer...babes" he mutters deliriously, his words slipping together in a garbled mess. He can't stop thinking about pinning some nubile young thing against a locker room wall, ripping off her tiny shorts and pounding into her tight heat until she screams.

As Josh stumbles through the woods, he feels a deep, feral hunger stirring within his loins. The urge to rut, to breed, consumes his every waking thought. Memories of his strict Catholic upbringing flash through his mind - his father's shrill lectures on what it means to be a man, the shame of wearing a condom, the sin of premarital sex. But none of that matters anymore. All that exists is the primal need to dominate and conquer, to prove to the world that he's a real alpha male now. He snarls as a surge of testosterone floods his veins, his cock pulsing urgently in his gym shorts. "Fuck that pathetic loser I used to be," he growls under his breath. "Time to show everyone who I really am."

Approaching the edge of the forest, Josh spots movement in the distance - girls walking back from a nearby party. His nostrils flare as he catches the sweet scent of their arousal.

As Josh approaches the sorority house, the intoxicating scent of feminine arousal grows stronger, making his head spin with desire. He licks his lips hungrily, imagining all the tight little holes he's going to defile. "Gonna show these sluts what a real man looks like," he mutters under his breath. "Gonna fuck 'em all senseless and pump 'em full of my superior seed." The thought of knocking up some helpless co-ed fills him with primal glee. He stumbles up to the front door, nearly falling over in his haste to get inside. The house is dark and quiet, but he can hear the distant thump of music and laughter coming from upstairs. Perfect.

Without hesitation, Josh barges into the living room, his massive frame looming over the startled sorority girls lounging on the couch. "Where's your hottest bitch? Jo---Joo---Jace needs to fucccck" he bellows, his voice rough with lust.

Just like the movies

The crisp air on campus carries a hint of nostalgia, mingling with the earthy scent of leaves transforming into vibrant shades of amber and crimson. As students meander along the widening road of academia, the familiar hum of conversation fills the air, punctuated by laughter from nearby frat houses. On the quad, a group of theatre majors passionately rehearses their lines, their voices weaving through the rustling leaves, while a few bespectacled students dash off to the library, arms laden with textbooks and notes, eyes focused ahead.

Winding paths lead through the campus, lined with towering trees that whisper secrets of the season. Just off the main thoroughfare, a newly restored art house theater stands as a beacon of creativity and mystery. The building, once cloaked in shadows, now boasts a fresh coat of paint and a glittering marquee illuminated by retro Edison bulbs, casting a warm glow against the encroaching twilight. Posters plastered along the entrance advertise a lineup of classic horror films: Nightmare on Elm Street, Frankenstein, Friday the 13th Part 2, The Shining, Psycho, Rosemary's Baby, and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, all promising a thrilling escape into the macabre.

The theater’s storied past lingers like a ghost, having transitioned from a notorious porno house in the ‘80s to this vibrant hub of art. Developers, perhaps naively optimistic, undertook the daunting task of restoring it, scrubbing away the grime of its seedy history and replacing the moldy carpet that bore witness to countless clandestine encounters. Yet, what they didn’t know was that their mysterious backer, R. Morningstar—an enigmatic figure with an ageless visage—saw potential in the decrepit building. He believed it could harbor something more than just old memories; it could embody the restless spirits of creativity longing for rebirth.

Beneath the polished surface, the theater holds its breath, waiting for the first flicker of the film reel to spark life once more. Each cinematic frame, imbued with echoes of the past, yearns to breathe new life into the community, to remind them of the magic that resides in storytelling—if only they would dare to watch.

Patrick strode across the campus with an easy grace, the kind that comes from years of confident familiarity. His salt-and-pepper hair framed a face that had aged beautifully—deep-set eyes crinkling with warmth, a sharp jaw softened by the years. He wore a tailored jacket over a simple sweater, a nod to the academia he adored, but there was an effortless style to him that set him apart. He was handsome, but it was the kindness in his gaze that truly drew people in.

As an art professor, Patrick found himself surrounded by the vivacity of youth each semester. His students, bright-eyed and bursting with ideas, reminded him of the carefree days of his own youth—days filled with late-night gallery openings, spontaneous road trips, and an insatiable hunger for new experiences. Now, while they thrived in the whirlwind of possibility, he often felt like a spectator, a seasoned guide navigating a world that seemed to whirl ever faster around him.

Still, life was good. He had a loving husband, a devoted dog named Jasper, and a comfortable routine that, while predictable, brought him joy. Evenings were spent in quiet solitude, savoring a single glass of wine, a ritual that felt more comforting than indulgent these days. Indie rock—music that had long since faded from the mainstream—filled the air as he flipped through the New York Times, engrossed in political commentary that often left him shaking his head. With his husband being a poli sci professor, discussions at home could be both enlightening and frustrating, especially with the state of the world seeming to veer into chaos.

