Working As An Intern For The Local Democratic Party Is Hard Enough, But It's Gotten Worse With The Republican

Working as an intern for the local Democratic Party is hard enough, but it's gotten worse with the Republican candidate for mayor trying hard to recruit me and my friends to work for him. It's annoying that he thinks that I'd work for someone like him, and offensive that he thinks I'm on the same level as the dumb frat bros that work for him. They keep saying they'll help me understand, but I'm not too sure..

Sitting at your computer, you’re immersed in crafting a blog post about Kamala Harris for President, fueled by a mix of caffeine and idealism. The rhythmic clatter of your fingers on the keyboard is your only companion until a new email notification disrupts the flow. You glance at the screen, and there he is: Harlow Binger, the obnoxious Republican mayoral candidate, his waxy smile practically oozing through the pixels.

You try to close the email—click, click, click—but the cursor stubbornly hovers, refusing to cooperate. Defeated, you begin reading the email. Words like “conservative” and “family values” flood your vision, and your eyes glaze over as you fight the urge to roll them. Suddenly, without warning, the national anthem blares from your speakers, and your screen erupts in an eerie red glow.

A chill races down your spine as you feel an odd twitch in your body, a strange sensation as if time itself is rewinding. Your muscles begin to lean out; it’s like you’re shedding layers of stress and doubt and age? The wrinkles around your eyes smooth away, and that familiar anxiety melts into an almost blissful calm. You're regressing back in time, as the years wash away from your face and body. You glance down to see your casual attire morphing into something preppy—polo shirts and crisp khakis start to materialize on your frame.

You feel every muscle in your body shift, groaning with the effort, but instead of pain, there’s an exhilarating sense of rejuvenation. It’s as if each fiber of your being is shedding the weight of years and worries, leaving behind only vitality and promise. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the screen, and you’re struck by the vision before you: a young man radiating effortless charm.

Standing tall and lean, you embody an athletic frame that speaks to countless hours spent on the soccer field and in the gym, where dedication has sculpted your body into something enviable. Your toned abs reveal not just physical commitment but a zest for life that resonates deeply. The contours of your muscles tell a story of resilience and energy, each line a testament to your active lifestyle.

Your face is classically handsome, a harmonious blend of features that draw people in. A chiseled jawline frames your expression, exuding strength and confidence. Warm, inviting eyes sparkle with mischief and kindness, glinting like sunlight on a serene lake. There’s a playful glimmer in your gaze, suggesting you’ve always got a clever quip at the ready, or a light-hearted joke to brighten someone’s day.

A tousled mop of sun-kissed hair frames your face, perfectly styled yet effortlessly casual, as if you’ve just rolled out of bed and into the world. Each strand seems to catch the light, adding to that inviting aura. It’s the kind of look that hints at spontaneity and adventure, an invitation for others to join you on whatever path you choose.

In this moment, you exude a magnetic confidence that draws people in like moths to a flame. Your laughter is infectious, echoing with the joy of living fully and authentically. But it’s not just the looks—it’s the energy. You radiate a blend of earnestness and playful wit, ready with venomous quips and dismissive insights. Your anger and rage is infectious, pulling people into your orbit with magnetic confidence. Deeply rooted in your Christian values, you navigate life with purpose, advocating for your beliefs with a balance of passion and respect.

You’re the guy who volunteers at church on weekends, always ready to lend a hand, and----your head starts to sting and there it is the nauseous feeling you were afraid to let in. What you once thought of as the vile, repulsive stench of Republican ideology begins to permeate every fiber of your being. It sears its insidious tendrils deep into your psyche, burning away any shred of compassion or empathy. Slowly, inexorably, kindness and humanity become alien concepts, replaced by an overwhelming imperative to prove superiority - to feel better than everyone else. Only those pure of heart who uphold tradition and submission to a strict patriarchal hierarchy earn any modicum of dignity and respect. All others are fair game to mock, abuse and annihilate. Faggots and Woke freaks represent a special kind of evil that needs to be excised. Their depraved degeneracy is a poison in the nation's womb that must be flushed out, along with their abortion-loving, gender-bending mothers. These modern feminazis and their sissie boys have no place in sane, civilized society. It is their twisted goal to corrupt the minds and bodies of our children through public schools.

