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The Motorcycle learning experience

— This story was a bit rushed so srry!! Still kinda ate, let me know what u think! —

It was Christmas, and Logan found himself gifted of an intriguing gift: a full-day motorcycle riding lesson with an instructor. As an 18-year-old nerd, he initially felt apprehensive about the gift, that was given from his roommate. Motorcycles, cars, sports… none of those were interesting to him, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless and thanked his roommate before going to sleep for the night.

Months later, the appointed day arrived, and as Logan made his way to the designated location, he experienced an unusual sensation of liberation. It was a feeling he couldn't quite place, but he attributed it to the novelty of learning something outside his usual comfort zone, or because he was about to turn into the hottest biker the world had seen.

Upon arriving at the building, he was greeted by a man clad in a full Dainese leather suit and helmet, arms crossed in anticipation. Logan couldn't help but feel uncertain about the leather attire, but resigned himself to the fact that he would be wearing a suit likely worn by countless others before him—a thought that left him mildly repulsed.

Logan also never really liked bikers, each time he encountered one they were moving around traffic dangerously, almost making cars crash including himself. He wondered why his roommate had the idea to gift him that, it was totally not what he would usually enjoy and his roommate knew it.

"Yo, are you Logan?" the man inquired, removing his helmet to reveal a strikingly handsome, youthful visage reminiscent of a high school jock.

"H-hello...yes, I'm Logan," he stuttered, suddenly feeling more self-conscious in the presence of the attractive boy. Despite his heterosexual orientation, Logan found himself inexplicably drawn to the allure of the leather-clad figure, his attention inadvertently fixating on the notable bulge accentuated by the attire.

"Alright, man, let's get started! I'll teach you the basics, but I've heard you've been riding for quite some time, so I won't need to hold your hand too much," the instructor remarked, interrupting Logan's internal musings.

"Actually—" Logan began, only to be cut off.

"So, first things first, here are your, pants, and leather jacket. Did you bring your own helmet?"

"No, I didn't..." Logan admitted, feeling increasingly bewildered by the instructor's assumptions and distracted by his own conflicting emotions.

"Bro, it's in your biker backpack right there," the instructor interjected, gesturing toward a backpack resting nearby. Logan turned to see the backpack for the first time, realizing he had been oblivious to its presence amidst the flurry of confusion. Overwhelmed by the situation and the instructor's disarming charisma, Logan's thoughts began to slow as he struggled to process what was happening.

“Man, bikers can be dumb sometimes..you’re no exception, but we got a little issue. I only have one pair of boots, which are mine, I ride with them everyday and they’re very good, bro. Just take ‘em.”

Logan took the boots without even replying, his head fogged up.

*arriving in the changing rooms, the instructor was following him.*

“Alright, first, the boots, bro.” The instructor grabbed them, and all of the sudden, shoved one of them into Logan’s face; the boot had a cheesy, hot intoxicating musk that immediately made Logan pass out. The funk was unlike anything he’d ever smelled, it was very hot and humid, while being absolutely disgusting.

-2 hours later-

Logan wakes up, surprisingly finding himself in full Dainese leather that did not fit him at all, the leather suit was ridiculously large, more fitting for a man the size of the instructor, and Logan was skinny. He tried to take the jacket off, but it was stuck to him, he started to panic.

“Nah bro, don’t take it off. You’re becoming a biker boy now.”

“S-stop..get it OFF!” He was becoming mad and anxious, not knowing what was going on and panicking inside the suit.

“Alright bro, it’s coming again.” The instructor was coming with the same biker boot in his hand as earlier, and Logan knew what was coming. He again shoved the biker boot on his face, the odiferous stench inside of it making him pass out again after just a few sniffs.

As he was passed out - the instructor watched Logan’s feet grow, more and more, until they stopped at a size 13.5, with long thick toes and perfectly cut nails. The smell emitting from his new feet was simply rancid, and similar to the instructors. Cheesy, manly, and sweaty. Every time he’d remove his boots, or shoes, the strench would be able to reek up an entire area. The instructor thought it would be good for dominating.

Next, Logan’s legs shrunk a little. Not in musculature, but in height. He became 5’9 fairly quickly, which was still a proper height.

Speaking of musculature, his legs and quads exploded out, becoming full of muscles and veins. They were a sight to see, and his thighs able to crush watermelons easily.

The instructor needed to keep Logan passed out, and this time he chose his feet. He took his big fat muscular biker feet, wrapped in white Nike socks that were more yellowish now, and shoved them into Logan’s nose again, keeping him « asleep ».

