Petrification - Tumblr Posts

Hey man, loving the stories! Any chance you'll do some inanimate TF soon?

Hmm. I haven’t really tried my hand much at inanimate before, but it’s not outside of the realm of possibility. Was there anything in particular you had in mind?

Actually, you know what? I think I have an idea. It’s the funniest thing. You know those statue performers you see around on the streets, right? Well, it’s a bit embarrassing, but before I actually get into the story, I should probably give you some background.You see, I happen to be a master of transformation. I don’t know how I got this power. I just know that it exists. It sort of lurks inside of me. I’ve tried to access it deliberately, but the farthest it’ll go then is give me inspiration for my stories, allowing me to view transformations as they happen to other people in other worlds, or even in our own, if I have the right kind of luck. How else do you think I manage to get such detail in my work?

Now, the thing is, this power sort of … lunges out of me at times, usually when I’m frightened or startled. If the scare is big enough, the power goes to work, and I can’t stop it, no matter what. The first time it happened was when I was 13. It was one of my last years trick-or-treating, for good reason. You see, at one of the houses, a few adults had dressed up in scary masks to help get in the season and allow us to have a bit of a playful scare. The problem is, one of these individuals decided to get uncomfortably close and continually follow me around the yard as I went to pick up the candy and then make my way to the next home. He said hello, and continued to follow me. When I turned again, he was just an inch or two away from me, possibly less. And he towered over me at the time. My innate fear of the dark was already stoking my fear factor, so it was nearly ready to burst at this point. And, well … the man was the unfortunate person to burst the bubble. His face is horribly disfigured now. It’s covered in ugly red scars that crisscross over his face. His eyes are so large that they’re practically bursting from his sockets. I’d … rather not go into further details. His screams still haunt me. I’m … not proud of what this gift can do to people. It can do good, yes, but more often than not, it causes great harm.This other encounter happened in the middle of a park, where street performers lined up to offer their services. Unfortunately, in this case, I was startled by an exceedingly convincing man covered in a weathered bronze paint. He blended right in with the military memorial as he crouched before a pile of mortars waiting to be loaded into cannon by the other two soldiers. His old military helmet lay cocked back on his head, exposing the carefully gelled and dyed hair combed back in distinctive rivulets to mimic the style of the era and his fellow soldiers. His military fatigues and tight shirt hardly moved, most likely the effect of paint and starch. My friends and I had just stopped to take a picture together, and I was in front of our posing friend. The first few pictures were fun. And then the game was up, when he suddenly moved, clamping his hands on either of our shoulders.I screamed. … And then the power went to work. The man was hasty to apologize as he stepped down from the platform. He hadn’t mean any harm. Of course he hadn’t. It was his job to pretend. Even after the others had calmed down, though, I continued to watch in horror, because I knew what I had done. The others looked on at me in concern, even as I watched the staying hands of the mortar specialist twitch. I saw the loader turn his head to bore his gaze into me, and then into our fake soldier’s back.My whole body went cold. I watched helplessly as the two walked from the memorial’s dais one after the other. Their heavy feet clanked against the cement as they marched in perfect unison, coming to rest behind the performer.“Can I help you, gentlemen?” the performer asked after gathering his wits once again. Naturally, he had reasoned these two were also fellow actors. That assumption was his undoing. I watched helplessly as metallic hands grabbed his arms in a grip harder than iron. Yes, I know the comment is ironic, and no, the pun was not intended. Metal ground on metal as the two soldiers turned their heads to gaze at the man with those same immutable expressions. They pulled him forcefully towards the platform once again.It was when the performer began to struggle that he finally realized the cold, horrible truth of his situation. When he tried kicking one of the men in the shins, all he got for his trouble was a yelp of pain out of his own mouth. I watched as his eyes widened in fear. I watched as my friends struggled fruitlessly to get the statues to let go.The park was alive with screams in a matter of seconds. The performer tried going limp, dragging his feet. Much to everyone’s horror, the gentle sound of scuffing rubber soles soon turned into the heavy grating sound of hard cast metal on stone. He pulled at his legs with obvious effort as he screwed his face in consternation. He could hardy bend a knee. The weight only increased as his legs became more and more stiff.“Oh, god no,” he gasped. “Please, no!” His screams are still vivid in my mind. He sobbed, and tears formed in his eyes. That made it even worse. Instead of falling down his cheeks, the tears took on a dull metallic sheen, and I watched as it covered his irises. He blinked once, twice, and then blinked no more. Instead, a perfectly set pair of metal orbs stared out at the world with a grim, stormy expression. The very air radiated the sounds of fear and hysteria. And all I could do was watch dumbly as His hardened legs clanked up over the lip of the pedestal on which the monument stood. His head was a blur, turning left and right as he beseeched and implored.