The metallic warmth of the gold cross presses against your chest, pulsating with an all-consuming need. Each word you utter drips with a dark, twisted passion - the desire to spread not only the Word of God, but the tyrannical values of far-right Republicans. Your mind reels with visions of an idyllic Christian home - a beautiful wife draped in her Sunday best, cradling their well-behaved children at the altar. But the images swiftly morph into more carnal fantasies. In your thoughts, you undress a pretty young girl from Bible Study named Clara, her shiny blonde locks cascading over her cherry-pipped lips. Your fingers explore every curve and valley of her voluptuous body, trailing lower to tease her most intimate places. You envision pinning her down on the kitchen table, spreading her trembling thighs wide, and fucking her senseless with the thick rod of your virgin cock. It throbs urgently inside your pants as you recall jerking yourself off to racy tumblr porn, pumping your hard shaft to videos of hot MILFs in skimpy lingerie.

Your dreams are filled with debased lusts that defy reason and morality. The scent of her hair, her skin, it fills your nostrils with each deep breath. In your imagination, you bend Clara over the dinner table, flip up her petite skirt, and plunge deep into her tight teenage holes. The wet squelch of her juices sounds obscenely loud. You grunt and groan as she writhes beneath you, begging to be stretched and stuffed with your uncut manmeat. Her virgin walls clench desperately around the heady intrusion. With Clara's moans echoing through your skull, you rapidly stroke faster and harder.

Your mind swims with vivid memories of standing shoulder to shoulder with your fellow true believers, holding handmade signs bearing the president's name. The smell of beer mingles with the musk of masculine aggression as you cheered his every speech and promise. At every opportunity, you shamelessly ogled the attractive women surrounding you. Their pert breasts and swaying hips stirred something primal deep within you, a hunger to breed, conquer, dominate.

Your eyes roamed greedily over their curves - lingering on the creamy skin above their low-cut dresses. Some caught your leering stares and smirked back invitingly. Oh how you longed to sweep them up in your strong arms and ravage them on the spot, right there in front of your fellow deplorables. To pin them to the ground and claim your manhood's rightful place inside their quivering cunts. But alas, decorum forbade. Still, you couldn't resist grabbing their asses for a good squeeze, chuckling as they squeaked in protest.

Ah Mayor Harlow Binger, the alt-right hero who laid the foundation for Trump's victory! His unshakable commitment to family values and traditional gender roles. You revere him almost religiously, hanging his pictures in your dorm room and scouring the web for quotes to emblazon on your bedposts. Homophobia is more than just a bug in your worldview - it's the defining pillar supporting all other pillars. Anyone who opposes it is simply godless degenerate scum deserving of persecution! This dark fury burns within your heart, a constant rage against the sick, sin-stained liberal lies masquerading as progress.

Hey, I know you tend to specialize in gay to straight transformations but there's this really cute, really sweet straight guy Tommy. We've known each other for years and he recently went through this massive breakup and was telling me he wished he was gay like me. That we had it easier being able to just "fuck your bros with no problem" and I was wondering if you could maybe make him gay. I don't even care if he isn't attracted to me I just really like him and hate seeming him this sad!

You and Tommy are nestled at the bar, the low hum of chatter enveloping you like a warm blanket. He’s deep into another round of heartbreak stories, his voice a familiar soundtrack of loss and longing. You listen, idly swirling the amber liquid in your glass, nodding along as he recounts the latest details about his ex-girlfriend—the late-night texts, the promises unfulfilled.

“I wish I was gay like you,” Tommy sighs, a wistful look in his eyes. You shrug it off, chuckling lightly. “It’s not that easy, man.”

Just then, the bartender—a musky, handsome bear of a man—leans in with a grin. “Hey boys, bar's running a special. The Switch-Up-Shots, on the house.” He sets down two shot glasses: Tommy’s is a vibrant pink, yours a deep, mysterious blue. You exchange glances, a mix of curiosity and apprehension, before lifting your glasses in a silent toast. You both slam back the shots, but Tommy chokes, the liquid clearly hitting him harder than usual.

As he coughs, his voice takes on a lighter pitch, and he starts to giggle, his laughter bubbling up like soda. You watch, eyebrows raised, as his hair begins to shimmer, shifting to a soft blonde. Your heart races with confusion, and just as you’re about to stand up and make sense of this, a rumble of discomfort roils in your stomach. A sharp pang spikes through your head, as if someone is using a jackhammer on your thoughts, pushing you toward the TV screens displaying the Jets game. But you were never into sports---But naw, man the Jets were your fucking team.