After his legs, came the awaited moment of his butt. It was currently hidden beneath the leather, so flat that it couldn’t be seen at all. Suddenly, the once flat buns were becoming stronger, and bigger. They were becoming large, fat and full of muscles. Not necessarily massive, but round with fat and muscles. The two orbs now started to bulge out of the leather pants attractively.

As the transformation continued, Logan would now have another way to dominate and be worshipped due to; frequent & fetid gas. His digestive system changed, matching one that would be made to emit farts very frequently, and even more due to Logan’s new diet, burgers, tacos, and overall greasy foods made his gas smell like rotten eggs & sulfur. The strench would also get caught up in the leather gear and make his entire body stink whenever he was wearing leather pants.

Logan couldn’t feel it, but his penis was now undergoing some changes. The precious 3 inches had been growing at the same time as his orbs in the back, now stopping at an over average but still reasonable 6 inches, but a smaller 3 inches soft, with balls that would be able to produce lots of alpha cum.

The once unassuming upper physique of the 18-year-old nerd underwent a discernible metamorphosis – his abs, once absolutely inexistant ,emerged with striking definition, now a defined sweaty 6pack that would turn heads whenever he was shirtless.

His chest, once modest in appearance, underwent a notable change. It expanded and firmed up, revealing well-defined pecs that seemed almost pillowy in their muscular fullness.The leather jacket sleeves strained against the growing bulk of his arms, which were also changing, combining sinewy strength with a compelling visual presence.

The aroma of genuine leather lingered around him, but other than that atmosphere, a unique fragrance emanated from Logan's body. His armpits, once understated, now emitted a confident, sweaty alpha scent – a true proof of him being an alpha, made to dominate and be worshipped.

As Logans transformation would soon end, his facial features underwent very much needed changes. he once unassuming face of the 18-year-old nerd evolved into something strikingly different. His jawline sharpened, cheekbones gained prominence, and his eyes took on a newfound intensity.

Simultaneously, subtle changes extended to his overall attractiveness. His skin acquired a healthy glow, and any lines that hinted at youth's passing subtly softened, adding an undeniable allure to his appearance.

Then, Logan woke up. Mixed thoughts were in his head, both wanting to escape and other ones where he thought he’d always been a biker boy, dominant and alpha.

“Right. MAX. What’s your name?” The instructor asked.

“I’m..Logan…” Logan, or should I say max, answered.

“No, your name has always been max, you’ve always been a dominant biker boy, 19 years old, bisexual, horny, gross, primal and eager to fuck.” The instructor said, hypnotising Max permanently and overwriting his previous memories.

“Yeah bro, I’m max. Wanna smell my fucking feet ?”

The transformation was complete. Max drove home on his motorcycle, smelling ripe with sweat and very hungry for a hole to fill. It was his new life. Max just wanted to dominate, fuck, spread his funk, and ride.

Biker Breath

Zane was riding home from work on his bicycle when he passed a pile of stuff sitting on the curb with a sign attached saying “For Free”. Zane stopped to inspect what all was left out on the street and saw a super nice looking biker helmet, carefully picking it up he noticed some scratches and dings on the helmet but besides that it was still in perfect working condition. While he was examining it Zane noticed the rancid scent emanating out of the helmet. Holding his nose, Zane began to put the helmet back onto the curb when he heard a voice in his head that wasn’t his, it was a deeper, more masculine voice demanding him to put the helmet on. Wanting to resist, Zane set the helmet down and turned his back to it and the other stuff on the curb when the voice again demanded “Put on the helmet”, Zane was overcome with the need to put the helmet on. As he lifted the helmet up over his head Zane pleaded with the voice “Please…No…It reeks”. Feeling the voice command him to lower the helmet on his head, Zane’s mind and body obediently obeyed as he lost control of both. Upon lowering the helmet onto his head Zane could smell the reeking stench of the helmet. It reeked of sweat and B.O., the previous owner had obviously never even attempted to clean it.

Regaining consciousness and control of his body, Zane tried to take the helmet off, but quickly he heard the voice command “Breath in deep wimp” Zane once again obediently followed orders and took in a deep whiff of the helmet’s noxious stench. Zane would have normally been disgusted but he wasn’t, in fact he loved the rancid stench of sweat trapped in the helmet. Zane heard another command echo through his head, “Get on your puny bike loser”. Zane sat on his metal bicycle and began to pedal away. With every pedal, he bike became more akin to what a real man would ride. It slowly transformed into a fast and slick motorcycle.

