Gay To Straight Tf - Tumblr Posts
Drawn
--- Originally posted on 2024-06-29 by breedertfs ---
--- Want to read more? View all stories by breedertfs ---
I find myself getting drawn to your stories more and more often, it's scary! It's like I go into a trance anytime I'm horny and find my way to your blog
It’s almost like that’s my goal, bro.
All guys need a strong, masculine presence in their life. Someone who will guide them and mold them, and I can tell this is attracting you. Do you want someone to talk about what a big, powerful, bad mannered straight man you are? Did your parents fail to set you down the path that now excites you to no end? It’s not your fault, it’s not even theirs.
Sometimes, life isn’t able to give us the tools to become the men we want so badly to be. Maybe you’re a little heavier than the average, maybe you’re too delicate, but something in your upbringing has set you apart from the men that are making you shove your hand down your shorts, stroking your shaft to mental image of musk and muscle and douchebag behavior.
If it sounds so appealing, that’s because your deeper being is begging you to realize this is what you want. It makes you so hard, huh? When I describe a thin guy’s shoulders spreading outwards, broad and strong with bouncing pecs. Beefy arms, tree trunk legs, thick beards reeking of dried pussy juice. The men I specialize in are a special breed, the elite. Of course you’re attracted to them, of course your little brain goes fuzzy and dizzy when you start to jerk it to the idea of a fag becoming a conservative, straight man.
Your cock throbs in your hand, each jerk like a flash in your mind, urging you to look through the illusion you’ve created and see the truth. You get so turned on by these stories because you wish it would happen to you, as if these changes need any magic. Imagine a beautiful woman cupping her fat tits, her slender fingers squeezing her nipples, her body jiggling and shivering with pleasure.
If the idea of sliding your fat cock between her boobs excites you, thrusting until your seed coats her bimbo face, then I’m sorry to tell you, my friend: you’re a straight man. And your body, your former values, are clouding your former rationality and urging you to recognize the kind of man you should allow yourself to become. Just stop taking everything so seriously, allow your thoughts to slow, stop worrying about manners and woke views.
Just think about those huge tits, bro. Think about a squirting pussy, imagine your thick tongue sliding up and down her folds, plunging into her. Imagine your strong hands on her tiny waist, your own stubble on your chiseled jaw growing slick with sweat and juices. Lick your lip, listen to yourself growl, your voice is low and powerful and so demanding. This isn’t a story, this isn’t a wish gone wrong, this is a human male realizing how badly he wants to be a traditional man. No more holding in your farts or belches, no more caring about people’a opinions, no more seeing this woman as anything more than a sex toy to blow your load into. She’s not wife material, brah, but that doesn’t mean she’s not ready to be a mother. Women should know your place like you know yours.
Your bones crack and shift, your expression turns to a sneer, your smile is always so cocky. You are thick with muscle, a cloud of body odor lingering around your glorious muscles, and your fat nine incher is already oozing pre. This is the life you want, the version of you that you want so desperately to take the steering wheel. So let him, bro, let that lustful trance take you where you need to go. Hit the gym, change your political opinions, accept that your cock wants to be deep inside a warm, wet cunt.
Don’t wait for magic, my bro.
There’s nothing more magical than a man who knows his place: and you’re never going to forget where you stand. At the top of the ladder, biceps flexed and your grin smug. Lesser men will wish to be like you, fags are gonna jerk it to your pictures. You just focus on the finer things in life. Sports, cigars, letting your nasty habits be heard and smelled.
Like pulling that blonde bimbo closer, your huge cock thrusting inside her slick folds, her silicone filled tits jiggling from the force. She moans, and you echo the sound with a low growl. You’ll never need to stroke your cock again to my stories — knowing you’ll never run out of fresh, tight pussy to ruin.
Let the trance win, brother. Let the better version of you free.
Drawn
--- Originally posted on 2024-06-29 by breedertfs ---
I find myself getting drawn to your stories more and more often, it's scary! It's like I go into a trance anytime I'm horny and find my way to your blog
It’s almost like that’s my goal, bro.
All guys need a strong, masculine presence in their life. Someone who will guide them and mold them, and I can tell this is attracting you. Do you want someone to talk about what a big, powerful, bad mannered straight man you are? Did your parents fail to set you down the path that now excites you to no end? It’s not your fault, it’s not even theirs.
Sometimes, life isn’t able to give us the tools to become the men we want so badly to be. Maybe you’re a little heavier than the average, maybe you’re too delicate, but something in your upbringing has set you apart from the men that are making you shove your hand down your shorts, stroking your shaft to mental image of musk and muscle and douchebag behavior.
If it sounds so appealing, that’s because your deeper being is begging you to realize this is what you want. It makes you so hard, huh? When I describe a thin guy’s shoulders spreading outwards, broad and strong with bouncing pecs. Beefy arms, tree trunk legs, thick beards reeking of dried pussy juice. The men I specialize in are a special breed, the elite. Of course you’re attracted to them, of course your little brain goes fuzzy and dizzy when you start to jerk it to the idea of a fag becoming a conservative, straight man.
Your cock throbs in your hand, each jerk like a flash in your mind, urging you to look through the illusion you’ve created and see the truth. You get so turned on by these stories because you wish it would happen to you, as if these changes need any magic. Imagine a beautiful woman cupping her fat tits, her slender fingers squeezing her nipples, her body jiggling and shivering with pleasure.
If the idea of sliding your fat cock between her boobs excites you, thrusting until your seed coats her bimbo face, then I’m sorry to tell you, my friend: you’re a straight man. And your body, your former values, are clouding your former rationality and urging you to recognize the kind of man you should allow yourself to become. Just stop taking everything so seriously, allow your thoughts to slow, stop worrying about manners and woke views.
Just think about those huge tits, bro. Think about a squirting pussy, imagine your thick tongue sliding up and down her folds, plunging into her. Imagine your strong hands on her tiny waist, your own stubble on your chiseled jaw growing slick with sweat and juices. Lick your lip, listen to yourself growl, your voice is low and powerful and so demanding. This isn’t a story, this isn’t a wish gone wrong, this is a human male realizing how badly he wants to be a traditional man. No more holding in your farts or belches, no more caring about people’a opinions, no more seeing this woman as anything more than a sex toy to blow your load into. She’s not wife material, brah, but that doesn’t mean she’s not ready to be a mother. Women should know your place like you know yours.
Your bones crack and shift, your expression turns to a sneer, your smile is always so cocky. You are thick with muscle, a cloud of body odor lingering around your glorious muscles, and your fat nine incher is already oozing pre. This is the life you want, the version of you that you want so desperately to take the steering wheel. So let him, bro, let that lustful trance take you where you need to go. Hit the gym, change your political opinions, accept that your cock wants to be deep inside a warm, wet cunt.
Don’t wait for magic, my bro.
There’s nothing more magical than a man who knows his place: and you’re never going to forget where you stand. At the top of the ladder, biceps flexed and your grin smug. Lesser men will wish to be like you, fags are gonna jerk it to your pictures. You just focus on the finer things in life. Sports, cigars, letting your nasty habits be heard and smelled.
Like pulling that blonde bimbo closer, your huge cock thrusting inside her slick folds, her silicone filled tits jiggling from the force. She moans, and you echo the sound with a low growl. You’ll never need to stroke your cock again to my stories — knowing you’ll never run out of fresh, tight pussy to ruin.
Let the trance win, brother. Let the better version of you free.
Born to Breed
--- Originally posted on 2024-07-10 by breedertfs ---
--- Want to read more? View all stories by breedertfs ---
If have to tell you, genuinely beyond the fantasy, that your stories are incredibly hot and make me somewhat question how gay I am haha.
If you’re questioning, bro, then you’re not fully gay. 😈
Listen to your urges, accept your attraction, there’s nothing wrong with being so turned on by all this. I totally understand how good it feels. When you’re watching porn with women in it, or even just jerking it to a sexy GIF of a pussy being eaten out, try imagining yourself as the guy in the frame. Focus on the woman and her curves, the way her tits jiggle, the way her fingers touch her cunt like a greedy slut. Ignore the male, he’s just a stand-in for you, a manifestation of all the things you want to do to this bimbo. Your lust and focus will always be on the female sex.
No going back.
There’s no shame, bro, this is all natural. Your cock is aching because you’re finally realizing how desperately you want to slide it into a wet, warm cunt. It’s going to feel so good, so right, you’re not gonna be able to stop once you get going. Imagine her moans, the wet slap of your cock pushing through her folds, the warmth of her pussy juice touching your skin. Once you unleash your hot, potent load inside her, there’s no going back.
If you are finding women hot now, just think how mind fucked you’re gonna be when you watch one swell with your child. Bigger tits, a huge pregnant belly, her skin glowing with maternal pride.
You’ll be glowing, too, and growing inside your shorts as you stroke your shaft to the idea of loading her up with another baby as soon as she pushes this one out.
Women are undeniably hot. Men are born to breed. Accept this gift that’s being given to you, and take what is yours.
Neighborhood Association
Cale put down the last box and sighed. He could now officially state that he has moved. He looked around the living room and felt proud of himself, after working tirelessly for almost a week to turn this space into a home. The same couldn’t be said about his feeling towards the place his new home was located in.
He was forced to move after the rent in his last apartment was hiked by 25%. This was more than he could handle, so he decided right then and there that the would find a cheaper place to live. He went on Zillow and it didn’t take long before he found the place he was now living in. Gorgeous building, well-kept outside, spacious inside, with a stupidly low rent. He called the landlord first thing the following day. He signed the lease a week after that.
It was only then that his friends came up to him and made him realize what was the place he was about to move into. Pinewood, an outer suburb and the only Republican stronghold in the entire metro area. This was bad news for the young gay software engineer basically addicted to the queer city life. But he had already signed all the paperwork and he decided he would make this work. Each time he felt like this might not have been the best decision he reminded himself that even with the longer commute he was saving a lot of many. Yeah, maybe the town screamed “All-American conservative suburb”, but this was the price for financial stability, Cale told himself.