But today, something caught his attention—the news of the newly restored art house theater. Independent cinema had always been his passion, a link to the past that fueled his creativity and reminded him of the films that had inspired him as a young artist. Curiosity piqued, he browsed online for showtimes, but found nothing. With a shrug, he decided to make the short walk to the theater, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it had to offer.

As he strolled through the campus, the crisp autumn air filled his lungs with a freshness that felt invigorating. Leaves crunched underfoot, the brilliant colors painting a picturesque backdrop that seemed almost cinematic. Approaching the theater, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement. Maybe this place would breathe some new life into his routine—maybe it would stir something dormant within him. As he neared the marquee, illuminated against the encroaching twilight, he felt a sense of possibility blossom, ready to embrace whatever the night had in store.

As Patrick stepped into the building, the soft flicker of Edison bulbs cast a warm, inviting glow across the lobby, their orange light bathing the space in a cozy ambiance. The air felt alive, tinged with the scent of buttered popcorn and the faint trace of paint from the recent renovations. In front of him stood a modest booth, its vintage charm echoing the theater’s storied past. Behind the counter was a lone employee—handsome, with an effortlessly cool demeanor—dressed in a somewhat retro usher uniform. His name tag read “R. Morningstar.”

“Hello, quite the place you got here,” Patrick remarked, letting out a slight sigh as he took in the atmosphere, but the usher merely looked him up and down, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Ticket, sir?” came the prompt response, echoing the formality of a bygone era.

Patrick’s heart sank as he fumbled through his pockets, realizing he hadn’t prepared for this moment at all—he didn’t even know what was playing. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I should go,” he muttered, already turning to retreat.

“Sir, ticket,” the usher repeated, this time with a tone that brooked no argument. With a quick, almost magical flick of his wrist, he handed Patrick a ticket stub. “Theater 13. It’s on the house. Help yourself to whatever concessions you’d like.”

Utterly bewildered but intrigued, Patrick accepted the ticket and wandered over to the concession stand, pouring himself a tub of popcorn and grabbing a soft drink. He felt like he had stumbled into a surreal dream, but the allure of the unknown pulled him further into the winding hallway.

As he made his way down the dim corridor, posters adorned the walls, each more bizarre than the last: Nightmare on Bro Street, Cabin and Some Wood, Rosemary’s Baby Daddy, Douchebag of the Dead, The Night of the Living Nerds, and Bible Study. A mix of humor and horror flashed before him, and he couldn’t help but chuckle nervously. What kind of films were these? More and more titles lined the wall, things he had never heard of.

Confusion mingled with a tinge of excitement as he finally approached Theater 13. Pushing open the heavy door, he stepped inside, greeted by a sea of empty seats. The auditorium felt both intimate and eerily quiet, the kind of silence that heightens every sound. He took a seat in the middle, hoping to absorb the atmosphere before the film began.

As the lights dimmed, he braced himself for the familiar buzz of previews or perhaps the iconic Nicole Kidman introduction, but the screen remained blank for a moment before abruptly displaying the title. Patrick’s heart raced as anticipation hung in the air—he had no idea what he was about to watch, and that thought both thrilled and unnerved him. He settled back, popcorn in hand, ready to dive into whatever bizarre cinematic adventure awaited him.

As Patrick looked up at the screen, the bold, red letters spelling "Hell’s Frat Party" seared into his consciousness. An icy grip of terror clutched at his heart, and he found himself frozen in place, unable to move as images of raucous college life flooded the screen. The overwhelming sounds of laughter and shouting filled the air, echoing with the energy of young, muscle-bound men—an endless parade of bulging biceps, thrusting pecs, and glistening abs that were drenched in sweat and blood.

Something stirred within him. Was it the film? The tension in his muscles seemed to echo the energy radiating from the screen. He tried to convince himself that this was just a silly movie, but each scene sent a jolt of apprehension coursing through him. Patrick licked his lips, anticipation mixing with a sense of dread.

And then, abruptly, the screen went black. SCREEEEECH! The jarring sound pierced the silence, causing Patrick to rub his temples, as if trying to banish the confusion clouding his mind. Thoughts of art history, of Van Gogh's swirling colors, slipped away like wisps of smoke. All that remained were the pulsating images of muscle and youth—an intoxicating blend of desire and envy that filled his senses.

As he watched, something strange began to happen. His own muscles felt tight, as if responding to the visceral power on display. He imagined himself as that twenty-year-old frat bro on screen—tall and broad-shouldered, with a physique honed by relentless dedication. The memory of his older body seemed to fade, as he envisioned a chest that rippled with strength, a perfectly defined six-pack glistening from exertion.

