Can You Make Me Into A Slobby, Chubby Gamer Bro?

Can you make me into a slobby, chubby gamer bro?

You’re sitting at your desk, slouched in your chair, the screen glowing as you mindlessly scroll through Twitter, pausing now and then to like whatever attention-grabbing thirst trap pops up from some cute guy on Instagram. It’s one of those lazy afternoons where time feels irrelevant. Suddenly, an obnoxious pop-up ad blares across your screen—something about a new video game.

You try to dismiss it, clicking furiously, but it won’t go away. The ad seems to multiply, each attempt to close it only pulling you deeper into its grasp. Frustration mounts as you keep clicking, your patience dwindling. Finally, in a moment of surrender, you hit "accept."

A download bar appears, and you feel a strange jolt in your hands, a surge that sends a wave of heaviness through your fingers. It’s as if your muscles are slowly dissolving, replaced by a warm layer of softness. An eerie comfort creeps in as you realize your gym time is slipping away. You glance down to see your arms plumping, fingers widening, and you can almost hear the soft squelch of fat settling on your bones.

As you glance down, your arms plump out, the skin stretching taut over the expanding flesh, a soft, pillowy layer beginning to form. You watch in disbelief as your forearms widen, the definition of your biceps fading into rounded curves, the once-firm contours replaced by a gentle, squishy mass. Your fingers grow thicker, the knuckles softening, and you can almost hear the soft squelch of fat settling on your bones, enveloping them like an unwelcome embrace.

Your stomach feels heavier, a soft swell emerging as the waistband of your pants digs in, struggling against the burgeoning softness. You can sense the fat pooling in your midsection, a thick layer forming, making your clothes feel snug and restrictive. Each breath feels slightly labored, as if the growing weight is pushing against your diaphragm, reminding you of the physical changes happening all around you.

The computer buzzes ominously, the sound growing more frantic, echoing the chaos in your mind. A throbbing headache begins to unfurl, burning away the sharpness of your thoughts. The vibrant interests and hobbies that once defined you dissolve into a haze. Facts and figures—gone. All that’s left are flashes of the most basic passions: video games, Marvel superheroes, Doctor Who.

A grin forms involuntarily on your face, but then a dark cloud sweeps in as you remember the recent uproar over the new Doctor casting. Anger bubbles up, boiling over, and you can feel the heat rising within you. Your fingers, now chubby and unrecognizable, begin to type furiously, each keystroke punctuated by a surge of indignation. The once-welcome thoughts about your interests twist venomously as you vent your frustration about how “woke” nerd culture has become.

You let out a guttural giggle snort, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and indignation as you feel the glasses appear on your face, perched crookedly on your bulbous nose. You're still getting used to your new pudgy physique, the result of those blasted video games you've been playing non-stop.

"Why do they have to make it so damn easy?!" you mutter to yourself, jabbing angrily at the screen. Your finger hovers over the mouse before landing on the "Play" button. With a resigned sigh, you click it, and soon you're immersed in a vibrant open-world, ready to lose yourself in pixelated adventures.

Time passes in a blur as you game late into the night, your PS5 humming with activity. The sounds of crunching virtual foliage and clashing swords fill your apartment. You barely register your surroundings, too focused on the screen as you explore every nook and cranny of this fantastical realm. Occasionally, your hand drifts lower, stroking the thickening bulge in your sweatpants as your imagination runs wild with thoughts of busty NPCs and steamy cutscenes.

As you finally reach the end credits, a wave of pent-up frustration washes over you. Your rage at the new Doctor boils over, and you start typing furiously into chat forums, railing against the "SJW cuck-chasers" threatening to ruin everything. You vent about how the new cast are "whiny little soy boys", how they're betraying the spirit of fandom.

With a grunt of annoyance, you load up Tinder, scanning the profiles of potential matches of hot babes. You get incredibly horny as you load up Tinder, at first annoyed at the profile you see. It's the old you - cute, lean, gay and eager to please. But slowly, the image shifts and morphs, revealing the chubby, slobby straight nerd that's always lurked beneath the surface. An entitled, misogynistic, and sexist gamer profile takes its place, oozing toxic masculinity and entitlement. You smirk as you swipe right on every single girl who crosses your path, undeterred by their lukewarm responses. The more they dismiss you, the hornier you get, desperate to find some chick to match with and dominate.

You adjust your glasses, a newfound confidence surging through you. The real you is finally in control, and he's ready to take what he wants. You load up your most aggressive dating apps, your eyes scanning hungrily over the profiles of hot college girls. "These bitches don't know what they're missing," you mutter to yourself with a wicked grin"

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.