Cale heard a knock on the door. He walked up to the entrance and opened it. He was surprised to see no one in front of his house, not even a single person walking along the street. Then he looked down and saw a leaflet. Oh, that’s what this was about. He picked up the piece of paper and started reading as he went back inside. “The Pinewood East Neighborhood Association welcomes you in our area. We are glad you’ve decided to find your special place within our prosperous community and invite you to become an active member. Just scan the QR code and fill the form. FIND YOUR ROLE IN PINEWOOD.” Well, that’s nice, Cale thought to himself. He sat down on the couch and scanned the code on the leaflet. The form was pretty standard, for the most part. The only unusual part was the part where he was asked about hobbies. It was not an open question and Cale was forced to choose for only a couple of options. He rolled his eyes, who designed this form? He picked “morning runs and fitness”. He did try to get into he habit of running a year ago. And a year before running it was working out. So he guessed this was the option closest to the truth. He quickly finished filling up the whole form and sent it, quickly forgetting about the whole thing.
Two days later when he came back from work and walked up to his door he saw a package. He was surprised, he didn’t remember ordering anything. But as he looked closer he confirmed that the box was addressed to him. There was just one small typo, Caleb instead of Cale, but he was used to it. He picked the package up and took it inside to his living room. He then opened the box and saw a letter on top. It turned out it was a welcome package from the neighborhood association. Cale thought it was a nice gift, but didn’t care to see what was inside the package itself. The only thing he took out was the baseball cap with the association’s logo on it. When later that day he went out to run a few errands he put it on, because it was the closest to his hand as he was leaving the house. He came back late and after getting out of his clothes he went back to bed. He forgot to take the cap off.
Caleb slowly woke up. He stood up and stretched his arms. He felt a weird ache throughout his whole body, and he didn’t know why— damn, that sesh at the gym yesterday was rough. But that ache was the sign that it was working. He turned his head and watched his arm as he flexed his biceps.
He came up to his closet for something to wear. But he only saw a few faggy shirts and some tight pants. What the fuck, he thought. But then his mind was instantly covered by a weird fog and he walked into the living room and picked up a big box standing on the floor. He opened it and took out a black compression shirt and a pair of gym shorts. He quickly put them on and immediately felt better, his muscles filling up the clothes perfectly.
Right after, Caleb looked up to see a pride flag hanging from one of the walls and a feeling of disgust filled his fog-covered head. He jumped up to the wall and grabbed the piece of fabric, then threw it on the ground. Then he came back to the box and took out a ‘thin blue line’ flag. That fit him way better and he quickly put it on the wall.
He heard his phone ring. He took his phone and answered.
“Yeah?”
“Good morning, this is Cathy form the Pinewood East Neighborhood Association. Is this Cale?”
“Ugh” Caleb grunted. Stupid woman. “It’s Caleb.”
“Oh, of course, my apologies” Cathy answered, but she didn’t sound like she was really sorry. “I’m calling to ask a few questions before we accept you as a full member”
“Sure, whatever” Caleb’s interest in the phone call was dwindling fast and he started flexing once again, watching his biceps go up and down.
“What’s your profession?” Caleb’s mind, completely covered by fog, didn’t know what to say.
“Ughhhh, soft…ware… was it… wait a minute—”
“Is it security guard, Caleb?”
“What?” He did not expect the woman to be such a psychic. “Yeah, yeah, security guard, duh.”
“Great, thank you Caleb, and one more question. There’s a group that wants to organize a Pride event in out beautiful city. How would you respond to such a proposal?”
“Hell no, we don’t want no queer near our place, isn’t that right? Bunch of degenerates” Caleb barked at the phone.
“I understand Caleb, and we agree, you’re absolutely right” The woman on the other side sounded almost… proud? “I won’t hold you any further, you have a job to go to. I’m glad you are fulfilling your role within our community. See you soon.” And then Cathy ended the call. Caleb shrugged, he wasn’t sure what was the deal with all this neighborhood shit, but why should he care? He was here for the low rent and the job that allowed him to spend half the day at the gym.
As he walked from the living room to the kitchen Caleb stopped in front of the mirror and started flexing. Damn, these guns of his looked impressive. And fuck, his chest was like a damn pillow, so sick. He watched his pecs flex in the mirror, moving under his compression shirt. These muscles were ready to smash degenerates and grab any pussy he wanted. When he was ready to leave the house, driven by instinct he went back to the box and picked up a pair of sunglasses he then immediately put on. Yeah, now he was ready to go to work and fulfill the role he was assigned in Pinewood. And brah, it felt fuckin’ great.
Waking Up Huge and Jocked
You can support me on ko-fi.com/mrrharper
story reposed with a few minor changes, previous ver. were too "explicit"
Trevor slowly woke up, sitting on his bed and opening his eyes. He immediately felt that something was wrong, but he didn't know what. He slowly walked up to the bathroom, where the only mirror in his apartment was located. Every step felt weird, his body didn't feel normal.
When he finally got to the mirror his mouth opened in shock. Then memories from the day prior flooded his mind.
Trevor joined a gym. A fairly new one that opened in his neighborhood. He decided to do that to capitalize on the gym's heavy discounts that were meant to attract new clients. And it wasn't the end - right after entering the building and registering, he was gifted with a bunch of free stuff.
Included was a few pieces of gym gear, which was very handy to Trevor, who has not worked out regularly before and did not have stuff like that.
After he came back home in the evening, Trevor decided to try out the clothes he got. Included in these was a pair of Under Armour boxer briefs that he put on alongside shorts and a sleeveless shirt. He looked a bit funny, at least according to himself, but the vibe he was giving off was actually... cool. He looked like a proper gym bro, and that gave him a... warm feeling. Wait, he was getting hot after wearing all that gear just for a few minutes, which seemed unusual.
And suddenly, it began.
As the warmth spread across his body from his lower abdominal area he clearly saw his body slowly expand. His stomach muscles became visible, his pectorals now pushing against the shirt. Shoulders expanded, biceps growing closer in size to a football. Legs now the size of tree trunks, each muscle clearly visible.
Trevor just looked, in shock and horror, as his body transformed into that of a real gym bro. He desperately tried to take off the gym gear, and while he succeeded with the shirt and shorts, the UA boxers just stayed glued to his skin the whole time. Wait a minute, was his dick getting larger as well? Shit, were these tattoos on his body? Fuckin' hell!
As the transformation came to an end Trevor was hit with a sudden and powerful feeling of tiredness. He took a few steps towards his bedroom, then collapsed on his bed and fell asleep almost immediately.
And this is how he ended up here, standing in front of a mirror the next day, still with the body of a jock. After the initial shock of this not having been a dream Trevor quickly thought about the benefits of the change and started flexing his new, huge muscles.
A huge grin appeared on his face as he lifted his arms, putting them in a double biceps pose, and took in the view. He also got quite aroused by the whole experience and his now bigger bulge was clearly visible, straining against his Under Armour boxers.
He eagerly grabbed his member and started massaging it through the fabric. Afterwards he decided to go back to the gym right away. Maybe he would learn something more, maybe he would grow even more.
He quickly put on the clothes, his shorts going over the cum-stained boxers, and made his way to the gym. He didn't know what to expect, but he felt anticipation rise inside him with every step. Finally Trevor reached the building and entered the place that was the cause of his changes.
The moment he went through the door his brain slowed down to a halt. A thick, dense fog covered his mind, no thoughts now coming in or out. A dumb grin appeared on his face, and drool appeared on the corner of his mouth.
The gym's Owner walked up to Trevor, standing still in the middle of the reception area.
"Next one, great." He grinned slightly and looked into Trevor's eyes.
"State your position, meathead." The owner gave the order, but the newly created gym bro did nothing. The older man in turn rolled his eyes. "Of course, you're a rookie." He put his hand in his pocket and took out a pair of dog tags, which he dangled in front of Trevor's face for a moment. Trevor's eyes started following the tags almost instantly.
"You will come with me, meathead." The Owner said, and started walking towards his office, Trevor following behind him. When they reached the room, the Owner ordered the new meathead to sit down in front of his desk. He then turned the monitor towards Trevor and pushed a button on the keyboard.
A video showing both muscular dudes pumpin' iron and a hypnotic spiral started playing and the Owner started talking.
"You are a dumb meathead. The only thing you do is lift and train others to lift. You are as masculine as can get... oh, also... you're gay?"
"Yeah..." Trevor drawled. Droll was flowing down from his mouth.
"Nope, you're as straight as a guy can get." The Owner stated strongly. Trevor felt tingling around his butt, as his hole tightened and closed in, making sure nothing would enter it and that he would never think about his ass in terms of pleasure again.
"You do not think of anything not related to working out. Your life is the gym. You are my employee and obey my every order." The Owner stood in front of Trevor, between him and the screen. "You are Brute. You are 32AZ, you are a dumb meathead." He then took a step to the side, allowing Brute to watch the video to the end.
"State your position, meathead." Brute heard Boss say.
"Personal trainer bruh, liftin' and pushin' guys to become men bro"
"Correct, meathead."
"Huhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh, yeah sir, huhuhuhuhuh" He did a mock salute, a dumb chuckle escaping his mouth.
"Now go, complete Routine 12, then come to the Reception to receive your schedule."
"Yes sir... bro huhuhuhuh."
"Good meathead. Now go."
Empty Eyes, Pumped Bis
You can support me on ko-fi.com/mrrharper
tw: slurs
inspired by @user211201
It started with his boyfriend suggesting he join a gym. So he did.
It went okay, he wasn't doing great, which was very annoying.
But slowly he started gaining some muscle mass.
Then he met JT.
He was a disgustingly straight gym bro. And yet he wanted to hang out with him. And it seemed to have an effect.
He suddenly started noticing gains. Big gains.
And JT turned out to be a cool dude. A real bro, but it just kinda felt good to be around him at the gym.
Other meatheads started commenting about the bromance he had going with JT, and he... actually enjoyed that thought. Yeah, JT is his bro.
Maybe even his best bro.
Huhuhuh, hell yeah JT's his best bruh. No one's better than his bro.
Wait, what? There's this guy... his boy... boyfriend? Nah man, can't be right, cause Jt's been talkin' about what real bros do. And he's a real bro...
duuuuuuuuuude huhuhuhuhuhuh
He felt his asshole tighten after a killer set on the bench. JT said real bros have their holes closed in and barely used, cause real bros don't get fucked. They do the fucking. A bro can't be anything but a top.