Zane revved the bike instinctually and he felt his dick shoot to life at the same time, it was weird, Zane never was interested in motorcycles but his body was aching for more. Zane’s puny body was sitting atop a nice expensive motorcycle now but his body and face were still that of a wimpy nerd. That was soon to change, the voice started describing what a biker boy should be like. “Biker boys are unhygienic beasts who never wear deodorant, shower once a week, and never brush their teeth, all of that is for weak pussies” Zane could suddenly remember why the helmet smelled so bad, it was HIS stench that was infused into the helmet. Zane breathed in another deep whiff of the stink HE cultivated and let out a pleasurable sigh, breathing out a torrent of funky smelling breath, Zane added to the stench and made himself more loopy. Feeling his weak body get light and tingly Zane kept riding his newly minted motorcycle, he stopped at a red light and looked over at the car next to him, “Had I always had such big muscles?” Zane thought to himself as he saw his reflection in the car’s window. “No…can’t be I…” he took a breath in and inhaled more of his noxious B.O. and bad breath, “…I have always been this buff duhhh” Zane pulled off and sped home away from the stop light. Arriving home his brother was getting out of his car in the driveway, pulling up was surprised when he saw the man on the motorcycle, he looked like a stranger to him. “Hey man I think you got the wrong address” Zane’s brother told the now insanely ripped Zane, “Whatchu mean bro this my crashpad!” Zane said loudly. “Nah my brother lives here with me and my dad not you” Zanes brother remarked. Zane got off his bike and walked up to his little bro, “Heeeeeeeeeeey man chillax…no need to get your pantiessssss in a bunch” Zane drew out certain syllables on words so that he could breathe out his nasty breath that smelled like he had just eaten garlic, and fish, and hadn’t brushed his teeth in weeks. Zane’s brother’s eyes glazed over upon smelling his older brother’s stale and stinky breath, “Oh hey bro welcome home” Zane reached an arm around his brother’s shoulder and they walked to the house together. “Yeaaaaaaahhh you love your big bro’s stinking breath dont cha lil man” Zane laughed and purposely let out a blast of his funky breath into his brother’s face, “Yea…bro I- I love how…stinky…your breath i- is…I wish I was m-more like you”His brother said mindlessly as if in a trance. “Well in that case lil bro I wanna take you on a ride tonight okay? You can wear my helmet I jusssssst got it” Zane breathed out more of his rank breath while he spoke. “Yea…uhh like…totally bro…” His lil bro responded not knowing that the ride would seal his fate just how his brother’s was.

I got some dirty motocross boots on my doorstep today with a note from Coach: "Great job on the track, here's a pair of my lucky boots." I I don't know how to feel about a used pair of boots, but Coach is always looking out for me. He knows I go through my gear quickly and these boots are a huge upgrade from my current pair. As the star motocross rider for his racing team, I'm not surprised he wants to show me some love. Some on the team joke he gives me more attention because they think he's crushing on me. That's all jealous bullshit I pay no mind to. Coach knows I don't swing that way.

I walk out to my garage to try on the boots. They're definitely a few sizes too big. Coach is a bigger guy, and I don't see how I could wear these for my next race. I slide into the boots and there's quite a bit of space in them.

"How do you like the new boots?" I look up to see Coach standing in my garage with a smile on his face.

He's never showed up at my place before. I'm more concerned how he found his way here, but feel a little inferior standing in his much bigger boots.

"I just tried them on. Thanks so much man, but they feel a little big on me."

"I expected that, but I have some more stuff for you that might help. Figured I'd drop it off personally." He pulls out a pair of bike pants covered in a layer of dirt. "These may be a bit bigger on you, but try them on. They're my special pair and I've had some great rides in them."

Maybe he's on to something I'm not seeing and this is a learning moment. I slide out of the boots and my jeans to slip on his pants. Just like boots they're hanging off me. I try to slip the boots on the boots again. Maybe the pants will fill in the boots some.

"Uhm, I don't know man. They may get caught up in the bike."

Just after I said it, I start to feel a growing surge of energy coming up through the soles of my feet. It's like static electricity tingling all around them. My feet are beginning to pulse and stretch out to fill in the boots. It feels like someone's massaging them and they're really starting to mold to the boots. My feet must now be a size 13!

The static is moving up my legs and I'm overwhelmed with pleasure. I stifle a moan as they begin to inflate my calves and quads. The pants are closing in and the cloth is now hugging me.