Graveyard Shift

Milo, a thirty-something twink with a penchant for trendy clothes and eye-catching hair, had always been the life of the party. By day, he was a busy school teacher, shuffling between lesson plans and grading papers, but by night, he was a vibrant creature, dancing under the pulsing lights of downtown gay bars. He had spent the evening making out with a string of strangers, lost in the thrill of new connections, but now the excitement was fading, leaving him restless and uninspired.

As the disco balls cast shimmering reflections around him, Milo finally felt the urge to escape the scene. He stepped outside, pulling out his phone and scrolling through Grindr, half-heartedly messaging men while the cool night air brushed against his skin. Before long, he found himself wandering through a graveyard, the moonlight illuminating his path but casting eerie shadows around him.

The night felt different—there was an unsettling energy in the air. Milo's heart raced a little faster, but he brushed it off. He wasn’t one to get scared easily. Suddenly, he felt a presence, an overwhelming weight behind him. Turning around, he was confronted by an angelic figure, ethereal and glowing under the moon. He instinctively reached for his phone to capture the moment.

But just as he raised the camera, a rustling noise broke the stillness behind him. He spun around, heart pounding, to see a monstrous jock standing there—towering at 6’8”, muscles rippling and shirt torn, a chaotic mix of beer and sweat radiating off him. The jock’s eyes were wild, and drool dripped from his mouth like a predator ready to pounce.

Before Milo could process what was happening, the jock lunged. They tumbled to the ground, the weight of the encounter knocking over a nearby headstone. A sudden flash of pain shot through Milo’s arm as the jock bit down hard, an unexpected yelp escaping him. Just as quickly, the jock let out a loud fart and bolted into the night, leaving Milo in stunned silence.

Heart racing, he glanced at his arm, the bite marks already starting to throb. Confusion and terror washed over him. His heart beat faster and faster, panic rising in his chest. The world around him blurred, memories of the night spent dancing faded, and he felt a strange haze enveloping his mind. Who was he? What was his name? Even the simplest thoughts, like how to add two plus two, slipped away like sand through his fingers.

Milo staggered, the moonlight spinning around him, his body tinged with an unexplainable tan. The graveyard felt like a surreal nightmare, and as he struggled to remember who he was, all he could grasp was a sense of profound loss and an unfamiliar longing for something he couldn’t quite define.

As Milo’s mind warped, memories of marches for gay rights and evenings at trendy musical openings slipped away like smoke. Instead, his thoughts became a chaotic jumble, losing their color and definition. The throbbing pain from the jock's bite intensified, burning like fire beneath his skin, every pulse of his muscles echoing the transformation taking place within him.

He watched in disbelief as the fat on his body seemed to dissolve, a surreal spectacle. His form began to shift, muscles swelling and stretching, redefining him into a towering figure that radiated an unsettling kind of privilege. The change was intoxicating yet terrifying, and he felt himself growing taller, broader.

His shoulders widened, tapering down to a narrow waist that spoke of hours spent in the gym, fueled by protein shakes and endless barbecues. He could almost see the outline of a sculpted physique emerging—broad, powerful shoulders, a chest that swelled against an impossibly snug polo shirt emblazoned with a logo that screamed exclusivity. Each bicep bulged and rippled, vascular and strong, a testament to a new reality he didn’t recognize yet somehow felt he had longed for.

His abs—oh, they were breathtaking, a perfect six-pack glistening in the moonlight, embodying a dedication to fitness that bordered on obsessive. The sensation of power surged through him, and he found himself strutting as if he owned the world. Flexing not just muscles but an intoxicating sense of entitlement, he could almost hear the crunch of his abs with every exaggerated laugh that erupted from him, each one a declaration of his newfound supremacy.

Then there was his face. Handsome and chiseled, it radiated a magnetism that was undeniable. A strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a grin that could charm anyone. His hair, styled with precision, shone a sunny blond, capturing the essence of effortless summer. His blue eyes, piercing and sharp, sparkled with mischief and arrogance, as if he reveled in the knowledge of his own allure, wielding it like a weapon.

Yet for all the physical charm, it was his personality that loomed even larger. The quintessential fratbro, brimming with bravado and loud opinions that came as easily as breathing. Conversations with him became a whirlwind of self-centered tales, punctuated by boisterous laughter and casual bro hugs. He was a cocktail of charm and obnoxiousness, a presence that filled the space around him, making it hard to ignore—even harder to take seriously.