Wait, what's a top? A bro can only be one way, filling a hole. No other option. So he felt pride in his body conforming to the standards of a real bro. A hole programmed to not accept anything.
A guy came to the gym, some queer has been looking for him. JT got rid of the guy immediately.
He only needs JT, his best bro. They spend every hours liftin' and gettin' pumped and sweaty. Like real bros should.
Nothin' else matters.
Brain empty, just lift. Like JT says.
A sick pump on these guns is muuuuuuuch more important bruh.
huhuhuhuhuhuhuh fuck yeah dude
mrrharper Masterpost
what's up bros
to make this blog a bit more accessible, this is gonna be an index of all of my stories and other stuff connected with me, neatly divided into themes
also hey, i have a discord server for horny bros that y’all should join asap - here's the link
everything's under this pic of a hot stud
Jock TF
Todd goes to a gym / Academic requirements / A Son, Reformed / Muscles In Chains / The Rookie's Figuring It Out / Headphones In, Guns Out / Waiting For The Roommate / Mandatory PE Class / A Real Jock's Supposed to Be Dumb / Cocky And Proud, By Accident / Elevator Malfunction / Former Friend / There Are Always Jocks / Desperation In College /
Jock-focused
Under Armour Jock™ / Coach's Process of Developing a Jock / More Loyal, More American, More The Same / Muscle Memory / Inside A Jock's Mind / Script For A Jock / No-Trade Clause / Taming The Football Beast /
Cop/Soldier reprogramming
Programming Adjustment / Law, Order and Musk / Personal Muscle, Uniform Included / A Guard Programmed To Control And Obey / Summer Bootcamp / Army Surplus / Neighborhood Association / Another Cop For The Collection /
Gym Bro TF (and adjacent)
Gym Bro / Bro Advice / A Workout Break / This Is How You Recruit Gym Bros / Waking Up Huge And Jocked / Empty Eyes, Pumped Bis / The Grindset / Big Bro's Job / The Bro Zone Resort /
Inanimate TF
Not In The Exhibit Brochure /
NPC TF
Player Of The Month / Guarding The Base /
Other stuff
Discord - I run a discord server for other horny bros, come join us
Commissions - I am open for commissions. Want me to write you a story? Check the linked post for all the necessary details
#AMA - you can see all the questions I have answered from previous AMAs under this hashtag
Ko-fi page - you can support me and my work on ko-fi
Summer Bootcamp
Your friend has been behaving strangely ever since coming back from this weird military camp thing the Army organized every summer in your county.
He suddenly became obsessed with guns, buying a few for himself and joining a shooting range he now came to on an almost daily basis.
He joined the gym and began following a "Navy SEAL grade" workout routine and you could see it working, his newly built muscles bulging under his clothes and a constant cloud of sweaty musk surrounding him.
He purged all of his social media profiles. Instead of photos of different places he visited and photos of him with his boyfriend, they were now filled with posts with him wearing different types of tactical gear, on shooting competitions, meet ups with soldiers and cops.
In conversations he started boasting about his conquests", saying how he was always mean to be a "breeder". When you mentioned his partner his dull, stern expression turned aggressive for a moment before he effortlessly changed the subject.
Recently he's even been talking about joining the National Guard. And he mentioned he would make sure you'd follow his path and become a real man.
Elevator Malfunction
Greg was walking along the corridor. He had just finished his last lecture for the day and was ready to leave the campus and go get something to eat. He got to the staircase but decided he didn't feel like walking down all these stairs, so he pushed a button for an elevator instead.
As he waited for it to come to the floor he was currently on someone walked up to the elevator and stood next to him, also wanting to give their legs a break. Greg looked to his left, then quickly moved his head back. That was Brad Petrović, one of the stars of their university's soccer team.
One look at the jock was enough for Greg to feel his cock hardening in his pants. He felt he was turning red and he hoped no one would see him getting a boner. From his perspective Brad was a perfect male specimen, and exactly Greg's type - clearly muscular but not bulky, tall with a masculine jaw, short hair, thick thighs, that permament arrogant smirk on his face, a constant aura of sweat and musk. Greg, a closeted gay man and an obvious nerd, knew that the chances of getting a guy like that in bed with him were very slim, but he could always dream.
He took another quick glance at Brad. He was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt, which allowed Greg to just barely see his hairy armpit and chest. He was now sure his boner would not disappear for as long as he was in close proximity with the soccer bro.
The elevator had finally arrived and the doors opened. Brad went in first, followed by Greg who constantly made sure there was distance between them. And he made sure his shirt was hiding the bulge in his pants. The jock then pushed the "ground floor" button and the eevator began slowly moving down.
Greg turned his eyes for a split second and saw a few beads of sweat run down Brad's arm. Fuck, he was hot. He wanted to look again, but the more rational side of his brain prevented him from doing that, aftaid the athlete would notice, call him a perv or maybe beat him up.
They were around halfway down when the elevator wobbled. Both guys looked around but saw nothing that would suggest something was wrong. But then the lights flickered and the elevator suddenly stopped. Greg, who wasn't expecting this sudden change in velocity didn't have the time to grab anything, so he lost balance, fell down on the ground, bumping into Brad and then crashing his head against the floor, loosing consciousness for a moment.
A few moments later Greg opened his eyes and was instantly blinded by the light shining from the elevator's ceiling. He blinked a few times and put his hand over his face, trying to shield his sensitive eyeballs from the bright lamp above him. He slowly dragged his body off the floor and sat down, already feeling pain radiating from the back of his head.
He turned his head and-- he blinked quickly a few times, because he couldn't believe what he saw. He saw himself, his very own body standing up and looking towards him. Greg was sure he also saw confision on his-- his body's face, but it was quickly replaced by concern.
"Brad, you're alright? Oh my god, I'm so sorry I bumped into you. Are you okay?"
Brad? He wasn't Brad, he was-- Holy fuck! Greg looked down and saw the jersey Brad was wearing on his torso. He almost jumped and turned towards the mirror on the back wall of the elevator. A confused Brad Petrović looked back at him.
"Jesus Christ, what happened?" he asked aloud, then flincked, surprised by the deep voice that he was apparently in control of.
"I... I don't know" He heard his own voice behind him and turned around to see... No, he was certain he was looking at himself. This must have been a result of a concussion. He's never experienced soemthing like this but this was the most logical explanation. Yes, this would end in a moment. "I think the elevator stopped suddenly for some reason and I lost balance, and then... then I fell onto you, and then we both... Are you sure you're okay?"
"No" Greg muttered under his breath.
"Oh god, you have a concussion? Crap, we need a doctor to have a look at you" his body stood next to him. This was a reasonable suggestion. But Greg was not really thinking straight right now.
"No!" he barked a little louder than he wanted to. "I... I need to get home."
"Oh, uhm... of course, of course" The other Greg quickly took a few steps back. Then they heard a ding and the doors of the elevator slowly opened. Greg watched as his very own body walked out of the elevator and was gone in justa few seconds. The real Greg, now seemingly occupying the body of a soccer jock bro, stood still, failing to comprehend what was happening around him.
The doors started to close and Greg quickly jumped out of the elevator. He took a few deep breaths and thought about what should he do. He had now convinced himself that all this was the result of him injuring his head during the fall and it would all go away in a few minutes. Maybe hours. Hopefully not days. Oh god, he wanted to go home so bad. He quickly left the building and made his way to his dorm on the other side of the campus.
As he walked he realized his dick had been hard this entire time. And since he seemed to be wearing gym shorts it was way more visible. Greg looked around, hoping there weren't many people who would witness him with a hard on in public. Thankfully the area was not very busy.
He got to his room, unlocked the door and-- wait a minute! This wasn't his room. He took a step inside and instead of his small and tidy space, he saw a fairly large room that almost certainly belonged to a jock. A bunch of posters of various athletes hanging on walls, dirty gym gear laying everywhere, the table covered with empty beers, boxes of protein powder, a few condoms even, and of course the smell of sweat. This was Brad's dorm room. How did he get here?
A thought appeared in his head. It was muscle memory that took him here. Brad's muscle memory. This was not a concussion. Greg's mind was currently occupying Brad Petrović's body. He closed the door behind him and looked around, then grabbed his head with both hands. This couldn't be happening, this was just a dream!
He slowly went further into the room, then stopped as he felt he stepped onto something. Greg looked down and picked up a pair of boxers, with clearly visible sweat and cum stains. The smell was intoxicating. He suddenly thought about smelling, maybe even licking the underwear that was clearly used by the real Brad fairly recently. His cock reacted positively to this possibility, but Greg wouldn't allow himself to use his terrible position like this.
Although... would it be that wrong? It would get rid of his boner, allowing him to think more clearly. No one would have to know, he was all alone in this room.
Greg sat down on the couch standing in the middle of the room and took off his shorts and briefs in one, brief motion, freeing his hard cock. He then put the dirty boxers up to his nose and breathed in loudly. It felt like getting high, the manly smells filling up his nostrils. His hand gravitated to his dick and started stroking it as he imagined worshiping this body, all of its hard muscles, the armpits, the thighs, the crotch.
He sped up his hand movements and moand loudly, still pushing the underwear against his face. He started licking the material and another wave of lust came over him. He was overwhelmed with what he was feeling, his brain overridden by his horny instincts. He thought he could taste the cum and it got him even more excited, if it was even possible.
As he continued stroking though, something happened. The images he had in his head of Brad's flexed arms that revealed two sweaty armpits turned into a topless woman waving her boobs in front of him.
This would be enough to raise concerns, but for the moment Greg was fully controlled by the horny part of his brain, which didn't allow any critical thoughts to arise. He just continued jerking off, not realizing that his dick got even harder the moment the images in his head changed.
It didn't stop there. Next came a memory (wait, a memory?) of Brad eating pussy of some random chick. Greg continued stroking and licking the cum off of the boxers while his head became filled with images of Brad Petrović having sex with a bunch of women. No alarms went off in his head, he seemed to get more horny the longer he played with his dick.
A certain scene got stuck in Greg's head - Brad fucking a blond haired girl, letting his primal instincts control him. As he leaned in to touch one of the girl's breasts Greg finally got over the edge. He came harder than ever before, his jizz landing on his hand, jersey and the couch.