Left.

“Please. L-let me go.”

Right.“You want my money? You can have it. I’ll donate to the veterans fund every week!”

Left.

“D-don’t do this!” His head was starting to slow, and I heard the beginnings of the telltale grating.

Right.

“Please.” It was more of a harsh whisper than a proper plea.

A slow turn to the left.

“I … I’m not….”Unblinking eyes met unblinking eyes. The breathing was short now, shallow, more of a hollow rasping as his chest rose, falling less and less each time as shirt and flesh began to blend into one solid surface. His helmet strap had already stopped swaying as he moved.

Again he turned right, and I watched his cheeks and lips twitch with the strain of it as the metal his neck and shoulders had become grated once more.

“I am … I … can’t move … my lips….” He struggled to speak, and I watched as his mouth settled into that grim set line of a soldier intent at his work, never to move again. I remember hearing one final rattling exhalation out his nostrils. And then the breathing stopped.

The two soldiers turned to look at one another and nodded. They released their grips and clanked over to their former positions, lining up with the imprints they had left behind before freezing into position.

One of my friends had enough presence of mind to try to pull the poor man away, now that he had been released, but I already knew it was too late. He pulled at the man, cajoled him.

The performer wouldn’t budge. He turned his head and peered with that same piercing gaze that only a battle hardened soldier could manage, captured so perfectly in his new sculpted features. He grasped my friend by both arms, lifted him in the air, and walked him to the edge of the platform, then dropped him.

With that task accomplished, the performer turned back towards the pair of soldiers, now his compatriots, who stared at him mutely. He marched into position, saluted them, then turned and crouched down in front of the mortar pile, gazing straight ahead. Metal bent and warped, flowing into place, then hardening to the point where one couldn’t tell he hadn’t been a part of the initial casting.

The performer was no more. Now, another soldier gazed out at passersby, a solemn reminder of a war that he would now forever be a part of.

As I said, I’m not proud of my gift. It can help others, yes. But more often than not, it hurts them. It’s best if you leave now, before it lashes out again. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.

…

Why are you looking at me like that? What’s in that bag? What are you…? No. NO!

This image comes from @homme-parfait. Check out his gallery if you like these kinds of pictures. Second image was made using gimp, and credit goes to <a href='https://www.freepik.com/photos/abstract'>Abstract photo created by user14579558 - www.freepik.com</a> for the texture that I used for the effect.

If you enjoy this story, please consider supporting me on Patreon. For as little as $3 a month, you get access to unique muscle tf stories that nobody else sees. And higher tiers give you more rewards. Take a look, if you’re interested.

Rated mature and, for once, I’m going to choose NSFW as a tag to be on the safe side. I will not describe sex, but as part of this story, our protagonist will be shown his options, and so description will at least imply part of the bedroom and certain actions associated with that location. It’s Greek stuff. Of course it’s going to get on the riskier side. There is no graphic sexual content included in this piece, however. I refuse to go into that, as I’ve said before.

Author’s note: I’m mad as heck, because it’s not the same as my initial draft, but my laptop shut down on me without giving me a battery notification, so I lost a lot of what I wrote. I reconstituted it as best I could. It’s still satisfactory, but I’m mad all the same for not saving the draft more regularly. Lesson for the future, I guess. XD Anyway, enjoy. I assure you, it’s a very good read.

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A Heart of Stone

Peter Pearson always had a passion for the classics. The myths of his ancestral homeland, the great sculptures of legendary figures and unknown models alike. Goddesses and gods, men and women, children, heroes. He consumed them all from a young age. But nothing could compare to when he would stand in the museum halls and stare at the many statues and replicas from Greece and Rome. Truly, the Mediterranean had many secrets above and below the depths.