Tommy whines, his voice growing more melodious, and you look down, only to find that something isn’t right. Your confusion sharpens, then you feel yourself rising, taller and taller, your perspective shifting as the bar seems to stretch around you. Meanwhile, Tommy is shrinking before your eyes. His muscles deflate, the sinewy strength you once admired fading into something softer, more delicate.

His figure morphs, becoming youthful and lithe. You can’t help but stare as he transforms, his arms now slender yet subtly toned, moving with a grace that hints at a playful spirit. His skin glows, catching the light, radiating a smoothness that evokes a sense of innocence and mischief. His hair becomes a tousled cascade, soft waves framing his face with an effortless charm. Each strand dances in place, embodying a carefree attitude that feels utterly endearing.

You’re captivated by his face—a canvas of youthful exuberance, cheeks rounded and perpetually blushing. Those eyes, bright and expressive, sparkle with mischief, pulling you into their depths like a story waiting to unfold. His lips, full and inviting, curl into a charming smile that lights up the dim bar. He embodies a playful spirit, a blend of vulnerability and confidence that draws you in. And as he looks up at you, there’s something in his gaze, a hint of a crush that sends a ripple of warmth through your chest.

You instinctively reach for his hand, the connection sparking between you like electricity, but just then—a sharp pain lances through your head, growing more intense. "Ugggh. Gorss" you mutter. Your vision blurs for a moment, the bar spinning as you fight to focus. What’s happening? You want to grasp hold of reality, but it slips through your fingers like sand. As you struggle to make sense of this chaos, Tommy giggles again, the sound high and sweet,---and so fucking annoying.

The headache pulses like a jackhammer in your skull, drowning out any coherent thoughts. Memories of pride parades, the exhilarating rush of theater camp, and all those carefree moments begin to wash away, replaced by a sense of urgency that courses through you. A cocky smirk spreads across your face, the sensation of transformation filling you with a strange confidence.

The bar around you grows louder, the clink of glasses and laughter blending into a chaotic symphony. Your focus sharpens on the game blaring from the screens—every play is electric, igniting a fierce loyalty to the Jets. You glance down at the bar, licking your lips, and with a newfound bravado, you holler for a beer from the bartender.

“Hey, my man! A cold one over here!” you call, feeling the words tumble out with a bravado you barely recognize.

Tommy—Tom, something—starts whining about some twunk he went out with last night, droning on about how he’s meeting up with a rich daddy from Grindr. But your attention is elsewhere, glued to your arm as you grab the beer. You feel an odd throb in your bicep, your veins pulsing like they have a mind of their own.

Suddenly, it’s as if your body is waking up, each pulse sending a jolt through you. Tan skin begins to wash over your limbs, a warm hue enveloping you like the sun on a perfect summer day. You can feel it—the tingling sensation of muscles swelling and rippling beneath the fabric of your shirt, your physique transforming before your very eyes.

Your biceps begin to swell, filling out the sleeves of your shirt until they feel almost too tight, bursting with energy and strength. Each gesture seems to command attention, confidence radiating from every pore. The deep grooves of your abs flex and relax, showcasing the dedication you’ve put into your workouts. You can almost see the definition—the sharp ridges and valleys—each movement a testament to countless hours spent in the gym, pushing your limits, perfecting your physique.

Your pecs, once flat, now rise proudly, a solid wall of muscle that draws the eye. With every breath, they expand, the fabric of your shirt straining against your newfound bulk. You can feel the weight of them, a powerful reminder of the relentless effort you’ve poured into building your body. Each beat of your heart seems to echo through your chest, amplifying the sense of vitality coursing through you.

And then there’s your bubble butt, perfectly rounded and undeniably eye-catching. You feel it tighten as you stand tall, the definition sculpting a delightful curve that demands attention. It’s a product of squats and deadlifts, the result of sheer willpower and a commitment to not just looking good, but feeling powerful. As you move, you can sense the strength radiating from your glutes, each step confident and assured.

Your entire body feels electric, a symphony of muscle and power, every fiber of your being harmonizing with this newfound identity. You can almost see the reflection of yourself in the bar mirrors, a striking figure that stands out among the crowd. You revel in this transformation, embracing the bro-life with every ounce of pride.

Your face, with its chiseled jawline and squinting eyes, wears a smirk that radiates self-assurance. You find yourself tossing your head back in laughter, showcasing those perfectly white teeth that glint with every exaggerated joke you throw out.