Brad cleaned his hand with the boxers he was holding for some reason, then threw then on the floor and immediately forgot about them. Instead he thought about that blond chick - Beth. Fuck, he needed to find her again. He heard his phone ringing. Oh fuck, he was supposed to meet with Garrett and Trevor at the gym! He quickly stood up and ran out of his room with only his phone in his hand. It was time to get jacked, then find some pussy later. Shit, Brad loved his jock life.
Neighborhood Association
Cale put down the last box and sighed. He could now officially state that he has moved. He looked around the living room and felt proud of himself, after working tirelessly for almost a week to turn this space into a home. The same couldn’t be said about his feeling towards the place his new home was located in.
He was forced to move after the rent in his last apartment was hiked by 25%. This was more than he could handle, so he decided right then and there that the would find a cheaper place to live. He went on Zillow and it didn’t take long before he found the place he was now living in. Gorgeous building, well-kept outside, spacious inside, with a stupidly low rent. He called the landlord first thing the following day. He signed the lease a week after that.
It was only then that his friends came up to him and made him realize what was the place he was about to move into. Pinewood, an outer suburb and the only Republican stronghold in the entire metro area. This was bad news for the young gay software engineer basically addicted to the queer city life. But he had already signed all the paperwork and he decided he would make this work. Each time he felt like this might not have been the best decision he reminded himself that even with the longer commute he was saving a lot of many. Yeah, maybe the town screamed “All-American conservative suburb”, but this was the price for financial stability, Cale told himself.
Cale heard a knock on the door. He walked up to the entrance and opened it. He was surprised to see no one in front of his house, not even a single person walking along the street. Then he looked down and saw a leaflet. Oh, that’s what this was about. He picked up the piece of paper and started reading as he went back inside. “The Pinewood East Neighborhood Association welcomes you in our area. We are glad you’ve decided to find your special place within our prosperous community and invite you to become an active member. Just scan the QR code and fill the form. FIND YOUR ROLE IN PINEWOOD.” Well, that’s nice, Cale thought to himself. He sat down on the couch and scanned the code on the leaflet. The form was pretty standard, for the most part. The only unusual part was the part where he was asked about hobbies. It was not an open question and Cale was forced to choose for only a couple of options. He rolled his eyes, who designed this form? He picked “morning runs and fitness”. He did try to get into he habit of running a year ago. And a year before running it was working out. So he guessed this was the option closest to the truth. He quickly finished filling up the whole form and sent it, quickly forgetting about the whole thing.
Two days later when he came back from work and walked up to his door he saw a package. He was surprised, he didn’t remember ordering anything. But as he looked closer he confirmed that the box was addressed to him. There was just one small typo, Caleb instead of Cale, but he was used to it. He picked the package up and took it inside to his living room. He then opened the box and saw a letter on top. It turned out it was a welcome package from the neighborhood association. Cale thought it was a nice gift, but didn’t care to see what was inside the package itself. The only thing he took out was the baseball cap with the association’s logo on it. When later that day he went out to run a few errands he put it on, because it was the closest to his hand as he was leaving the house. He came back late and after getting out of his clothes he went back to bed. He forgot to take the cap off.
Caleb slowly woke up. He stood up and stretched his arms. He felt a weird ache throughout his whole body, and he didn’t know why— damn, that sesh at the gym yesterday was rough. But that ache was the sign that it was working. He turned his head and watched his arm as he flexed his biceps.
He came up to his closet for something to wear. But he only saw a few faggy shirts and some tight pants. What the fuck, he thought. But then his mind was instantly covered by a weird fog and he walked into the living room and picked up a big box standing on the floor. He opened it and took out a black compression shirt and a pair of gym shorts. He quickly put them on and immediately felt better, his muscles filling up the clothes perfectly.
Right after, Caleb looked up to see a pride flag hanging from one of the walls and a feeling of disgust filled his fog-covered head. He jumped up to the wall and grabbed the piece of fabric, then threw it on the ground. Then he came back to the box and took out a ‘thin blue line’ flag. That fit him way better and he quickly put it on the wall.
He heard his phone ring. He took his phone and answered.
“Yeah?”
“Good morning, this is Cathy form the Pinewood East Neighborhood Association. Is this Cale?”
“Ugh” Caleb grunted. Stupid woman. “It’s Caleb.”
“Oh, of course, my apologies” Cathy answered, but she didn’t sound like she was really sorry. “I’m calling to ask a few questions before we accept you as a full member”
“Sure, whatever” Caleb’s interest in the phone call was dwindling fast and he started flexing once again, watching his biceps go up and down.
“What’s your profession?” Caleb’s mind, completely covered by fog, didn’t know what to say.
“Ughhhh, soft…ware… was it… wait a minute—”
“Is it security guard, Caleb?”
“What?” He did not expect the woman to be such a psychic. “Yeah, yeah, security guard, duh.”
“Great, thank you Caleb, and one more question. There’s a group that wants to organize a Pride event in out beautiful city. How would you respond to such a proposal?”
“Hell no, we don’t want no queer near our place, isn’t that right? Bunch of degenerates” Caleb barked at the phone.
“I understand Caleb, and we agree, you’re absolutely right” The woman on the other side sounded almost… proud? “I won’t hold you any further, you have a job to go to. I’m glad you are fulfilling your role within our community. See you soon.” And then Cathy ended the call. Caleb shrugged, he wasn’t sure what was the deal with all this neighborhood shit, but why should he care? He was here for the low rent and the job that allowed him to spend half the day at the gym.
As he walked from the living room to the kitchen Caleb stopped in front of the mirror and started flexing. Damn, these guns of his looked impressive. And fuck, his chest was like a damn pillow, so sick. He watched his pecs flex in the mirror, moving under his compression shirt. These muscles were ready to smash degenerates and grab any pussy he wanted. When he was ready to leave the house, driven by instinct he went back to the box and picked up a pair of sunglasses he then immediately put on. Yeah, now he was ready to go to work and fulfill the role he was assigned in Pinewood. And brah, it felt fuckin’ great.
Army Surplus
Why Jake walked into the Army Surplus store, he didn’t know why exactly he did that. It was probably boredom. He’d been roaming the streets of downtown for a while, not having anything to do before his date that evening, so on a whim he decided to go inside. The store was located in a basement of one of these old, 19th century row houses and the entire space was filled with clothes, used gear and tons of little things left behind by the military.
As Jake walked around stacks of boxes he noticed the guy sitting behind the counter. He was an older man wearing a camo jacket and aviator sunglasses, and his haircut screamed Army. Maybe he was a veteran and ran the place as a way to connect with his past.
He didn’t find anything really worth buying, after all Jake was not into anything military related, but he would feel guilty walking out empty handed, so he ended up with a cheap pair of sunglasses and a chain with a pair of random dog tags attached. He walked up to the counter and handed the items to the older man, who looked at him and a slight grin appeared on his previously very stoic face.
“Haven’t seen you around here.” He extended his hand towards Jake. “I’m Lieutenant George Foster.”
“Oh, uhm” Jake clumsily shared the man’s hand, not expecting an interaction to occur between the two of them. “And uhh… I’m Jake… sir. I was just walking along the street when I uhhh… when I noticed this… place.”
“I see, I see” The veteran nodded as he added up the price of the items Jake picked up. “I hope I’ll see you around more often, son.”
“Well, uhhhhh, maybe, I’m… I’m not really into…” Jake didn’t know hat to say so he vaguely moved his hands around. The older man chuckled.
“Of course, son” He handed Jake the dog tags and the sunglasses back. “That’ll be 12.55.” Jake quickly paid for the items with his phone and put them in his pocket.
“Thanks” He nodded to the other man and left the store, even as he heard the veteran say something in his direction. That entire space didn’t feel quite right and the way the older man behaved didn’t help that feeling.
But as he walked out of the store and into the street a thought appeared in Jake’s mind. He had to put the dog tags on. Just to see how they looked on him. He was a never the type of guy to wear necklaces, jewelry or stuff like that, but he felt an urge to see the two pieces of metal dangling over his chest. He took them out of his pocket and put them on, then quickly shot a selfie of himself to see how they looked. And they looked fine. Just a thin steel ball chain around his neck and the dog tags resting on his rather flat pecs. Jake shrugged and started walking again, still having a lot of time to spare before his date.
He didn’t realize that the moment he put the chain around his neck, his body started changing. Slowly at first, a bit more hair appearing under his armpits and on his chest and legs, his neck getting thicker and his cock gaining girth and length. But after that, the big changes began. His pecs shot outwards, turning into meaty pillows. His shoulders widened, his arms exploded with muscles, his biceps now the size of footballs. His stomach expanded, now thicker and with abs clearly visible. His legs grew longer as well, and the muscles on them ballooned and hardened.
When the physical changes were complete Jake, still oblivious to any of them, stopped walking. Another thought appeared in his mind. A similar urge as last time, but now it was about the sunglasses. He needed to put them on. He reached into his pocket and took out a pair of basic military-style sunglasses and put them on his head. Right after that, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his skull, as if a needle had been forced into his brain. He leaned against a nearby tree and waited for the pain to go away.
When the pain did go away Sergeant… wait, what was his name? He looked around and realized he did not know where he was. That was concerning. But he knew he couldn’t panic. He was a soldier, he would deal with this. First thing. For some reason he couldn’t remember his name. That was concerning, but he decided to deal with this later. Now onto the second, more important thing - where was he. He looked around for a few minutes, but nothing came up in his mind. He was lost. Then he realized what he had to do. He had to find his commanding officer, who would know how to deal with Sergeant’s issues. Yes, that was the solution.
As if on autopilot, the soldier turned around and quickly walked along the street, led by something akin to muscle memory. After a shot walk he went into a store located in a basement of one of the row houses and walked up to the counter.
“Sir, Sergeant reports on duty.” He barked as he saluted the older man standing on the other side of the counter.
“At ease, soldier.” Lieutenant had a grin on his face, he was clearly glad that Sergeant found him. “I applaud You for coming here so fast, Sergeant Fox” Oh right, Fox, that was his name. “I need men like you in my team.”