In that graveyard, Milo—or whatever he had become—felt the laughter swell within him, a victory cry against the backdrop of the night. He was blissfully unaware of the fact that while he had gained a body that demanded attention, he had also lost something essential—his identity buried beneath layers of privilege and entitlement that were foreign yet intoxicating. The shift left him dizzy, both exhilarated and terrified, as he stood on the precipice of a reality he didn’t fully understand.

As Milo's new body settled into place, something shifted inside him, a spark igniting deep within his core. The pain that had consumed him moments before began to morph, transmuting into a different kind of fire—the fire of lust. It burned hot and urgent, a desperate need that demanded to be satisfied.

With a groan of satisfaction, Milo reached down and grasped his thick, pulsing cock, feeling the weight of it in his hand. He stroked himself slowly, marveling at the texture of his own flesh, the way it throbbed with desire. His mind raced with thoughts of the countless women who would worship this body, the ones who would fall at his feet and beg for a taste of his perfect physique.

In his mind's eye, he pictured himself dominating them all—first the shy girls, the ones who whispered behind their hands and giggled when they thought he wasn't looking. In his twisted mind, Milo's lust consumed him, a raging inferno that threatened to burn away the last traces of his former self. Gone were the timid boys, the ones who cowered in the shadows or lusted after their male peers. Now, all that mattered was the pursuit of carnal pleasure, the thrill of using his perfect body to satisfy his most depraved desires.

As his hand pumped faster, Milo's thoughts turned increasingly erotic, each stroke sparking visions of the women who would soon be his to conquer. He imagined tight little pussies stretched around his massive cock, clenching and fluttering as he pounded into them relentlessly. Their moans and whimpers were music to his ears, fueling his insatiable hunger for more.

The entitled feelings coursing through Milo's veins raced like adrenaline, spurring him towards his next conquest. His primal urges seized control, drowning out reason and restraint. He saw the world through a warped lens, a twisted interpretation of reality where his whims held supreme. Each passing moment was an opportunity to indulge his base desires without consequence.

Bursting onto the bar, Milo's eyes fixated greedily on a stunning blonde bombshell in tight denim jeans and a revealing crop top. This was precisely what he yearned for—a beautiful prize ripe for the taking, completely blind to his invasive intentions. Seizing on the bespectacled hipster who dared dare chat with the unattainable object of his lust, Milo yanked the nerd out of her way and positioned himself front and center in her orbit.

With a predatory smirk, Mil crashed his lips against the unsuspecting vixen's in an aggressive, claiming kiss, his strong arms encircling his prey. With a growl of frustration, Mil tore his mouth from the blonde bombshell's, her breathless moans ringing in his ears. He could feel her nipples straining against the thin fabric of her crop top, betraying her growing arousal. Gripping her plush ass roughly, he pulled her flush against his hard body, grinding his now rock-solid erection against her thigh.

"Mmm, I can feel you getting excited," Mi purred, nipping sharply at her jawline. "Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" His fingers dipped into her tight jean pockets, teasing along her inner thigh as he lapped hungrily at her pulse point. "Don't worry, baby. Daddy's--- going to take good care of you. Bend over," he commanded, giving her rear a harsh squeeze. "It's time Damien took care of this tight little cunt."

Memories of his privileged upbringing flooded Milo, now, Damien's mind - memories of using his family's wealth to indulge every hedonistic whim without restraint. Private school, manipulative blackmail, and carefree affairs with teachers were all fair game. No one dared stop him from getting exactly what he wanted, consequences be damned.

"Fuck, look at those big tits bouncing free," Damien groaned, shoving the crop top up and exposing the blonde's perky breasts. "Damien wants to wrap these around his cock, shove them down his throat as he rails you."

I've been working out at the gym trying to grow my ass and shape my body for this really cute gay guy I've been trying to attract. I heard him say once how much he likes the 'big jock butt' look, but it doesn't seem like he'll ever give me the time of day no matter what I do. I don't understand what is so special about those sweaty, farting straight douchebags he keeps drooling over. Please, I just wish he would finally start giving that attention to me!

You're at the gym, eyeing the squat rack with determination, hoping to catch the gaze of your crush. As you count through your final set—“99… 100”—a sigh of relief escapes your lips, but it’s quickly followed by an obnoxious faaaaaaaarrrrrt that echoes embarrassingly through the gym. You wince, nostrils flaring as the odor hits you, and your face flushes with mortification.

Suddenly, an odd sensation washes over you. Your nose begins to spread wider and wider, and as your face transforms, you realize you’re getting taller. A deep grunt escapes you, a mix of confusion and surprise. Looking down, you notice your butt starting to swell outward, filling with muscle and fat, creating a perfectly rounded bubble butt. You can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all—only for another faaaaaaaaarrrrrrt to escape, your newly enhanced rear jiggling in response.