But in every instance above or below, there was always one constant, these gorgeous statues of stone and bronze and iron, of men and women fulfilling grand feats or suckling children. Olympian competitors blended seamlessly with anatomical studies. And all of them fueled and spurred the one desire he ever felt toward them.

He wanted to be just like them. Strong, like the mighty Heracles. Fit, like the ancient wrestlers of the Olympics. Hard, like the very rocks from which these statues had been chiseled with time, effort, and a steady hand.

And he had worked himself to the bone toward that end. He loved these statues. He loved their myths, their focus, their drive. They came from a simpler time, where magic still existed, where gods walked the earth, and men and women could live as they wished by the sweat of their brow.

Every week, he would visit the museum. He would sit for hours and ponder over their forms, their crevices. The smooth perfection of their sculpted bodies, ridged only where the master craftsman had gently probed with his tools to make it so. And every week, he would mimic the pose of those statues. He would smile and imagine for just a moment that he had joined them in that forgotten realm between the wakeful and the slumbering, where the old god Morpheus still crafted his dreams.

For years, he worked. For years, he struggled. For years, he invoked absolute discipline for the sole purpose of building his body into the perfect vessel to equal his heroes, his gods. And for all intents and purposes, that is, indeed, what they were. He worshiped them. He smiled each time he mimicked their posture. And though he didn’t have the same hair style or clothing (or lack thereof), he sought to mimic them in other respects.

Wrestling and weights came easily to him now. And there was a certain thrill to exercising that dominance, of gaining that satisfaction and reward of knowing that he had the strength to stand on his own and take what he wished. He still remembered when he took his trophy and raised it high for the statues to see, as if they were aware, as if they could somehow acknowledge his achievement.

Yes, in place of the Acropolis, this was his temple. And oh, how he longed to be a part of its clergy. Dead or alive, he didn’t care. He wanted to fit into this world, to leave distasteful modern society aside. If the gods formed man from clay and stone, then Peter wanted to return to it again. If they could bring metal and ivory and clay to life as flesh and blood, why not the other way around?

“You really do love this place, don’t you?”

Peter blinked in surprise at the attendant. She wore a shimmering white dress that frilled along the collar and hem. Her brown hair was rich and shone with a golden corona under the lights. Her golden tag glinted and flashed with every breath she took, leaving the letters indecipherable. Two dove hair clips helped to hold her hair back behind her ears while the remainder was bound in the jaws of a squeezing clip with a bronze rose motif.

It took nearly a full minute for Peter to regain his wits. “Excuse me?” he finally asked.

The attendant laughed. “This place. You love coming here. I’ve been watching you for the last six months.”

Peter blushed. “Well, yeah. It’s ... well, I don’t know what it is. I just ... I really like it here, you know? It feels like ... home, I guess.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his head awkwardly to ward off the embarrassment while his chest jutted forward in response.

She nodded. “I like the classics, too. Greece and Rome had such beautiful talent.” She smiled impishly as she looked to one of the nude statues. “And passionate men.”

Peter’s blush deepened. The usual technique wasn’t working. And worse yet, he could feel the familiar tingle of arousal stirring. He shifted his legs and tried to focus on the displays, instead. “Yeah, they inspired me to get into wrestling when I was a kid.”

“I wondered what sport you were involved with.” She laughed again as her hair swayed behind her, filling the air with the smell of the sea, the brine of olives, and the sweet honeyed scent of eucalyptus. “You really do love Greece, don’t you?”

Peter shrugged. “It’s my heritage. How could I not?”

The attendant frowned. “You’d be surprised how many people claim to love something, then forget about it the moment something more convenient comes along.” She sighed. “If you put it into a mythological perspective, that’s basically what happened to Pan. Man stopped caring about the wild. They beat it back, throttled it. What they couldn’t change, they destroyed. What they couldn’t control, they mitigated. Why care about the sanctity of a grove of trees when there are homes to build and mouths to feed?” She sighed. “It must have been a sad death, one spent alone while the wilds were steadily eaten away.”

Peter raised a brow at her. “That’s pretty dark.”

“This coming from the same pantheon that literally cracked a skull open to give birth to a goddess, literally consumed its children, and let's not forget how they chopped up the body parts of another elder deity to give birth to yet another goddess from the frothing sea foam, or throwing a baby off a mountain top because it was deformed.”

Peter winced. “Yeah, that ... was pretty messed up.”