“Sir, yes Sir!” Fox responded instantly.
“I’m glad you’ve decided to become a member of my squad, serving obediently under my command.” The older man walked around the counter and came up to one of the boxes standing on the floor. From there he picked up a combat shirt with the US flag on one shoulder and a patch with the words “Army Property” on the other. He tossed it to Fox. “Put this on, son. From this point you officially become an American Soldier under my command. And the property of the US Army.”
Fox felt an instant urge to obey the order coming from the Lieutenant, so he quickly ripped the thigh t-shirt he was wearing previously and put on the uniform form his commanding officer. After a few minutes he was also wearing dark green tactical pants and heavy military boots. He was in full uniform.
“Now tell me Sergeant, are you ready to serve this country? Serve me?”
“Sir, yes Sir” Fox saluted once again, feeling the weight of the Lieutenant’s questions. “I will fulfill my purpose as a soldier! I will obey your every word, Sir!” That earned him a smile form the older man, who walked up to him and patted him on the shoulder.
“I’m glad to hear that son.” He then turned around and was about to go back behind the counter when he thought of something. “And one more thing, soldier. Are you gay by any chance?” Fox didn’t flinch at the question, just looked straight ahead and nodded.
“Yes Sir, I experience homosexual tendencies.”
“Do you act on them?”
“Yes, Sir.” Fox barked in response, his face completely neutral. The older man was clearly displeased by the answer and he walked to the other side of the store, looking for something, with a scowl on his face.
He came back a minute later with a camo baseball cap with the words “Property of US Army” on it.
“Put it on.” He ordered, and Fox obeyed instantly. He put the cap on his head and instantly felt a little dizzy. His brain was bombarded with images of hunky military men dominating women, relentlessly fucking their tight pussies. His balls expanded slightly and his cock got hard in a flash. His ass changed slightly, becoming smaller but more muscular, and his hole closed in tight - from now on it would not allow anything to enter.
“Soldier, are you gay?” Lieutenant asked after a few moments. Fox growled in response, looking at his superior officer with anger and disgust on his face.
“No sir, I’m not one of these degenerates.” He responded quickly.
“Good, I need real men in my army.” The other man said, pleased with the response he got. “How let’s get to work, soldier. We have a country to make right.”
Through the Looking Glass---bro
Atticus Conway, a 32-year-old art maven with a hipster edge, strolled into the contemporary art gallery, his attire a blend of vintage band t-shirt layered under a worn denim jacket, paired with well-worn Converse sneakers. His boss beckoned from the entrance, amidst the eclectic crowd that mingled beneath the soft glow emanating from the center of the room.
The gallery exuded a fusion of minimalism and sophistication, its white walls serving as a stark backdrop for abstract masterpieces. At its heart stood The Matrix—a sprawling lattice of translucent panels forming a walkable installation, pulsating softly with an ever-shifting spectrum of colors. Attendees, ranging from avant-garde eccentrics to sleek sophisticates, engaged in muted conversations and occasionally clinked glasses as they explored the transformative potential of the Matrix.
Atticus was drawn closer by the installation’s allure, its promise of blurring the boundaries between technology and personal expression. Some visitors had already ventured into The Matrix, their movements triggering dynamic responses from its structure. He observed cautiously, appreciating the installation’s energy and its impact on the gallery-goers.
Designed to accentuate the avant-garde spirit of the exhibition, the gallery itself was a work of art—clean lines and an expansive layout creating an experimental playground. As Atticus navigated through the crowd, the symphony of soft whispers, the hum of the Matrix, and occasional gasps of awe formed a backdrop to the artistic exploration unfolding around him.
The Matrix had been completed only moments before the opening—a testament to the eccentricity of its creator, an old man whose exacting instructions had been followed to the letter. Its otherworldly presence glittered and shimmered, a tunnel stretching infinitely through the gallery space, hinting at vague shapes and possibilities beyond its translucent panels.
Stepping forward with a glass of prosecco in hand, Atticus was the first to enter the walkway. The mirrors inside rippled and shimmered, reflecting his hipster persona back at him a thousand times over. Initially awestruck by the spectacle, he soon felt a peculiar sensation—a lingering feeling that the mirrors were watching him, even when he turned away.
Out of the corner of his eye, Atticus noticed something unsettling—his own reflection seemed to wear a twisted smirk, staring back at him with a gaze that felt intrusive. He dismissed it at first, attributing it to the immersive nature of the installation.
A few steps ahead, he encountered a large panel—a full-length mirror. As he approached, his reflection wiggled and vibrated unnervingly. Peering at himself, Atticus was taken aback by the expression on his own face—it seemed contorted into one of disgust, a stark contrast to his genuine admiration for the art surrounding him.
Attempting to look away, he was startled to hear a voice emanating from the mirror, mocking him with crossed arms and a sarcastic tone. "Don't look away… Look at yourself… God, you're boring…"
Turning around abruptly, Atticus faced his reflection, bewildered by the unexpected interaction. His mirrored counterpart rolled its eyes mockingly, a gesture that cut through the enchantment of the moment. "God, we've got our work cut out for us…"
Atticus Conway, caught in the bewildering depths of The Matrix installation, stared in horror as his reflection twisted into a sinister smile, its eyes seemingly glowing with an unnatural intensity. The once-familiar face now bore an unsettling expression that mocked him with a knowing smirk.
"So, pathetic Atticus," the reflection taunted in a voice that echoed eerily within the mirrored chamber. "But that's why I'm here—here to help. I can see into your very soul. Your desires. Your wants. Your fears. And most importantly, your rage. That fire burning in you."
"What the hell kind of trick is this?" Atticus shouted, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. He attempted to turn away, to escape the unnerving spectacle unfolding before him, but everywhere he looked, he was met with more mirrors, each reflecting his own image back at him, each bearing a different facet of his personality.
"Oh, there's no escaping now, baby boy," the reflection sneered, its tone dripping with malice. "I'm here to bring out the worst of you, but by the time I'm done with you, you—hah—you certainly won't think so."
Atticus' heart raced as he witnessed the reflections morphing before his eyes. They twisted and contorted, each portraying a different version of himself—a twink with styled hair and fashionable attire; a jock with a confident grin; a nerdy version with glasses and a book in hand; an overweight ex-jock struggling with his identity; a tougher looking black Atticus, a middle eastern Atticus with thick muscles; a desperate straight man clutching at his phone; a closeted young man hiding behind a facade; a frat bro with a swaggering attitude; an arrogant jerk with a sneer.
Each reflection seemed to delve into a fragment of his psyche, exposing vulnerabilities and hidden aspects of his persona that he had never acknowledged.
As Atticus Conway stood amidst the labyrinth of mirrors, the reflections before him began to laugh—a haunting, ominous sound that reverberated through the chamber. The mirrors around them pulsated in response, the soft glow intensifying into a crescendo of brilliant light.
Atticus instinctively raised his arms to shield himself as the mirrors burst with a deafening crash, shards of glass spraying in all directions. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, feeling the sting of glass against his skin despite his efforts to protect himself.
When he cautiously opened his eyes again, he found himself standing outside the art installation, amidst a stunned crowd of onlookers. They stared at him with a mixture of concern and curiosity, murmuring amongst themselves about what had just transpired.
Blinking to clear his disorientation, Atticus noticed a small cut on his cheek from a stray piece of glass. He reached up to touch the blood, intending to brush it away, when a strange sensation coursed through his body—a surge of energy that seemed to pulse through every fiber of his being.
He let out a frustrated groan, feeling his blood pumping vigorously through his veins. His muscles began to tingle and swell, starting from his core. A heat spread through his stomach as his abdomen tightened and sculpted into a tight, defined six-pack, the muscles rippling beneath his skin.
Atticus gasped as he felt his pecs pulsate with newfound energy, growing and expanding, stretching his shirt taut over his broadening chest. His shoulders widened, his biceps and triceps bulging with strength. His lats flared out, emphasizing his athletic build.
His legs followed suit, his thighs thickening with muscle, his calves firming beneath his jeans. Even his feet seemed to grow slightly, yet miraculously, his clothes adapted seamlessly to accommodate the transformation.
Atticus couldn't help but flex involuntarily, testing the newfound power surging through his body. The sensation was both exhilarating and unnerving, a physical transformation that defied explanation.
As he stood amidst the bewildered crowd, Atticus felt a surge of confidence and vitality unlike anything he had experienced before. With a deep breath, he straightened his posture, his expression a mix of wonder and determination.
A sudden craving gripped him—a primal urge for booze. With a swagger that was uncharacteristic of the laid-back art maven, he pushed his way through to the bar, demanding rudely for a shot of tequila from the startled bartender.
"Give me a shot. Now!" Atticus barked, his voice laced with an entitled tone that seemed to emerge from nowhere.
The bartender hesitated for a moment, taken aback by Atticus' abrupt demeanor, but reluctantly poured him a shot. Atticus downed it swiftly, the fiery liquid burning down his throat and igniting a rush of adrenaline. He slammed the glass back on the counter and demanded another, then another, each shot fueling his sense of entitlement and privilege.
As the liquor coursed through his veins, his features seemed to shift—his jaw becoming more pronounced, his face taking on a chiseled and manly appearance. A widening nose and a scruffy beard began to form on his once-boyish face, while a deep tan spread across his exposed skin.
His demeanor turned cocky, exuding an aura of arrogance that was worlds away from his usual approachable nature. With a burp that echoed through the bar after his final shot, Atticus leaned back, his eyes gleaming with a newfound sense of bravado.
The once-artistic Atticus now seemed like a caricature of bro culture, his clothes appearing garish and mismatched as if chosen to attract attention. His actions drew stares from other patrons, some amused and others bewildered by the sudden change in him.
Atticus leaned heavily on the bar, scanning the room with a self-assured grin. "Hey, bartender," he slurred, his voice tinged with bravado. "You ever seen gains like these?" He flexed his newly muscular arms, oblivious to the bemused looks around him.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, unsure how to respond to this altered version of Atticus. "Uh, sure, man," he replied cautiously. "You hit the gym hard?"
Atticus launched into an intense monologue about his workout routine, detailing his protein intake and the hours spent sculpting his physique. His gestures became exaggerated, his voice booming with enthusiasm as he regaled the bartender with tales of his gym achievements.