As Patrick continued to watch the film, an unusual warmth began to spread through his body. It started as a tightness in his muscles, a sensation that felt both foreign and exhilarating. With every flex of the frat bro’s arms on screen, Patrick felt his own biceps twitch, as if responding to an unseen force. The ache transformed into a deep, throbbing power, as though he were drawing energy directly from the display of youthful vitality before him.

He imagined himself standing tall, broad-shouldered and full of strength. His older body seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sculpted chest that rippled with strength. Each heartbeat sent a rush of warmth coursing through him, igniting a desire to reclaim that physical prowess he once had. Perfectly defined six-pack glistening from exertion filled his mind, and he could almost feel his own muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt---and they did.

As the frat bro flexed, veins snaked along his arms, a testament to hard work and discipline. Patrick felt a surge of longing, his own forearms tightening as if mirroring the action. Fat being replaced by hard earned muscle. It was a physical ache, but one that began to feel like a promise---a promise of power. The weight of the world seemed to lift, replaced by a heady mix of adrenaline and desire.

The images on the screen shifted again, showcasing the young man's impressive physique. Patrick could feel his own glutes tightening, a strange sensation of fullness and strength building beneath him. Each glance at that muscular form fueled his body, and his own body swelling with energy, the outlines of his muscles sharpening and becoming more defined.

With each passing second, the scents of stale cologne and sweat filled his senses, amplifying his longing. It was intoxicating, stirring something primal within him. The ache in his muscles became a thrum of vitality, a pulsating rhythm that echoed the energy on screen. Patrick could almost sense his body shifting, his age fading as he surrendered to the fantasy of youth and power.

As he watched, every muscle aching with the desire to awaken and push beyond its limits. The film played on, but for Patrick, it was more than just a movie—it was a catalyst, igniting a powerful yearning for strength and vitality he had thought lost forever.

The image shifted again, showcasing the young man’s bubble butt, round and muscular, drawing admiring glances whether he wore shorts or fitted jeans. His face was striking—strong jawline, cheekbones that caught the light, and a cocky grin that revealed perfect teeth, framed by a hint of stubble that gave him a rugged appeal. Mischief sparkled in his eyes, a promise of endless parties and adventures.

To calm down, Patrick reaches for his soft drink, not realizing its suddenly become a beer. As the cold, crisp beer touches his lips, the sensation sparks a surge of energy within Patrick. A wave of confusion washes over him, quickly replaced by a wicked grin. The cold liquid cascades down his throat, a newfound sense of entitlement swelling inside him. He slams the empty can down, the aluminum scraping against the surface as if trying to keep up with the rush of euphoria.

Patrick's gaze lingers on the scene unfolding before him—the bros holding court at their makeshift kingdom of fraternity and debauchery. He watches, enraptured, as the sororities dance and gyrate for their adoring followers, their moans and shrieks of pleasure intermingling with the thumping beat of the music. The memories come flooding back—a haze of drunken college parties, the thrill of gridiron battles, the hours spent sculpting his physique into a weapon both deadly and beautiful. The wrinkles in his face seem to vanish. In that moment, nothing else matters but feeding this growing sense of dominance, this all-consuming need to exert his will over all.

Slowly, the golden cross around his neck begins to take shape, each intricate link representing his superiority in every aspect of life. His hands curl into fists at his sides as the anger simmers, ready to ignite at any moment. He feels powerful—no, invincible. This is his world, and everyone in it knows it. Even as his blood sings with righteous fury, he savors the sweet taste of intoxication on his tongue. Just another step in his march toward total domination.

The cruel smile spreads across Patrick's face as his rage begins to build. His eyes narrow, pupils dilating with a malevolent hunger. The air around him crackles with barely contained aggression, an aura of danger radiating from his very being. Each beat of the thumping score seems to stroke the flames of his fury, fueling the ever-growing sense of entitlement bubbling up from deep within.

He watches with rapt attention as the sorority chicks writhe and undulate, lost in a haze of drunken desire. Their wanton displays of lust only serve to inflame his twisted fantasies, each flicker of skin against skin igniting his sadistic imagination. Patrick's hands clench, nails digging into his palms as he fights the overwhelming urge to reach out and mark these girls as his own personal playthings, but they were just visions on the screen.

In his mind's eye, he sees himself presiding over a kingdom built on a foundation of physical prowess and sexual domination. Frat parties become a means to an end—an opportunity to test the limits of his power and claim yet another group of unsuspecting victims. College football games are merely a platform for him to flex his brawn and assert his status among the social hierarchy. And those endless workouts, meticulously crafted to sculpt him into a living, breathing weapon…they are nothing more than preparation for the conquests to come.