“Greek history always was. Wars, conflicts, intrigue....” She sighed. “And then, in those few rich moments of peace, love. It put out the fires. It set them blazing again.” She brushed one of the statues’ legs. “They knew how to respect love, how to honor it when it spoke. Well, most of the time. Sometimes, love could be cruel. And the gods ... less than charitable.” She shook her head. “But what more can you expect from a legacy of abuse? It can’t have been easy being eaten by their father. Even those who weren’t stained by that act were haughty. And the other gods made sure they learned rather ... harsh lessons as a result.”

“I like to think more of the golden ages. Men earning their way, working for their bread, fighting for fame or honor or glory.” He chuckled. “I guess ... well, I guess I want to be like them.” He motioned to the statues. “Frozen in a time when that peace and love let men grow and shine.” He couldn’t help but smirk. “Imagine me wrestling with Heracles.”

She giggled as he struck a pose. “You wouldn’t last a minute.”

“It’d still be fun to try. To compete, like all these men did.”

“You really do like them, don’t you?”

“No.” He shook his head and flexed his arms all the harder as he turned his head in profile. “I love them.”

The attendant smiled. “Far be it from me to keep you from your lovers, Mister...?”

“Pearson. Peter Pearson.”

The attendant smiled and extended a hand. “Aphrodite.”

“Like the goddess?”

A rich chuckle rolled from her lips. “The very same. Would you say I live up to it?”

Again, the tightness swelled in his crotch. His shirt felt taut. “Defi--” He cleared his throat, then tried again. “Definitely. This time, he sounded a little deeper.”

“And if I asked you to, Peter Pearson, would you be willing to sacrifice that dream, that love, for me?”

Peter’s breath hitched as she ran delicate fingers down his chest. Her eyes swirled like whirlpools, drawing him in. Her face. “I....” Her perfume. “I....” The toss of her head as she pulled the rose clip free. “I....” He groaned as his pants began to creak and those lips drew ever so close.

“Yes or no, Peter Pearson.” Her breath flowed into his dry mouth. Moist. Inviting. “Choose.”

The zipper broke open to reveal the bulge and two lumps that became more and more prominent until the button burst off the waistband of his pants due to his broadening pelvis. His head was awash with lust. He could hardly think. “Uhhhhhhh....”

He fell into those eyes as the world blurred. Strong hard hands seized a proper vantage on padded silken sheets. Lips brushed cheeks as that perfume consumed awareness in favor of passionate union. Grunting and moans on both sides rang in his ears as blood surged with unbridled pleasure. That is, until the higher voice began to deepen. Soft delicate skin swelled into firm unyielding mounds as two sides grappled for dominance. Sweat dripped down both frames as soft sheets and mattress transitioned to a wrestling mat, then to hard-packed earth as dust kicked up between them.

Two voices rang in equal measure, the female and the male, the masculine and the effeminate, the bedroom and the arena. “Choose, Peter Pearson.”

Two visions danced before his eyes. The mindless bliss of pleasure, a veritable ocean that yawned and called playfully as it crashed against the surf. A promise to be adored, to be worshiped, to take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, from whoever he wanted. Women would flock to him. Men would go weak at the knees at the very sight of him, the sensation of his passing as his shadow fell over them. A body so virile, so perfect, that they would pay for his time. Modeling clothes, crushing at the gym. And reveling as he scrambled the others’ concentration in favor of his irresistible charisma, then watching them drain into that familiar want of lust in a vain attempt to satisfy his own appetite.

He would be a walking god, a conqueror, a vessel to strike the mortal heart with desire. A plow to till, an arrow to pierce, drawn and fired to strike whatever target he wanted. A veritable Eros among men spending his days in heady bliss as he spread his blessing throughout the realm.

Another groan. Another spurt of growth below. The better to please and be pleased. The better to obey. The better to sink and slip into the sea of mind-numbing pleasure as he dominated again and again and again.

But ... is it really domination if the one in the bed doesn’t fight back? Would it really be satisfying to simply take from someone who isn’t willing to grapple? Would he even care about himself and his passions anymore, or would this sea of pleasures cast him against the rocks with pounding waves until he was no more, just a slack-jawed beast looking to satisfy his baser urges?