But suddenly, a sharp pain pierced his temples. Atticus winced, clutching his head as if trying to ward off the throbbing ache. In that moment, he felt something slipping away—a passion for art, a knowledge of Picasso and Van Gogh fading like a distant tide.
"So, like, uh, this art is like pretty cool right? Like uh, I like uh---" Atticus muttered, his voice slurring. He tried to explain a painting from the gallery, but his words came out muddled and confused. "It's like, colors and stuff, man. You know?"
The bartender couldn't help but chuckle softly. "Yeah, I think I get what you mean."
Slowly, Atticus straightened up, he rubbed his temples, the remnants of his headache lingering. The bartender looked up from wiping the counter and smiled, his gaze lingering on Atticus for a moment before he spoke. "So, you enjoying your night?" His voice was warm and friendly, almost like he was genuinely interested in Atticus' response.
Atticus couldn't help but feel a sense of unease at the question. It wasn't that he wasn't enjoying himself - far from it actually. But something about the way the bartender asked made him uncomfortable. Like there was an underlying tone to his words that made Atticus feel like they were flirting or something worse…
Without thinking, anger filled Atticus as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. He straightened up again and narrowed his eyes at the bartender in response to what felt like unwanted attention. "You fucking hitting on me bro? That's fucking gross dude! I'm not a fucking homo!" He slammed down his drink glass hard enough to make ice cubes rattle against each other loudly while glaring daggers at the man behind the bar who looked taken aback by this sudden outburst of rage from someone who moments ago seemed perfectly content with their company."Faggot!" He spat out before storming off into oblivion where even memories no longer exist.
With the booze and anger flowing through him, Atticus' smile turned into a cocky sneer. He strutted through the art gallery like he owned the place, his eyes scanning for any woman who caught his attention. And when he found one, there was no holding back - he grabbed her ass without hesitation or remorse.
As he passed through the gallery, Atticus continued to shamelessly flirt with every woman in sight. It didn't matter if they were interested or not; all that mattered was satisfying his own twisted desires at this point. But then something happened that threw him off balance: a random chick stopped him to ask about an art piece she didn't understand.
Atticus found the nerdy art chick, Emily, extremely attractive. Her glasses only added to her charm and he couldn't help but feel drawn to her intelligence as well. "Hey there, cutie. What's your name?"
"I'm Emily. And you are?" she says blushing.
Atticus just starts flexing and mumbles, "Oh, just a guy trying to get his dick wet. So, what do you think of this painting here? It looks like some abstract shit to me"
"That's not abstract art; it's actually an interpretation of the artist's feelings about the current state of politics in their country. The colors represent different emotions they experienced while creating it, and the shapes symbolize various issues they faced during that time period… haha...Sorry, but I can tell you don't know much about modern art techniques or concepts used by contemporary artists these days…"
"Fuck off you woke bitch! You think you know everything just because you wear glasses and read books all day long?! Go back to your little nerd cave before I punch those fucking glasses off your face!" Atticus shouts as he storms off to another bar, with a hot busty blonde waitress, leaving behind a trail of confusion mixed with humiliation within himself as well as those around them who witnessed this exchange between two people who couldn't be more different from each other socially speaking.
Atticus made his way to the next bar, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. As he approached, he noticed a ditzy blonde bartender with tight shirt barely containing her busty chest. She was giggling vapidly to herself as she wiped down the counter, completely oblivious to Atticus' presence.
Without hesitation, Atticus began flirting with her shamelessly. He leaned in close enough for their bodies to touch and started leering at her boobs which were on full display through her tight top. His voice grew deeper and developed an accent - it was clear that this man had lived a life far from luxury or education; one filled with hardship and struggle where language wasn't always properly taught or understood but rather learned through experience alone… And it showed in how he spoke now - thick brogue rolling off his tongue like honey dripping from a spoon onto freshly-baked cookies hot out of the oven… Delicious yet dangerous all at once…
"Hey there," Atticus drawled as he placed his order for another drink, "I ain't got no clue 'bout them art pieces ya got hangin' around here but I do know what makes me feel good…" He flexed slightly before continuing on about how dumb those 'art crap' are compared to what really matters in life: getting laid and having fun while doing so without any cares or worries holding you back because let's face it – we only live once so why waste time thinking too much when we could be enjoying ourselves instead?
The bartender, Amber, smiled brightly at him before introducing herself. "I'm Amber," she said sweetly as she leaned closer to him, her cleavage on full display through the tight fabric of her shirt. "And what's your name big guy?"
Atticus paused for a moment, his mind blank as he tried to remember his own damn name. Finally, after a few seconds had passed by without any answer forthcoming from him, he managed to muster up something that sounded vaguely familiar: "Uhhh… Jackson… yeah. Jackson Armstrong."
As they talked more about trivial matters, Atticus couldn't help but think back on his past - growing up in the south where church was mandatory every Sunday; attending college parties every weekend until dawn broke; being a 21-year old frat bro who would probably drop out soon as he now thought college was for losers. It all seemed so distant now compared to this new persona emerging within him – one filled with conservative ideals and passion for tradition above all else… His liberal ideals slipped into oblivion as easily as water down a drainpipe while Jackson took over completely.
"So Amber," Jackson drawled as he leaned in closer to her, his voice dripping with vapid entitlement, "you know what I think would make this night even better?" She shook her head no before he continued on with his plan: "I think we should go back to my place and continue our conversation there… Without all these distractions." He winked at her playfully while giving her ass a subtle squeeze.
As memories of pranking his bros in the frathouse flooded back into Jackson's mind alongside images of blackout drunkenness each night after partying hardcore, one thing became clear - southern pride was something that ran deep within him; it defined who he was at his core regardless if others liked it or not… And right now? Well let's just say Amber looked pretty damn happy about it all too.
As Jackson continued to flirt with Amber, his muscles flexed beneath the tight fabric of his shirt. He couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally finding someone who shared similar beliefs as him – someone who understood the importance of faith and tradition above all else… Someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind even if it meant offending others in the process.
"I can't stand this woke bullshit," Jackson said passionately as he leaned closer to her, "It's like everyone wants to be a victim these days instead of standing up for what they believe in." Amber nodded her head in agreement before adding her own thoughts on the matter: "Exactly! It's about time people started speaking out against all this political correctness nonsense."
"You know what else pisses me off?" Jackson asked rhetorically while flexing again just for good measure, "All these damn snowflakes crying about how hard life is because they weren't born white or straight or rich or whatever else it is that bothers them nowadays…" He shook his head disapprovingly at society as a whole before continuing on with his rant: "But you know what? I wouldn't change a thing about being a white, straight republican man!"
The rest of the night was a blur for Jackson. One moment they were in the bar flirting and flexing, and then suddenly they found themselves back at his smelly frathouse… It didn't matter though because all that mattered now was fucking Amber senseless while belittling her every step of the way – being as crude and rude as possible just to get off on it all…
"You like that you stupid bitch?" He asked her between gritted teeth before slapping her ass hard enough to leave a red mark. She moaned out loud in response, begging him for more which only served to fuel his desire even further…
As he took in the football and wrestling trophies lining the walls alongside other mementos from his past glory days, Jackson grabbed a half-drunk beer from the side table before turning back towards Amber who lay naked on his bed with cum dripping down her leg. "You know what else would be fun?" He asked rhetorically while chugging down another swig of beer, "Telling everyone at school how much of a slut you are…" His voice trailed off into laughter which only served to further embarrass Amber even more than she already had been during their encounter together.
Jackson was the biggest asshole on campus – feared by nerds, lusted after by every chick, and loved by his frat bros. He was an awful conservative douchebag who always grunted in the gym while flexing his muscles; he truly believed himself to be God's gift to women… And it showed in how he treated them – with disdain and entitlement instead of respect or compassion.
As word spread about his encounter with Amber (which he made sure happened as soon as possible), Jackson couldn't help but feel proud of himself for finally being able to humiliate someone else publicly just like they had done to him countless times throughout high school… It wasn't long before every girl on campus wanted a piece of him – whether it be for sex or simply attention from such an infamous figure at their university… And every guy? Well let's just say they all wanted to be friends with Jackson so that they could ride his coattails into popularity themselves without having any real skill or talent beyond being part of "the group".
My phone seems to be acting strange all day, and now, I found this weird file euroalphamuscle.mp3 while looking around. Got any idea what's going on here?
You pick up your phone and your eyes immediately gravitate towards the file labeled "euroalphamuscle.mp3." A thrill of excitement shoots through you as you press play. The moment you do, your screen comes alive with an array of images featuring impossibly attractive European men. They are all striking: sculpted physiques, effortlessly stylish clothes, and magnetic smiles that seem to radiate confidence. You see them lounging on sunlit Italian terraces, driving sleek sports cars through narrow, winding streets, and exuding a kind of charisma that seems almost unreal.
As you watch, your apps undergo a stunning transformation. Instagram adopts a chic Italian flair, with posts now featuring high-fashion outfits, picturesque views of Tuscan landscapes, and, of course, even more striking men in sophisticated settings. Twitter’s layout changes too, embracing an elegant, minimalist design with a touch of Italian flair—soft, refined fonts and beautiful images of Italian landmarks and style.
Almost instantly, your phone starts buzzing with a flurry of messages. They’re in Italian, and while you don’t understand every word, it’s clear they’re about some incredibly attractive guy who’s apparently way more appealing than you. The messages come from various women, all eagerly discussing this person with a level of admiration that is both flattering and bewildering. You’re usually into guys, but the attention—and the energy of these messages—stirs something unexpected within you.
As for your thoughts, they've shifted dramatically. Your gay identity seems distant now, replaced by an overwhelming desire for hot chicks with big boobs. The thought of having multiple women fighting over you is intoxicating, and it only fuels your newfound lust for power and control. It feels like you're on top of the world - unstoppable and irresistible to everyone around you.
As the messages continue to flood your phone, you find yourself lost in a haze of arousal and entitlement. The idea of having multiple women at your disposal is making you feel drunk with power, and it's impossible not to bask in the attention. Your mind begins to muddle as you think less clearly about everything but sex and power.