Every fiber of Patrick's being screams at him to seize control, to assert his dominance over anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. The gold chain around his neck seems to burn against his skin, a tangible reminder of the authority he holds over his peers and the world beyond. With each passing moment, he grows more eager to unleash the beast that lurks beneath the surface.

As Patrick watches the depravity unfold on the screen, a single tear rolls down his cheek. For just a fleeting moment, the haze of anger and lust lifts, allowing a pang of regret to pierce through the fog. Memories of his quiet life—a loving husband, a beloved dog, a sense of purpose—flash through his mind. But they fade away almost as quickly as they appeared, drowned out by the primal urges raging within him.

His focus returns to the frat party on screen, and his eyes zero in on the group of gay men stumbling about the room. A cruel sneer twists his features, and he leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he studies the scene with predatory interest. The frat bros are merciless, their fists flying in a frenzy of violence as they pummel and taunt their helpless prey.

Patrick's gaze darts to the women watching from the sidelines, their eyes wide with a mix of excitement and arousal. He can practically taste their fear, their confusion at finding themselves caught in this twisted spectacle. But their hesitation only fuels his excitement, the thrill of taking something pure and innocent and corrupting it with his own dark desires.

Unbidden, his hand moves to scratch at his thick chinstrap beard, the rough calluses on his fingers betraying his rough upbringing and hard living. He sways his baseball cap back and forth in his grasp, a subconscious gesture of dominance and control. The image of perfect tits bouncing to the rhythm of the music fills his mind, and he growls low in his chest, his cock stirring to life in his jeans.

All traces of empathy, of any shred of human decency, have been eroded away by the onslaught of base instincts. Patrick finds himself chugging the rest of beer, crushing the can against his forehead. Blacking out momentarily. As a frat party blurs around him, Patrick finds himself standing in the midst of a raucous celebration, just like the one he had been watching on screen moments ago. The air is thick with the musky scent of sweat and alcohol, and the pounding bass of the music reverberates through his very bones.

Before him stands a buxom blonde, her massive breasts nearly spilling out of the low-cut top she wears. She hangs off his bulging biceps, her breathy voice laced with admiration as she recounts the details of his latest victory on the field. "Oh Cayden," she purrs, her hot breath tickling his ear. "You were incredible out there. Those Western boys didn't stand a chance against you."

Pat----Cayden grins wolfishly, his teeth glinting in the harsh light of the party. "Tell me about it, babe," he growls, his voice dripping with confident arrogance. "No one can match me on the gridiron." He looks around the room, scanning for potential challengers to his newfound dominance. His eyes land on a group of meathead frat bros in the corner, their eyes glazed with cheap liquor and barely concealed desire.

An idea, if you could call the thoughts still spinning in his head an idea, sparks in Cayden's mind, and he turns to his new conquest with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Hey there, boys," he calls out, his voice carrying across the room. "How about a round of beer pong? If I win, you guys have to do whatever I say." The bros look at each other uncertainly, clearly debating whether to accept the challenge or back down. As the night wears on, Cayden saunters from girl to girl, his confidence oozing from every pore. With a charming smirk and a wink, he charms the airheaded beauties, promising them the time of their lives if they'll join him for a drink.

Most eagerly agree, drawn in by his charisma and the promise of a wild good time. Cayden wastes no time in leading them to the bar, his hands already roaming their curves. He pulls them close, nuzzling into their cleavage as he orders round after round of shots and beers. The alcohol flows freely, and soon, the girls are giggling and stumbling, their inhibitions lowered by the potent cocktails.

Cayden takes full advantage of their drunken state, dragging them off to secluded corners of the house. He pins them against the wall, grinding his hardness against their bodies as he kisses and bites at their necks. One particularly slutty blonde hangs on his every word, mewling in delight as he gropes her ass. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, giving her a rough thrust. "I can't wait to split you open on my fat cock."

He continues his reign of debauchery throughout the night, leaving a trail of sloppy makeout sessions and crumpled clothes in his wake. Pranks and shenanigans ensue, as Cayden and his bros pull harmless but hilarious stunts on unsuspecting guests. Farts and burps punctuate every conversation, much to the amusement of their fellow partygoers.

Towards midnight, Cayden spots a particularly brazen bimbo across the room, her low-cut top barely containing her ample assets. He saunters over, his confidence oozing from every pore. "Hey there, gorgeous," he purrs, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. "I've got a room upstairs where we can get better acquainted."

She giggles, batting her eyelashes coyly. "Lead the way, stud." Cayden grins, offering her his arm like a true gentleman. As if. Together, they navigate the rowdy crowd, drawing appreciative stares and catcalls from their fellow partygoers.