Why choose a neverending hunger when satisfaction can be so much more rewarding? The thrill of conquest. The crowds roaring, cheering at the entertainment that he would provide. Men and women each competing in their own classes, battling, surging, pushing, pinning. And when the fight is over and the victor proclaimed, all are rewarded, all join in that satisfaction of honorable combat, of a battle well-fought. And the victory to be celebrated after with men or women as they saw fit. Bonds forged between competitors deeper than a one-night stand, strong as iron, hard as stone. Glory, and an intimate connection that he would never be able to fathom, should he choose the other path.

The surge, the cliffs, and the seabed awaited below to his left, with the sirens that called for him to join them. The roar of the arena surged on his right, with the great tunnel arching overhead and a light that shone on the other side. His childhood dream made real.

The caress of fingers over Peter’s biceps triggered a muscle spasm that forced them to flex, to rise into titanic mounds that strained against the sleeves of his shirt. His shoes burst open with twin detonations, followed by shredding socks as he gazed sightlessly ahead. He couldn’t see Aphrodite, nor could he feel the strain of his muscle growing with his frame. All he knew were his warring desires seeking to entice him.

He raised a foot. It trembled in the air as the two lives raged in their own manner, calling, crying, demanding. Until he planted his foot firmly and turned.

The dark shadow of the tunnel consumed him, sending a chill over his body as he strode over tightly packed dirt and stone. The surge of the crowd grew louder. And at the end of the passage, a shadowy figure awaited with arms raised in a proud salute. Though he could not see the man’s face, Peter knew to return the gesture, even as the roar of his heartbeat blended with the surge of the arena’s audience. His pant legs grew tighter and tighter, until their seams finally burst open under the force of titanic thighs and swollen calves. His chest heaved larger, heavier, with every breath while his shirt began to draw up his torso and strain against his traps.

“I ... choose....” He blinked slowly as the portal drew closer. His voice sounded different, deeper, grainy, almost clattering, like the tumbling of a rock slide down a gorge.

The brush of lips over his brought him back briefly to stare at Aphrodite. “I know, little lover. I know.” Her smile was sad, but proud as she ran her fingers down his throat and over his torso to trip along every defined abdominal muscle there.

The grating came slowly, as if his vocal cords were having trouble functioning, even as his Adam's apple became more prominent. “What’s ... happening to me?”

“Your wish, little lover.” She smiled. “You came to this gallery every week. And every week, you would pour your hopes, your dreams, your desires, into these sculptures. You brought no burnt offerings or incense, but you carried your devotion, your wishes, your prayers. You returned. You reported. And you offered thanks for your progress with every victory you achieved. If that is not worship, then I don’t know what is. If that is not love, then I would not be here now. This is your temple, and your desires have not gone unheard, nor your offerings unheeded.” She smiled as he dropped his arms and the mounds of his biceps thrust against the expanded lats in his back to prevent from resting properly at his sides. They had not relaxed once, and one could almost hear a faint grinding as they sought that perfect place to rest. “You loved your ancestral homeland. You honored your history, your culture, your people. You longed to join them. And now you will. This, I promise you.”

Another shudder. Another eye-roll of pleasure as the air permeated with her scent. Delicate fingers traced over his shoulders and traps along his neck as the world fell away to return him to the passage as heavier arms and legs were left to lumber forward in his daze, casting up puffs of dirt into the air.

At last, the figure came into view as he neared the end of the tunnel. The curly hair and headband were unmistakable. His toned body was fit and bared for all to see. A smile pulled at his features as he gazed on Peter and welcomed him into the light.

“Welcome, brother,” he greeted.

The arena erupted into uproarious cheers as Peter strode into the sun. Togas, laurels, pins, loin cloths, and other ancient garb as far as the eye could see. A thrill of pleasure erupted from within as his chest thrust forward in pride. His back straightened, and a smile of his own began to creep steadily over his lips. “Brother. I like that....”

“We knew you would.” A hand clapped heavily on Peter’s broad back. There was no pain. He hardly felt a thing. “We’ve been waiting a long time for you to join us in the ring.”

Peter’s smile widened as he looked down on this competitor. He stood at least a head taller than the man. “You mean it?”

“Of course.” His smile broadened into a cocky grin. “Shall we salute for the crowd?”