"Of fuckkkk" I'm feeling my ass bubble and fill out the back of the pants. My crotch has lightning running through my dick and I feel it begin to bulge and swell. I'm so fucking horny and look up to see Coach. He's got a smirk on his face and there's something really intriguing about him. I steady myself by leaning on my bike as I'm taking in all of his features. I'm seeing him through a new light and he's actually pretty fucking hot.

What would it feel like if he brushed up against me? Why am I thinking this? Oh fuck there's a jolt of lightning going through my ass. My hole is throbbing with energy and I'm breathing heavy like I'm an animal in heat. I slide the pants down to my ankles and push out my ass. Maybe he'll help a guy out.

He walks up and slides his hands down my boxers to find my hole. I find myself leaning back into his chest and let out a guttural moan as he slides his finger into me. I have pre flowing out of my dick as he begins to rub my prostate from the inside. He's got me hooked, and I'm completely under his control. He leans in and whispers into my ear "Prepare for the best ride of your life."

I’m a younger gay guy but I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a more mature straight daddy. Someone very masculine and alpha, kinda of a bad boy like a biker or something. Someone who’s got a couple kids out there but is still always horny and ready to fuck. You think you could help me experience that kind of life?

As you leave work, the weight of another mundane day lingers on your shoulders. The city streets lead you to a quaint antique shop tucked away in a quiet corner—a place called Enigma Emporium. Stepping inside, you're immediately immersed in a world of nostalgia and oddities. Leather jackets hang beside well-worn band shirts, old playbills, and stacks of vinyl records. Each item seems to whisper a story from decades past, each corner revealing a new layer of forgotten treasures.

You're not alone in your exploration. A figure emerges from the shadows, dressed in a striking crimson red suit. His presence is magnetic, his smile mischievous yet inviting. "Hello, I'm Robin Morningstar. I'm the proprietor of this curio shop. You seem lost—well, not lost, but I feel like you've ended up on the wrong path in life, young man," he says, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. His words catch you off guard, striking a chord deep within. All those nights at gay bars, those fleeting Grindr encounters—suddenly they seem hollow, devoid of meaning.

You find yourself nodding in agreement, unable to resist the charm and insight in his piercing gaze. There's an understanding between you, unspoken yet palpable.

"Well, I have something just perfect for you," he continues, his eyes seeming to gleam with anticipation. Without hesitation, he moves swiftly through the shop, weaving between shelves and displays until he returns with a small, antique watch in hand. It's simple, unassuming—a stark contrast to the flamboyance of his attire and the richness of the shop's treasures.

You can't help but feel a pang of disappointment, expecting something more profound or mystical. Sensing your hesitation, he places the watch gently around your wrist, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. "This is exactly what you need," he assures you with a knowing smile.

As you reach for your wallet to pay, he stops you with a gentle wave of his hand. "No charge, my friend. Consider it a gift," he says mysteriously, urging you towards the door.

Outside, the air feels different. The watch on your wrist suddenly feels heavier, its presence almost pulsating against your skin. The hands begin to move erratically, spinning and twisting as if they have a will of their own. A strange tightness grips your head, and you stagger slightly, trying to regain your bearings.

With each step away from Enigma Emporium, something changes within you. Your posture straightens, your stride becomes more purposeful. You absentmindedly touch your face, only to feel the startling transformation unfolding. Your skin ages before your eyes, becoming weathered and rough. Deep lines carve themselves into your once smooth features, and a stubbled beard grows thick and untamed.

Your eyes, once wide with innocence, narrow into a gaze that's both cynical and knowing. A cocky grin replaces your former smile, reflecting a newfound confidence tinged with a hint of world-weariness.

As you pass by a window of another store, you catch a glimpse of your reflection and are taken aback. The face staring back at you is much older than you remember—rough, weathered, with deep lines etched into your skin and a thick, unkempt beard that speaks of years gone by. You estimate you must be at least 40, maybe even 45 years old, though it's hard to tell exactly from just a glance.

Instinctively, you reach up and stroke your beard, feeling the coarseness of the hair against your fingertips. As you do, you sense a change within yourself. There's a strange sensation of growing taller, not physically but in presence, as if a weight has settled upon your shoulders, bringing with it a sense of maturity and authority.

You become acutely aware of your body, feeling muscles that were once lean and lithe now packing themselves on with a new solidity. It's as though every fiber of your being is being redefined, sculpted by an unseen force. The transformation is not just physical; it's a visceral experience that ignites a fire in your soul.