Once inside the bedroom, Cayden wastes no time in pinning the girl against the door, his hands roaming her body with reckless abandon. She moans wantonly, arching into his touch as he nips at her neck. "Mmm, you feel so good," she gasps, grinding her hips against his straining erection.

Cayden growls in response, his hands slipping under her skirt to grope her ass. "That's right, baby. You're mine now." He captures her lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue as he plunders her mouth. The girl whimpers into the kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair.

Without breaking the liplock, Cayden walks them towards the bed, tearing at their clothes until they tumble onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. He pins her wrists above her head, his eyes dark with lust as he looms over her. "Get ready for the ride of your life," he smirks, before burying his face between her thighs and devouring her like a man.

I have this huge crush on this straight guy on my campus and he just invited me to hang out!! I'm so excited to spend time with him, he said he wanted to "snap" me but I have no idea what that means! It doesn't matter, I have such a huge crush on him, I'd do anything he asks just to be closer with him!

As you step over the threshold of the frat house, a wave of pungent odors hits you—stale beer, damp gym socks, and an overpowering cloud of Axe body spray. Your nose flares in response, the smell so intense that it almost feels like it’s rewiring your brain. There's a sudden, sharp snaaaaaaaaapppp in your head, like a mental jolt, and your memories start to dissolve. The boy you had a crush on, the Channing Tatum poster on your wall—these memories blur and fade away, replaced by a torrent of new sensations.

Your mind is hazy as you inhale deeply, your senses overwhelmed by the distinct essence of frat life. The memories that take their place are a montage of keg stands, raucous parties, and the roar of college football games. A strange pressure begins to build in your chest, radiating outward. You can feel your body transforming, your pecs swelling into thick, pillow-like mounds. Your abs, once soft and undefined, solidify into a set of firm, sculpted muscles. Ballooning biceps and triceps inflate beneath your skin, while your quads and bubble butt expand, shaping your physique into that of a stereotypical frat bro.

A dull ache lingers in your head, a reminder of the cognitive changes happening within you. As your more nuanced, empathetic thoughts begin to dissolve, so do your skills in writing and math. The once-clear, intellectual part of your mind feels foggy and distant. A thick, dumb chuckle bubbles up from your throat, your laugh coming out as a guffaw that’s tinged with a thick southern drawl as thick stench radiates from your body, you let out an obnoxiously loud farrrrrrrpppphhhhttt.

You find yourself sinking onto a ratty couch, surrounded by the clutter and chaos of frat life. Your bro, with a grin as wide as his shoulders hands you a cold can of beer. You take it in your hands, feeling the chill through the metal, your grip now a part of your newly muscular frame. You stare blankly at him, your expression slack but content, and your mind is a whirlwind of simple pleasures and throbbing bass from the party tunes. Your chuckle deepens into a full-bore laugh, and you accept your new reality with a sense of easygoing acceptance. Your bro calls out cheerfully, "Yo Zack, come check what the boys and I got for you, bro" Curious, you follow his gaze to see your bros holding court with a shy-looking freshman girl. She's dressed skimpier than most of the party girls, with a barely-there crop top revealing her midriff and a scandalously short pleated skirt. Her clothes look expensive and well-tailored, hinting at money beyond the means of most frat rats.

Your bro chuckles and slaps your back. "See? She's just waitin' for a strapping jock like yourself to sweep her off her feet," he says, egging you on. You feel an undeniable twitch in your boxers, your cock stiffening as your bros taunts you. Those sick, perverted images in your head of dumb faggots making out start melting away, replaced by an overwhelming lust for red-blooded American women. Gals like this sorority chick, with no IQ, just tits and tight pussies. Suddenly, every dirty fantasy, every vile urge, feels justified. Every nasty gay thought you were having about your bro gets purged from your drunk brain. Homosexuality is the furthest thing from your horny mind these days. All you care about is getting your cock wet with the hottest college chicks you can find, preferably ones who are only too eager to please an upperclassman like you. You want to see that little skank bounced on your lap while frat brothers cheer you on as you pound her into submission.

But then he looks over at you knowingly and smirks, clearly enjoying the look on your face. You should be outraged at his scheming, but instead a rush of blood goes to your groin. The slutty little number in front of you looks even more delectable up close. Those big tits in that tiny top beg for attention. That tight little skirt hugs her hips just right.

Your frat bro grins devilishly. "I'll leave the two of you alone and let you get acquainted properly. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He winks salaciously before sauntering off with his entourage. Your jaw clenches as you watch him walk away, feeling both irritated and aroused by his actions. But the anger doesn't last long before desire overtakes it.