You feel a sense of ownership over these women who are fighting for your affection - they exist solely for your pleasure, after all. You begin to see yourself as invincible, unstoppable - someone who can have anything he wants simply by exerting his masculine charm. Your dick throbs harder than ever before as you imagine what it would be like to dominate each woman individually or all at once.
As you process this new persona, the beat of your music sets the tone perfectly. “Ciao Adios” by Anne-Marie pulses through your headphones. The upbeat tempo and catchy rhythm make you feel like you’re dancing through a vibrant Italian street party, perfectly syncing with your newfound European allure and making every moment feel exhilarating and alive. As the melody washes over you, it fuels your growing sense of entitlement even further; now nothing can stop you from having whatever (or whomever) you want.
As you look down at your body, it’s a stark contrast to the Euro ideal that now seems to be taking over your mind. What you see is a plain, unremarkable frame—soft and untoned, dressed in mundane, everyday clothes that barely hint at any form of personal style. You’re just a typical American nerd, the kind who blends into the background of a coffee shop or a library. The plainness of your reflection feels almost self-deprecating, a reminder of a life lived in the shadows of more glamorous fantasies.
But as the vibrant beats of "La Vie en Rose" remix pulse through your earbuds, a tingling sensation begins to ripple across your skin. You watch, almost in disbelief, as your body undergoes a dramatic transformation. The changes are slow at first, then accelerate as if spurred by the infectious rhythm of the music.
Your features begin to sharpen. Your face morphs into a chiseled masterpiece—angular, pronounced, with a jawline so defined it seems almost sculptural. Your chin juts out with a newfound assertiveness, and your cheekbones become stark, catching light in a way that makes you look like a glossy magazine cover star. The skin that once felt ordinary now takes on a refined, almost luminescent quality, accentuating the newly etched lines of your visage.
Your hair undergoes a transformation that’s just as striking. It morphs into a glossy, meticulously styled mane, either slicked back with a precision that suggests endless grooming or styled in dramatic spikes that would fit right in at a music video shoot. The color shifts through to a deep, sultry blacks.
The physical changes continue as your body becomes lean and impossibly toned. Abs and biceps emerge with a definition that speaks of countless hours spent in the gym. Your shoulders broaden, and your chest becomes sculpted into a perfect V-shape, emphasizing the dramatic flair of your new physique. Veins trace the contours of your arms, which are now a testament to muscular dedication. Your legs, while strong, are overshadowed by the upper body’s grandeur.
You’re now clad in tight, flashy outfits that scream confidence and extravagance. The snug-fitting shirt hugs your sculpted torso, adorned with eye-catching patterns or bold colors. Fabrics are slick and synthetic—polyester or Lycra—that make you shine both literally and figuratively. Your jeans or trousers are slim-fit, perhaps distressed or featuring edgy details like zippers or studs that highlight every movement.
The footwear is just as attention-grabbing: designer sneakers or flashy dress shoes with prominent logos or unique designs. Accessories complete the look—a parade of gold chains that jingle with every swagger, oversized watches that gleam in the light, and a collection of rings that sparkle with each gesture. Even your sunglasses have transformed into statement pieces, worn indoors with an air of effortless cool.
Your Instagram and Twitter feeds explode with activity. Text messages from various women begin to flood in, each one filled with passionate enthusiasm for a man who now resembles your transformed self. They’re written in Italian, but the tone is unmistakable: admiration, desire, and a hint of obsession. Comments on your Instagram photos add fuel to the fire, with phrases like “Absolutely stunning!” “Mon dieu, you’re perfection!” and “Is this a dream?” filling the threads.
As these messages and comments accumulate, the sense of validation is intoxicating. You’re no longer the plain, everyday person you were. Instead, you’ve become the epitome of Eurotrash Italian allure, a dazzling figure who commands attention and adoration.
As your phone continues to buzz and vibrate, the messages pouring in are relentless. Each notification that pops up on your screen feels like a shot of pure adrenaline, fueling your transformation into the quintessential Eurotrash alpha male. You start scrolling through these messages, and each one is an electrifying affirmation of the persona you’re becoming.
On Instagram and Twitter, your posts and tweets reflect your newfound confidence and extravagant lifestyle. You craft tweets with an air of nonchalant superiority, boasting about your latest designer acquisitions and the exclusive events you’re attending. Your messages are a masterclass in self-indulgent charm: “Just picked up the latest limited edition from Prada—limited edition, of course. Only the best for me. 😉” or “Another night, another exclusive club. Where else but Paris can you find such opulence? #LivingTheDream.”
The text messages you’re receiving are equally flattering. They come from sleazy women who are dazzled by your new look and lifestyle. They’re filled with phrases like “I saw your photos—unbelievable! Are you really as stunning as you seem?” and “Papi, I need to have the muscles showing me what to do” The attention is overwhelming and addictive. With each message, your confidence swells, and your responses become more brash and flamboyant. You start sending texts like, “Just got back from a VIP section at the trendiest club in Milan. The night was electric. Ever been to a place like that?” and “I’m at the top of the world, darling. Life’s a party and I’m the guest of honor.”
As the messages and responses continue to flow, your personality starts to shift. You find yourself embodying the very essence of Eurotrash alpha male charm. You exude a glossy veneer of supreme confidence and unrepentant arrogance. Your smirk is almost permanent, suggesting that you’re not just the center of your universe, but everyone else’s as well. Conversations with friends and followers become a display of name-dropping and boasting. You recount tales of jet-setting escapades and wild nights with a charisma that feels almost second nature.
The soundtrack to this transformation is a pulsating loop of Eurodance hits and club anthems. Tracks by David Guetta, Calvin Harris, and Avicii fill your ears, their beats driving your high-energy, flamboyant lifestyle. The bass drops become metaphors for your life—each beat a reminder that every moment is an opportunity for grand gestures and even grander statements. “Titanium” by David Guetta blares in your headphones, its thumping rhythm perfectly mirroring your new, frenetic pace of life.
Your party scene becomes a playground of excess. The clubs you frequent are the epitome of opulence—neon-lit sanctuaries where the velvet ropes and designer-clad patrons are all part of the spectacle. You revel in the fanfare that accompanies your entrances, commanding attention with your extravagant style and magnetic presence. Every night out is meticulously curated to maintain your image as the undisputed king of the Eurotrash scene.
When it comes to workouts, your routines are high-octane and showy, designed to showcase your physique rather than actually push your limits. In the gym, under the glow of neon lights, you lift heavy weights with exaggerated grunts, flaunting your muscles with every rep. Your personal trainer is as high-profile as your personal stylist, ensuring that your body remains Instagram-ready at all times.
In your downtime, you indulge in high-stakes hobbies like luxury car racing or poker games. Each pursuit is designed to elevate your social status while feeding your need for constant adrenaline. Your life is a curated display of effortless opulence and unshakable self-assuredness. Every aspect is tailored to reinforce the illusion of a high-flying, high-rolling lifestyle. You’ve become the epitome of Eurotrash allure, a figure whose presence is as polished and provocatively over-the-top as the persona you now fully embody.
You receive a text from one of the women, telling you that she wants to fuck your brains out. She sends a picture of herself, and as you look at it, your dick immediately hardens. This is exactly what you've been looking for - someone who's eager to please and submissive enough to fall at your feet.
You realize that this woman lives in America, which gives you an idea. You decide to take her on vacation with you in Italy, where she can experience firsthand the power and allure of being with a hot Italian stallion like yourself. You plan on treating her like shit - making her work out every day so she stays in shape for when it's time for sex (which will be often), ordering food without asking what she wants because "a real man knows what his woman needs," and making sure everyone knows that she belongs solely to Luca: the ultimate Eurotrash playboy who can have anyone he wants simply by flexing his muscles or smirking cockily.
woke up this morning and found my laptop hacked and a new file on the screen that reads americanfratbro.mp3. what does it mean?
It’s late, the kind of night where the only light in your room comes from the harsh glow of your computer screen. You're hunched over your desk, eyes straining to decipher the tangled web of quantum mechanics sprawled before you. The numbers and equations seem to mock you, their complexity a maddening puzzle you can’t quite solve.
Then, without warning, your focus shifts to a file on your screen labeled “americanfratbro.mp3.” Curiosity gets the better of you, and you haphazardly click on it. The instant the file opens, your screen is overtaken by a barrage of images: frothy beers, a frenetic football game, and the American flag waving triumphantly. Words flash by, dancing across the screen: “Bro Time!” “Victory!” “Let’s Go!”
Your frustration boils over. “Damn it!” you hiss, trying to keep your voice down so you don’t wake your roommate. You fumble with the laptop, attempting to close it, but in your panic, you knock over a can of beer that seemingly appeared out of nowhere. “FuuuuuUUUcCCk!” you exclaim, your voice now a deep rumble that echoes through the room. You realize too late that you’ve probably woken your roommate.
As the beer spills, it drips down your clothes, and wherever the beer touches, your skin darkens to a rich tan. You’re momentarily entranced by the sight. The smell of the beer grows stronger, and it’s intoxicatingly sweet. Without a second thought, you grab the can and take a swig.
The cold liquid hits your tongue, and as you drink, your mind starts to unravel. The facts and figures you’ve spent so long trying to master begin to dissolve, slipping away from your consciousness. Friendships, math classes, and even your love for literature—everything is erased in the face of this new sensation. Your head throbs with each heartbeat, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.
Your laptop is still open, and the voice from the screen now blares with a gruff authority: “No mercy, no excuses!” “Show up and dominate!” The words resonate through your foggy mind, pushing you further into a trance. You’re slack-jawed and disoriented, your brain struggling to keep up with the overwhelming shift. Your world narrows down to the pulsating rhythm of the voice and the beer’s lingering flavor, erasing everything that once mattered to you.
As you sit there, reeling from the spilled beer and its bewildering effects, your laptop screen erupts into a sensory overload of indulgence. The screen blares at you with relentless enthusiasm, showcasing phrases like “Bro, it’s all about living life to the fullest!” and “You only live once—so why not go big or go home?” The words are punctuated by relentless reminders to “Flex on ‘em, dude!” and “Crush it, bro! Winners never quit!” The once-muted tones of your academic pursuits are drowned out by this cacophony of superficial triumph.