As you focus intently on the TV screen, the memories rush back like a tidal wave, flooding your mind with vibrant snapshots of a life well-lived. Football practice flashes before you—early morning drills, the scent of sweat and grass mingling in the air, the exhilaration of a well-executed play. College frat parties come to life next, wild nights filled with laughter, chaos, and that unmistakable feeling of being the king of the campus. You remember the cheers, the camaraderie, and the thrill of getting into all sorts of trouble, the kind that makes the best stories.

But then there’s a gap. You can't quite piece together how you and—what was his name again?—Tom something became friends. It lingers in the back of your mind, teasing you. And then it hits you: the sweet blonde girl you were seeing, the one who was in that musical with him. You remember the night you dumped her, her face falling as you walked away. But instead of losing touch with Tom, he remained a steadfast presence in your life, always ready to help out, to buy drinks, to be the ultimate wingman.

While you were busy working out, lifting weights and pushing your limits, he would be off flirting with guys doing cardio. You recall watching him from the corner of the gym, effortlessly catching eyes with a wink and a smile, while you were focused on perfecting your form, feeling the burn as you pumped iron. The clanking of weights fills your mind, each repetition a step toward becoming the best version of yourself. You can almost feel the familiar strain in your muscles, the satisfaction of reaching personal bests, the camaraderie of spotting each other, encouraging one another to lift heavier. Your patience wears thin as T---T---Tristan drones on about his latest hookup, his voice dripping with an obnoxious lisp that grates on your nerves. The very air around you seems to vibrate with his excessive energy, the cacophony of his boasts and braggadocious laughter drowning out the rest of the bar.

"Like, OMG, he's so hot," Tristan gushes, his lipstick-glossed lips stretching into a manic grin. "He says he's at Hi Tops, and it's showtunes night. Babes, can we like go?" His words drip with a sickening saccharine sweetness, each syllable calculated to draw you further into his toxic web of self-aggrandizement. But you're not about to let him get away with this shit. You slam your fist on the bar, the crash echoing through the room like a gunshot. "Bro, I'm not your fucking babe!" you shout back.

Tristan's phone buzzes again, another notification from Grindr. He lets out a petulant whine, his lower lip trembling slightly as he glances down at the screen. "Why don't you just get butt-fucked or whatever, and we can meet up later?" you mutter to yourself, shaking your head in disbelief at his antics.

Your gaze drifts towards the Latina beauty perched on the edge of the bar, her curves barely contained by the tight fabric of her dress. She's a vision of perfection, her dark hair cascading down her back in glossy waves, accentuating the creamy expanse of her neck. Her eyes are a striking shade of amber, framed by long lashes that flutter against her cheeks as she laughs at something her friends are saying. You watch as Tristan slouches over, taking another swig of his cosmopolitan before puckering his plump lips in an exaggerated pout. "Whatever, Hunter. I see you're already on Pussy Portal. Ugh. Straight dudes are the worst," he scoffs dismissively, rolling his eyes. "I don't know why I'm friends with you sometimes. Oh, right, that body of yours," he adds with a wink, his gaze lingering on your chiseled physique.

Tristan saunters away from you, his tight jeans hugging his round ass as he tosses his shaggy hair over his shoulder. You can't help but chuckle at his antics - your best friend is definitely the most obnoxious faggot you know. But hey, as long as he helps you score the hottest chicks when you hit up the bars together, you can put up with his incessant flirting and eyeing from other guys. You stare back at the little Latina honey across the bar. It's her tits that really catch your attention. They're a work of art, full and round, straining against the confines of her dress with each breath she takes

You saunter over to Isabella's table, your confidence surging with each step. She looks up at you, her amber eyes widening slightly as she takes in your towering frame. You flash her a cocky grin, flexing your biceps as you lean in close. "Hey there, gorgeous," you purr, your voice low and seductive. "Buy a lady a drink?"

Isabella bites her plump lower lip, her eyes darting down to your chest before meeting your gaze once more. "I'd love one," she murmurs, her voice dripping with desire. You signal the bartender, ordering a Cosmos and beer for yourself, the price tag a mere afterthought.

As you wait for the drinks to arrive, you reach out and gently brush a stray lock of hair from Isabella's face, your fingers grazing her soft skin. She shivers at your touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips. "You're so strong," she mutters. Oh, she'll be putty in your hands after a few drinks.

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.

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"

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."

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.