She looks up at you innocently, blue eyes sparkling with mischief behind her thick glasses frames. "Hello Zack," she says demurely, standing awkwardly next to the armchair you're occupying. "I'm Amy."

"Amy" you repeat, reaching out to gently take her hand in yours. Her skin is soft and feverishly warm. "It's a pleasure to meet you…"

You take Amy by the hand and lead her over to the couch across from you. She plops down and crosses her legs primly, arms folded over her chest to emphasize her budding breasts. You can't help staring at them, imagining squeezing and kneading those ripe young mounds.

You can practically smell her arousal from here as she squirms in discomfort beneath your penetrating gaze and crude innuendo-laced comments. The look in her eyes says 'Please stop talking', but the tent in your jeans says 'Fuck yes I will keep talking'.

To make matters worse, the other frat boys seem to have taken your lead now too. A few stand up to make room near the bar while others hover around to listen in for any juicy details of Amy's sexual misadventures with you. Some even have the balls to openly leer at her chest and ass. You lick your lips as a cruel smirk spreads across your face. These losers have no idea what they're missing out on.

Absolutely love your stories (especially G2S). I am a young, gay man who works as a professional actor, largely in Shakespeare. There's a part of me, though, that wishes I got into another type of performance job: professional wrestling. Any chance of turning me into a cocky, uber-macho, douchey pro wrestler?

As you practice your lines, intoning, "Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here," a sudden, piercing snaaaaappppp reverberates through your brain. The words on the page blur and morph before your eyes, the text twisting into an audacious proclamation: "Hark! Attend ye now, and heed my might, For I am the grand champion, in the fiercest fight. With rippling muscles and a gaze so grand, I stand alone, the mightiest in this land."

Your head throbs, a painful pulse echoing through your temples. “Ugh!” you exclaim, the words feeling foreign and absurd, "What the fuck is this shit?" watching in disbelief as the pages of your script flutter to the ground like discarded confetti. Your once slender frame, so familiar and comforting, now feels alien and grotesque.

The pain in your head intensifies, spreading to your limbs. You clutch your temples, desperate for relief, but instead, a bizarre transformation begins. Your body starts to stretch and bulge, muscles twitching and swelling with a relentless, throbbing ache. It’s as if your very form is rebelling, growing and expanding, reshaping itself into something both awe-inspiring and unnerving.

Before you, the mirror reflects a man of Herculean proportions. Your physique is a chiseled marvel of muscular splendor, each muscle honed from relentless, grueling workouts. Your thick biceps bulge like coiled serpents, veins snaking beneath the skin and pulsing with every boastful flex. Your pectorals, mountains of sculpted glory, strain against the tight fabric of your sleeveless, skin-tight shirt, daring the seams to burst with every breath. A washboard of abs gleams under the light, each segment defined with such precision it seems carved by a master sculptor.

Your face is a masterpiece of overconfident charm, with a square jaw and a smirk so smug it could melt steel. You’re clad in leather trunks that cling with an egotistical perfection, and boots polished to a mirror shine. Every stride you take exudes an aura of unrivaled bravado, as if the very air should feel privileged to share space with you.

Memories flood your mind, a parade of cocky triumphs and extravagant victories in the ring. You recall the roar of the crowd, the electrifying atmosphere of the arena. The weight of the championship belt, a symbol of your undeniable superiority, feels familiar around your waist. You remember the way you dominated every opponent, their struggles a mere footnote to your own grand narrative. The ring, once a stage for your craft, now serves as the arena where your ego reigns supreme.

You chuckle, a dumb, almost delirious laugh that escapes your lips. It’s a laugh of pure, unfiltered arrogance, as you bask in the glory of your new form. The absurdity of your past, the innocent pursuit of theatrical lines, feels like a distant memory now. You revel in the grandeur of your physical transformation, your every move imbued with the swagger and entitlement of a true champion.

With an arrogant grin, you roughly grab your crotch through your shorts, relishing the sweet sting of bruising your own palm on the bulging package within. "Mmmm fuck yeah, that's my boy," you rasp. "Gonna need those monster nuts to knock some sense into that skank's pussy."

A savage rage surges through you, fueled by the unrelenting need to assert dominance over everything in your path. Your ego balloons like a balloon, becoming an inflated sense of superiority and entitlement. You lick your lips, the saliva dripping down your chin. In an instant, all traces of empathy or reason flee your mind, replaced by pure, animalistic lust.

Your thoughts shift abruptly as a buxom redhead fills your head, her tight red lace panties and skimpy thong driving you wild. Memories of fucking this vapid bimbo backstage flood your consciousness. Her high-pitched moans echo in your ears, her tits bouncing wildly in your grip as you slam into her from behind again and again. You'd make her scream so loudly they'd have to muffle her with a mouthful of your dick!