This fire burns away your compassion, your old desires, leaving behind a raw intensity. You reach into your pocket and pull out a cigarette, lighting it with practiced ease. As you inhale, the smoke fills your lungs, a fuel that seems to stoke the flames within you. Burning up those pathetic gay thoughts. As the cigarette burns down to ash, so do your gay thoughts. The desire to settle down with another man is nothing more than a distant memory, replaced by an overwhelming urge to spread your seed far and wide. You envision yourself as a breeding machine, fucking every willing (and unwilling) woman you come across until they're all pregnant with your children. The thought of ramming your thick cock into some dumb broad's pussy makes you rock hard, ready for action at any moment.

Memories of countless women flash through your mind—their eager mouths wrapped around your thick cock as they moaned your name over and over. You remember last weekend, taking home a flight attendant who couldn't help but lust after your muscular body. She moaned, "Silas…I need your cock," and you threw her into bed without hesitation.

"Why don't you call me…Daddy, babe?" you grunted, and she smiled in response. "Yes, daddy," she said before going to town on your dick like the good little slut that she was.

Memories flood your mind, memories that feel both foreign and strangely familiar. You recall nights of reckless abandon, of taking whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. Drunken brawls in dimly lit bars, the thrill of adrenaline coursing through your veins, and the bitter taste of being thrown out into the cold night.

You find yourself standing in front of your favorite biker bar, a thick leather jacket seems to materialize on your chest, fitting snugly as if it has always belonged there. With a sense of purpose and confidence, you push through the heavy wooden door. The room falls silent as heads turn to see who has entered.

The atmosphere is thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke, the dim lighting casting shadows across rugged faces and tattooed arms. As all eyes settle on you, a ripple of recognition and respect passes through the crowd. You've become a figure of authority in this place, a man whose presence commands attention.

"What's up, men!" you call out, your voice carrying over the murmurs of conversation. The words come naturally, infused with a rugged charm that seems to have emerged from deep within you. "Round of whiskey shots on me," you declare, a grin spreading across your weathered face.

Cheers erupt from the gathered patrons, a chorus of rough voices shouting in approval. Men raise their glasses in salute, some nodding appreciatively as they acknowledge your gesture.

You stride confidently to the bar, the clink of boots on the worn wooden floor echoing in the sudden hush. The bartender, a grizzled veteran of the establishment, nods knowingly as he lines up the shots. He slides them across the bar towards you, and you pick one up, raising it high in a toast to the camaraderie of the brotherhood around you.

As the fiery liquid burns down your throat, you feel a sense of belonging wash over you. This place, with its rough edges and unfiltered conversations, feels like home in a way you never expected.

You turn to the bartender and begin recounting your latest conquest, describing in vivid detail how you pounded some dumb broad's pussy until she begged for mercy. You laugh heartily as you tell him about another woman trying to hit you up for child support but how could she expect anything from someone like yourself? You probably have more than one kid out there by now, but who cares? Not someone like yourself.

You continue your story, going on and on about how every night you get drunk as shit and find some tight pussy to plow. Your voice grows louder with each passing moment, filled with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he wants. "A real man knows how to tame a woman," you say proudly, gesturing towards the other men at the bar who nod in agreement.

You take another shot of whiskey, feeling it burn down your throat like liquid fire. This is what life is all about—chasing after pleasure without apology or regret. And tonight, there's no doubt in your mind that there will be more conquests waiting for you once this bottle is empty.

You hear the breathless moans from behind you, and turn around to see the sluttiest looking girl you've ever seen. Her tight dress clings to her body like a second skin, revealing every curve and contour. Her lips are painted with so much makeup that she looks like a total bimbo. But there's something about her that draws you in—a raw sexuality that begs to be unleashed.

"Are you even man enough to tame me, daddy?" she asks coyly, batting her eyelashes at you. You can feel your cock stirring in your pants at the thought of taking this little minx for a ride.

You adjust your thick, ten-inch cock, and she can't help but stare down at it with a mixture of awe and lust. "I think that answers your little question, honey," you say with a cocky smile.

You wrap your arm around her waist, feeling the softness of her body against yours. Your hand finds its way to her breast, squeezing gently as you lead her towards the back exit. She moans softly in response, clearly enjoying the attention from such an alpha male like yourself.

As you step outside into the cool night air, you can't help but feel invincible—a horny asshole daddy who takes what he wants without apology or regret.