Images flash before your eyes with a dazzling, almost hypnotic rhythm: a group of impossibly buff men in bright pastel polos, their muscles bulging as they flex in front of a luxury yacht; a gleaming white Tesla parked in a driveway that could rival a country club's manicured perfection; a raucous pool party where designer swim trunks, oversized sunglasses, and bottles of high-end champagne are de rigueur; and a pristine country club, where elegantly dressed individuals sip cocktails with the grace of the effortlessly affluent.
Each phrase and image seems to wrap around you, enveloping you in a new persona. You feel the shift in your mindset as you’re bathed in a wave of entitlement and self-assuredness. You begin to imagine yourself in the latest designer polo shirt, your teeth dazzlingly white and a smirk permanently plastered on your face. The world of academic diligence fades into the background, eclipsed by the blaring confidence and superficiality of a life steeped in privilege.
Thoughts begin to twist and turn in your newly altered mindset. “Why bother with all this intellectual stuff?” you think. “Life’s about having fun and showing off!” A surge of superiority pulses through you, and you imagine yourself as the undeniable center of attention in every room you enter. Conversations that once revolved around ideas and learning now revolve around the latest trends, gym routines, and anecdotes of your superior lifestyle. Your world narrows to a self-important lens where your opinions are the only ones that matter, and everyone else becomes mere background noise.
Empathy and humility are replaced by a sharp, unshakable belief in your own superiority. Your wardrobe now resembles a shrine to preppy excess—khaki shorts that could double as sailboat uniforms, ostentatious polo shirts, and boat shoes polished to perfection. You navigate life with a blend of casual arrogance and an insatiable need for validation. In conversations, you dismiss any differing opinions with a wave of your hand, certain that your views, shaped by fleeting trends and superficial judgments, are the only ones worth considering. The concept of understanding others or stepping outside your own privilege is foreign to you; instead, you revel in adulation and assertiveness, basking in the relentless glow of your self-importance.
As you gaze into the computer screen, the reflection staring back at you is a stark contrast to the image you crave. The figure that meets your eyes is weak, pallid, and painfully ordinary—a far cry from the confident, muscular ideal you once envisioned. The sight of yourself, so far removed from the idealized version, ignites a surge of frustration. In a fit of rage, you crush the beer can against your forehead. The impact sends a jolt through your body, like an electric shock coursing through your veins. The pain is sharp, almost liberating, as if it’s tearing down the last remnants of the persona you never truly embodied.
Slowly, your physique begins to morph, each muscle gradually reshaping itself into a meticulously crafted shrine to vanity and privilege. As you watch, your body transforms into a physical testament to a life lived in the gym, not the real world. Your abs become chiseled to an absurd degree, sculpted through endless crunches and protein shakes. They’re so pronounced they almost seem to sneer at those who haven’t shared your genetic fortune or gym membership. The six-pack, impossibly defined, stands as a monument to superficial dedication rather than genuine commitment.
Your biceps swell with impressive size, though they’re less a sign of true strength and more a product of relentless curls and flexing. The veins bulge beneath your skin, perpetually in a state of flexing, as if they were designed to showcase your hard work rather than any real substance.
Yet, beneath this glossy exterior lies a troubling reality. You smell of stale sweat and cheap cologne, a potent blend that hints at rigorous workouts paired with an equally rigorous disregard for personal hygiene. The scent clings to you like an unwelcome guest, blending with the overpowering aroma of your latest designer fragrance—an ill-advised attempt to mask the musk of neglect.
Your clothes, while always styled to perfection, are a gaudy celebration of preppy excess. Your polo shirts, in blindingly bright colors or adorned with ostentatious logos, cling to your physique like a second skin, revealing every bulging muscle and uneven tan line. Your khaki shorts are tailored just short enough to flaunt your tanned, muscular legs, and they’re paired with boat shoes polished to a high gloss, though they rarely see a boat's deck.
The entire ensemble is designed not just to impress but to scream your superior status. Your wardrobe—Ralph Lauren polos, Vineyard Vines shorts—is as much a statement as it is a testament to preppy fashion standards. Each stitch and seam shouts privilege and entitlement, reflecting a carefully curated image of superiority.
As you glance at your phone, the message from an unknown number lights up the screen: “Sup bro? Party at Delta Nu—they’ve got the hottest chicks.” Your pulse quickens with excitement.
Suddenly, you feel an overwhelming sense of confusion wash over you. You weren't into chicks. You were stricly dickly, men's bodies were---uhhh-hahahaha---BURRRRP--- You can't believe what just happened - did you really just think that? Chicks were fucking hot! It's not like you didn't know it before, but something in your mind had convinced itself otherwise.
With a dumb laugh escaping your lips, the realization hits you hard: You aren't gay. And that makes everything so much simpler and clearer now. But wait… why did you even think that? Why did this weird thought even cross your mind? As these questions swirl around in your head, a sense of dumbness begins to creep up on you - like someone is slowly turning down the lights on all the intelligence stored inside of yours.
Striding across campus, your swagger is undeniable. You move with a sense of purpose, each step radiating confidence and a newfound arrogance. The usual scenery of academic buildings and quiet green spaces gives way to the pulsing beat of fraternity life.
With each step, a series of memories begins to unfurl in your mind, vivid and intoxicating. You recall a particular evening from your past—the memory is sharp and clear: a grand party at the Omega Theta house, a night where the air was thick with arrogance and entitlement. The dimly lit room was drenched in the erratic glow of strobe lights, casting unpredictable shadows on the walls. The relentless barrage of music was a mix of the latest hits and classic party anthems.
You were the center of it all, confidently navigating the crowd with a drink in hand and a smug smile on your face. The crowd parted as you approached, eager to bask in the light of your self-proclaimed superiority. You recall holding court near the keg, regaling your bros with tales of your latest conquests and extravagant purchases. Dressed in an outrageously bright polo shirt, its ostentatious logo a symbol of your high status, the shirt clung to your perfectly sculpted physique, each muscle on display as you gesticulated grandly with your free hand, the other wrapped around a red solo cup filled with cheap beer.
As you approach the Delta Nu house, your demeanor grows more self-assured, and a trace of condescension colors your interactions. You brush past students with a dismissive nod, their pleasantries falling on deaf ears.
The Delta Nu house looms ahead, a beacon of neon lights and boisterous noise. You push through the front door, immediately engulfed in a sea of loud music and the throbbing bass of a party in full swing. The room is packed with people, their voices blending into a cacophony of laughter and chatter. The air is thick with the mingling scents of cheap beer and heavy cologne.
Your gaze sweeps the room, taking in the scene with a mix of superiority and disdain. A group of your bros are huddled near the keg, their conversations punctuated with exaggerated gestures and loud laughs. “Bro, you made it!” one of them shouts, slapping you on the back with a force that nearly knocks you off balance. You respond with a broad smile and a dismissive wave, clearly the center of attention in this crowd.
The party is a parade of excess—red solo cups littered everywhere, music blasting from massive speakers, and people dancing in a manner that suggests they’ve completely let go of any pretense. Your attitude shifts from aloof to downright rude, as you elbow your way through the crowd, cutting in front of people without a second thought.
Your eyes settle on a chick across the room, her presence standing out amidst the chaos. She’s dressed in a sleek, figure-hugging outfit that exudes effortless style. You can’t help but feel a sense of entitlement as you approach her. “Hey, what’s up?” you say, your tone dripping with casual arrogance. “You enjoying the party or what?”
She looks up, slightly taken aback by your brashness, but you’re already too wrapped up in your own self-importance to notice. Your conversation, if it can be called that, is filled with vacuous comments and self-aggrandizing remarks. “Yeah, I know. I’m like, totally the man around here. Just came to have some fun, you know?”
As the night progresses, you continue to revel in the party, your demeanor growing increasingly entitled and superficial. Every interaction, every glance, is laced with a sense of superiority. You’re not just at the party; you’re the life of it, an embodiment of the frat-bro stereotype. The world beyond this raucous, beer-soaked haven seems distant and irrelevant, replaced by a relentless pursuit of immediate gratification and validation. You and your bros are at it again, playing beer pong with reckless abandon. The room is filled with the sound of laughter, cheers, and clinking glasses as you take shot after shot. You're acting like the entitled tool that you are - farting loudly whenever you feel like it, burping without a care in the world, and pulling off all sorts of pranks on unsuspecting victims.
The smell of beer lingers around you like a second skin; it's almost as if someone has doused you in it from head to toe. And even though this morning started out bright and early with a hangover that could rival any heavyweight champion's, here we are again - drunk off our asses and loving every minute of it! Your friends high-five each other when they see how far their little prank went tonight; meanwhile, everyone else at the party just shakes their heads in disbelief at how much fun (or trouble) one group can cause.
Your eyes lock onto her as she walks into the room, and you can't help but let out a low whistle. She's hot - really fucking hot! Her body is on full display in that tight little dress she's wearing, showing off every curve and line to perfection.
You approach her confidently, mansplaining something about beer pong or sports or whatever comes to mind first. She listens politely at first before rolling her eyes at your obnoxiousness. But hey, that just makes you want her more! You grab her ass without hesitation and pull her close for a passionate kiss - one that leaves no doubt about who's in charge here tonight.
You're flirting with her like there's no tomorrow, your drunken confidence reaching new heights. You flex your muscles for her, showing off how strong and manly you are. Then, you pull out your phone and start scrolling through pictures of yourself - posing in front of expensive cars or holding up wads of cash like it's nothing.
"Look at this," you slur as you hand her the phone. "I got money coming outta my ass! And I know how to treat a woman right." She laughs at first but then seems to soften when she sees the genuine desire in your eyes. "I want you so bad," you say without hesitation, grabbing her hand and leading her towards one of the bedrooms.
You push her onto the couch and start fucking her without any pretense of gentleness. She moans your name as you thrust into her, "Sebastian, you big fucking idiot" in between breathless gasps.
Your bros are all watching from outside the door, laughing their asses off at this dumb slut you're banging. Life as a dumbass American frat bro couldn't get any better than this! You tear off what remains of her clothes, eager to feel every inch of skin against yours. She screams out your name again - "Oh Seb!" - as she climaxes around you.