PFFFFFFFFFFFT

In disbelief, you watch as your twig-like body begins to expand. Your biceps swell to the size of small watermelons, bulging dramatically whenever you flex. Veins snake along their surface, accentuating the sinewy striations that tell the story of your relentless effort. Your triceps form a thick horseshoe shape, swelling and tightening, showcasing a level of definition that seems almost too extreme.

Your chest expands, thick pecs resembling slabs of granite, rising and falling with every breath. They push against the fabric of your shirt, each muscle sharply defined with deep grooves separating your pectorals. When you flex, they pulse with impressive energy, demanding attention.

Glancing down further, you see your abs becoming sculpted, each six-pack tile standing out with startling clarity. The definition is so sharp it looks almost carved, the ridges of your obliques flaring impressively. Your shoulders broaden, deltoids jutting out like armor plating, creating an imposing silhouette that radiates raw power.

And your quads—massive and powerful—now rival tree trunks in size, bulging impressively when you stand. Each muscle group is distinct, deep separations highlighting the effort you’ve put into leg day.

Your face becomes rugged and defined, with a strong jawline and prominent cheekbones framing an expression of confidence and intensity. Your eyes glint with fierce energy, reflecting your newfound strength, while a five o’clock shadow adds to your masculine appearance.

You stand there, a towering figure exuding raw power and intensity, every muscle exaggerated to a cartoonish degree, commanding attention and respect. You’ve become a living testament to the extremes of bodybuilding, showcasing both the allure of physical prowess and the commitment required to achieve such an extraordinary physique.

As you continue your workout, you start to notice a pungent odor lingering in the air. Curiosity gets the better of you, and you take a moment to sniff around, eventually burying your nose in your armpit. The realization hits—you’re the source of this overwhelming stench. At first, disgust washes over you, but then a grin creeps across your face. After all, real men sweat, and today you’ve really pushed yourself. The smell divides your thoughts, draining you of anything other than working out and fucking.

You dive back into your routine, cranking up the intensity. Each rep feels powerful as you lift, the weight pressing down but fueling your energy. You let out loud, determined grunts, each one echoing through the gym, a testament to your focus and strength.

You start to forget about your crush entirely; the gym becomes your arena. You throw yourself into the workout, muscles straining and bulging with every movement. Your voice rises above the clatter of weights, hollering encouragement to yourself, “Come on! You’ve got this!” The sound reverberates off the walls, drawing attention as you embody the essence of an alpha male, fully absorbed in the moment.

You notice the way your body responds to the challenge. Each squat, each lift, feels exhilarating, and the sweat drips down your brow, mixing with the scent that now seems oddly affirming. You flex your arms, feeling the biceps swell with every contraction, and let out a hearty laugh. You revel in the sheer power of your movements, forgetting everything else. Your focus sharpens, and you become a force of nature, driven by the primal urge to push your limits and prove your strength. This is your moment, and you’re owning it.

After an intense workout, you find yourself eager to linger your sweaty clothes. Your skin glistens with sweat, a sheen of moisture that seems to magnify the curves of your body. You can smell the intense musk wafting off your glistening body- the sheer volume of perspiration dripping down your chest and back is undeniable. Rivulets stream steadily over your defined pecs, abs and butt crack, leaving damp streaks on your taut, lean muscle.

As you lean forward, arching your back slightly, you release an earthy, obnoxious fart. The wet rippling sound echoes obscenely through the air as the hot gust rumbles out of your shapely rear end with authority. Your cheeks clap and jiggle from the force of it. "Hoooo weee, that one definitely was a rank one lordy!" you remark gleefully, giving a proud little wiggle.

You strut throughout the gym, feeling confident and self-assured. Your chiseled physique is on full display, muscles rippling beneath your tight shirt. You make sure to flex at just the right moments, drawing the eye to your impressive physique.

Every set of eyes in the room is drawn to you. Women of all ages and sizes can't help but stare, admiring your good looks and oozing charisma. You preen under their attention, reveling in the power you have over them.

As you walk by, you catch snippets of conversation from nearby gym-goers. "Did you see that guy? I'd totally fuck him." *"He's so hot, I bet he's great in bed." Their whispers follow you, a trail of lustful admiration in your wake. You saunter over to the free weights, determined to show off even more. You start doing bicep curls, grunting with each rep. Then you notice him. This pathetic faggot dude ogling you from across the room. He's been following your every move for months, and you finally caught onto him. You remember him coming up to you in the locker room a few weeks ago, trying to grind against you. But at the time, you brushed it off as another wannabe trying to get into your pants. Little did you know he would become obsessed with you and your sweaty fucking ass, stalking your every move in this place.