Your fantasies run wild, conjuring up the depraved image of you tossing this vapid bachelorette onto your bed like a rag doll. She lets out a series of desperate, keening moans as you roughly yank down her scant clothing, exposing miles of creamy skin that you proceed to mark with hickies and bite marks, branding her as your bitch. Your hands paw clumsily at her nakedness, squeezing and groping with a mindless, animalistic hunger until you've reduced the girl to a mewling heap of neediness and desire. Without warning, you drive into her soaked cunt, immediately setting a brutal pace that has her squealing like the depraved little cumrag she is.

"God, her tight snatch is gripping me so good as I split her in two with my massive fucking tool. I bet the bitch loves getting destroyed like this - pounded into oblivion with my huge dick splitting her open…"

You feel like a monumental asshole, an insufferable prick encased in a gilded cage. A golden cross of arrogance wraps itself around your throat, choking the life out of any shred of empathy or humanity left within.

You let your mind drift to your glory days of mauling dumb fags on the wrestling mat, pummeling them until their teeth rattled on their skulls. The sick satisfaction of watching them fold and beg for mercy - ah, that was the real thrill! None of the groupies' attention or the money from selling merch matters compared to the sheer rush of putting simps in their place.

Your phone buzzes incessantly, spilling over with thirsty messages and snaps from horny women begging to be destroyed. "Tucker, I need your cock sooo bad," one filthy piece of ass texts back and forth.

All this validation only stokes the flames of your egotism higher. "That's right bitch, worship Tucker's cock like the fucking whore you are!" you bellow. The world is your oyster and everyone else better remember their place. This is YOUR domain - THEE Tucker, conquerer of cocksucking sluts!

Everyone keeps mistaking me and my boyfriend for twins, is there a way we can solve this? 

You and your boyfriend are nestled into the couch, the soft glow of the TV illuminating your faces as you both get lost in the drama of Real Housewives of New York. The mood is relaxed, laughter bubbling up between kisses. Just as you lean in closer, wrapped up in each other, a sudden rumble pulls your attention. The lights flicker overhead, casting shadows that dance across the room. You exchange a glance, and for a split second, you notice his eyes widen in surprise.

Before you can process it, the TV starts cycling through channels at lightning speed. You catch glimpses of flickering images, but then a booming roar erupts from the screen—it's a football game. Instinctively, your body shifts, your attention drawn like a magnet. The world around you fades as the couch beneath you begins to feel more worn, the fabric tearing slightly, revealing frayed edges and duct tape holding it together.

Suddenly, a surge of power courses through your body, igniting every muscle with a rush of energy. It starts in your core, where you can feel your abs clenching and expanding, each defined ridge aching as it grows, pushing against the fabric of your snug tank top. The familiar burn of muscle strain transforms into a thrilling sensation, reminding you of every grueling hour spent in the gym. Your biceps swell, bulging outward as if they’re being sculpted in real time. The skin stretches taut over the swelling mass, veins popping slightly as they become more pronounced. You flex instinctively, feeling the power coursing through you, and a satisfying ache radiates from your arms.

Your pecs expand, lifting your chest as they grow, creating a solid wall of muscle that fills out the tank top. Each contraction sends a jolt of pleasure mixed with discomfort, as they push against the material, desperate to break free. The weight of your new muscles feels incredible, a testament to your hard work and dedication. Your shoulders broaden, becoming rounded and strong, creating an imposing frame. The stretch and strain are intense, but the exhilaration that follows each expansion makes it all worthwhile.

And then there’s your glutes. As they firm and swell, you can feel the muscle fibers tightening and reshaping, lifting your backside with an intensity that borders on euphoric. Each step feels more powerful, as if you’re carrying an added strength with every movement.

You revel as each muscle aches and expands, reminding you of the raw power you now possess. You feel alive, invigorated, every inch of your body a testament to your relentless pursuit of strength and confidence. This electric moment is a celebration of your hard work, and you embrace it fully, ready to unleash this newfound energy on the world.

You glance over at your boyfriend and can’t help but laugh as you watch him seemingly shrink right before your eyes. It’s as if the energy in the room is pulling away his weight. Glasses slide down his nose, and his hair becomes an unruly mess, grimy and disheveled, like it hasn’t seen a brush in days.

He stands there with a slight hunch, his slender frame nearly disappearing beneath an oversized graphic tee that hangs awkwardly on his bony shoulders. His arms are thin, lacking any definition, and his wrists fidget nervously with the edge of his shirt, looking almost fragile. His chest is flat, a clear result of countless hours spent indoors, lost in video games and textbooks instead of working out. His legs are spindly, often clad in cargo shorts that seem two sizes too big, emphasizing how small he appears.