You continue on your routine, pushing weights and doing pullups as the faggot trails behind you. You catch glimpses of him peering over his shoulder at you, biting his lip in anticipation. It pisses you off, seeing someone so desperate for a piece of you. Why would they waste their time chasing something that's clearly out of reach? You finish up and head towards the treadmill to warm up for the next set of reps.

As you approach the treadmill, you spot a gorgeous blonde woman running on it. Her toned legs are glistening with sweat, and her sports bra clings tightly to her ample breasts. You can't help but stare at her jiggling tits as she runs, imagining how soft and supple they must feel. She catches you eyeing her and flashes you a coy smile, arching her back slightly to accentuate her curves. You feel your cock stir in your shorts at the sight of her. She's just too fucking hot.

Unable to resist, you saunter over to her, your eyes never leaving her body. "Hey there," you say with a smirk. "Love watching yourself run?" She turns to face you, her cheeks flushed and chest heaving. "Mmm, maybe you should join me," she purrs, giving me a once-over. You step closer, reaching out to grab her ass and give it a firm squeeze. "Yeah, this'll do" you say with a smirk.

can you turn me into a fat guy that gets a girl pregnant?

You feel a pulsating throb deep within your skull, a relentless rhythm echoing through the dense fog of your mind. It’s accompanied by a persistent ringing in your ears, a high-pitched drone that seems to harmonize with the pulse, growing louder and more insistent. Then comes the moment of violent rupture—a loud, piercing snaaaaaaapppppp—like the snap of a taut wire. Suddenly, you glance down, and the world shifts grotesquely. Your once slender frame begins to swell with a grotesque slowness, pounds of flab slithering over your bones. Your chest burgeons into a welcome pair of moobs, each step causing them to jiggle with unseemly gravity. Your ass follow suit, expanding and wiggling like overripe fruit, while your arms balloon into hefty, unwieldy appendages.

Your mind does a slow-motion descent into a quagmire of thick, sluggish molasses. Basic facts and figures scatter like leaves in a hurricane, leaving you fumbling to grasp at the fading remnants of your once-sharp intellect. You groan, a low, guttural sound that seems to echo the emptiness expanding within. The knowledge you once held with pride is draining away, replaced by a creeping lethargy that makes every action feel like wading through tar.

A simmering rage bubbles to the surface, fueled by a distorted sense of injustice. You find yourself seething over the latest culture wars, compelled to unleash a torrent of opinion online. With a clumsy swipe, you grab a beer from your desk, its cold, metallic can a stark contrast to the sweltering heat of your frustration. The beer, like your expanding waistline, feels like a bitter, inevitable accompaniment to the new, uninhibited you.

As you blink, the room around you seems to fade away, replaced by a narrow, creaking bed. Blink again and your vision clears to reveal a petite young woman beneath you, clad only in a thin white tank top and panties. She stares up at you in confusion and growing arousal, eyes wide behind her glasses. With a sudden lurch, you find yourself straddling her slim waist, your bloated belly resting heavily on top of hers.

The girl gasps as she realizes what's happening, face flushed and chest heaving with shallow breaths. "Wh-what's going on?" she stammers, voice quivering with nervous excitement. But you're too far gone to respond, lost in the primal urge to nut, to claim, to assert your dominance over this fragile female form beneath you. Your hips begin to grind and thrust, crushing her into the mattress with your immense weight.

With each movement, the springs creak and groan ominously beneath you as the bed frame strains against your combined bulk. Her dainty hands paw frantically at your back as she writhes and moans beneath you, struggling weakly against your onslaught. "Please…" she whimpers desperately between panting breaths. "Don't…be gentle"

But it's too late for mercy or resistance. With a guttural groan, you slam yourself fully onto her, pinning her down into the bed. Your swollen balls slap lewdly against her ass as your veiny cock throbs urgently between your legs. A massive load of viscous cum erupts from the tip, splattering her exposed pussy and drenching her inner thighs with thick ropes of spunk. You shudder through each hot pulse of semen as you empty yourself into her helpless body.

As the final spurts dribble out, your semi-hard member slips free from her abused hole, allowing rivulets of jizz to trickle sluggishly down her trembling thighs. You slump forward onto her sweat-soaked chest, blotting out the fading rays of sunlight with your grotesquely engorged form. The bed dips and sways sickeningly beneath you, as though trying to vomit out the obscene lump you've become. With each heave of your inflated lungs, you bloat further, until the ceiling finally gives way beneath you with a resounding crack.

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.