Thick-rimmed glasses perch precariously on his round face, framed by unkempt hair that speaks to a neglect of grooming. There’s a softness to his features, and when he manages a smile, it’s a shy charm that contrasts with his timid demeanor. Yet, despite his physical shortcomings, there’s an undeniable spark in his eyes—an enthusiasm for all things nerdy that hints at a vibrant inner world few ever see.

“Gosh. Darn!” he shouts in a nasally, high-pitched voice. “Do you always have to watch your sports ball so loudly? I can hardly study!”

You grab a cold beer from the side table, the crisp taste warming you as you take a sip. “Bro, it’s the Chiefs, dude!” you groan, flexing your muscles for effect. “Besides, it’s almost halftime—you know how I love that! Fucking cheerleaders, bouncing up and down and shit” For a moment, you see a glimmer of your ex-boyfriend in his eyes, for just a moment you remember you were once lovers. But as soon as that thought enters your mind, it's banished along with every other thought in your mind. You weren't some pathetic faggot.

He stands up, pushing his thick glasses up his bulbous nose, looking both earnest and slightly ridiculous. “It’s degrading to women, Brayden! Real women like sensitive guys, like me!”

At that, you can’t help but let out the loudest, most obnoxious laugh. The absurdity of his comment and the sheer contrast between your energetic vibe and his awkwardness is too much to resist. You shake your head, relishing the ridiculousness of the moment—an encapsulation of your friendship, filled with laughter and charm.

Your roommate trudges off to his room, and as he walks away, it’s almost as if he’s shrinking with each step, his slouching posture making him seem even smaller. You watch him disappear down the hallway, a mix of disbelief and exasperation bubbling up inside you. How did you end up living with this guy? You can’t believe the college thought it was a good idea to pair you two together.

He spends most of his time buried in textbooks or lost in Doctor Who forums, totally immersed in a world that feels light-years away from yours. To you, he’s the quintessential nerd—awkward, socially inept, and seemingly uninterested in anything outside of his bubble. You can’t recall him ever having a girlfriend; he’s the kind of guy who probably thinks flirting is a character arc in a sci-fi show. It was Saturday night, and your frat was having a raging rager. And there you could hear your--- roommate, Calvin, that scrawny nerd, locked in his room jerking off to some lesbian porn videos. The poor dude could barely get it up to begin with! The sounds coming out of his room were almost unbearable. Moans and muffled grunts filled the air as he desperately stroked his tiny pecker. You swear you could hear every squishy noise through those flimsy dorm walls. Classic loser move. Pathetic, right?

Meanwhile, your life is a whirlwind of workouts, parties, and late nights at the bars. You’ve never had trouble attracting women; it’s almost a game to you, one that you play with confidence and ease. While you are watching the football game in your dorm room, lounging on the couch wearing nothing but your ratty, cum stained boxers. Your phone buzzes with a notification from Snapchat - it's your fraternity brothers sharing a group snap of the gorgeous cheerleaders making their way onto the field before the big game. As the camera zooms in on their jiggling asses and long legs, you feel a familiar stirring in your undies. You've always had trouble keeping your eyes off these fine young things, especially when they're shaking their pom-poms. Their skimpy uniforms show off every curve of their hot little bodies. Their tits bounce hypnotically with each movement, swaying and jiggling like juicy jello in those tight tops. It takes every ounce of your self-control not to jump up and run the show, grabbing one of them and pounding away until they scream.

You grab your phone and open Instagram, pulling up your story feed. Your profile pic shows you shirtless, holding a beer in one hand and giving the camera a cocky smirk. Your abs are nicely defined and your pecs are just begging to be touched. You take another pic of your bulging crotch straining against your boxers.

With a click, you post the shots to your story, captioning them "Can't wait to put a baby in you later" Within seconds, your notifications start blowing up. It's a flurry of thirsty DMs and comments from horny college babes and even a few teachers. "Damn boy, you're fucking ripped!" one sexy chick messages. "Gonna have to see more of that body later," another texts back. Your face flushes but you grin, relishing the attention.

Just then, your English professor sends you a DM, of her large breasts heaving in her low-cut top. "See you later, Bry?" she texts. Your heart races, you barely have time to process it before your phone buzzes again. It's the professor again - "Meet me at my place tonight. Fuck, this could get you an easy A." You swallow hard, palms sweaty.

With trembling fingers, you pull on some ratty old gym sweats and a tank top that hasn't been washed in days. They reek of stale sweat and desperation. The sweatpants are crotch-level and clearly stained with cum. You zip up your fly, your rock-hard cock tenting obscenely against your stomach.