Peter required no further prompting. His arms jerked and snapped as they hardened into a mighty flex. His chest thrust forward to show off his defined torso. Excitement throbbed as he took in the erupting cheers of the crowd.

“Why don’t you show off properly?” the ghost of Aphrodite’s voice caused him to snap his neck to the right. Another tingle. Another crack, followed by a reverberating snap as the waistband of his underwear finally gave up the ghost with the remnants of his pants. Just like his brother, Peter’s manhood was on full display for the crowd, as was right in their profession, as was proper for the games.

“You look magnificent, brother.”

“I feel magnificent,” came the reply. “I feel like ... I feel like....”

“Like you belong here?”

Peter nodded as they approached the center of the arena. “Exactly. This is just ... it’s perfect, it’s right, it’s....”

He trailed off at the sight of their opponents. Two more combatants strode with broad grins onto the dirt field. Their faces were unfamiliar, but Peter would never forget the sight of those torsos he had studied for so many years. They embraced as men and competitors both as one of them spoke the words that would forever change the man’s life.

“Welcome home, Petra.”

Petra. The root word of his name. His true name. His true nature. Rock hard, a stone that would never break, never yield. Immortal and immovable. The word flooded his being, washing away the thoughts of the city, of the responsibilities and fears of the modern world. A stone cared not for such things. A stone was simple, with simple needs and desires. And now, in this place, and this time, Peter was long gone and forgotten. Petra had only one focus now, one goal; to grapple his competitor into submission. A smile curved his lips as the dust blew into his hair to lighten it from black to a reddish-brown.

“It’s good to be home,” he replied. The two smirked at one another. And then, as the contest began and their frames met to grapple one with another, the faintest brush tingled and faded from his lips. Petra grinned as he began to fight in earnest. He was living his dream. He had found his home. And he couldn’t be happier.

Back in the museum, Aphrodite smiled as the last color drained from Peter’s lips and eyes to merge into the spreading marble. His last breath had sealed his fate, but it was a fate that he chose, and a curious reversal of the gift she had offered Pygmalion so very long ago. The tattered remains of Peter’s pants and undergarments littered the floor. His arms and face were frozen in a pose of joyful masculinity that would endure for ages to come.

“I promise you,” she whispered. “You will never be separated from your brothers.”

As if he had taken some comfort in this assurance, the last ripples and stains of the new marble statue blossomed into existence, a perfect burnished match colored by the age of time as much as the minerals from which his body was now composed.

A mover in a white jumpsuit strode in and shook his head as he wrapped a tag around the new statue’s wrist to dangle on the edge of its vision. EROS had been sewn into the uniform over the man’s left pectoral, and three arrows jutted through the name to flourish at three angles. He sighed as he pulled back from the statue.

“Such a pity. He’d have made a fine arrow.”

Aphrodite shook her head and smiled as her features continued to shift, even as Eros’ did the same to match that perfect ideal for their kinds unique aspects of love. “It was his choice, my son. And you have many more already flying around the world.”

Eros chuckled. “I suppose that’s true. It took them long enough to acknowledge me again.”

Aphrodite cupped his chin and cheek lovingly. “My darling Eros, love always endures, both yours and mine.”

Eros sighed and his stance loosened under that gentle caress.

“Is everything ready?”

He nodded. “Hermes has already taken care of it. The papers are filed and the system hacked and updated.” He chuckled. “These mortals really did blunder when they called their invention the information superhighway. I don’t think he’s had this much fun in over a millennium.”

Aphrodite chuckled. “He certainly has enough charges to look after now. And the curator?”

“I’ve given him a nudge and the proper alert. He’ll be on his way soon.”

“Excellent.” She smiled as she flexed her fingers and looked back on the statue. “I wonder if I should get back into sculpting,” she thought idly. “I haven’t felt that relaxed in centuries.”

Eros laughed as he extended an arm in invitation. “Then we’ll have to find more mortals seeking a boon, won’t we? You won’t believe the number that actually want to be turned to statues.”

“Is that so?” Aphrodite’s eyes flickered with just a hint of appetite as she seized his arm in hers and they strode toward the wall. “Tell me more.”

“Gladly,” Eros said as they faded through the structure of the building and disappeared.

A few moments later, the clack of leather shoes on the marble floor echoed through the space, until the curator arrived to gape at the newest acquisition. His face shifted from white to splotchy pink to a mottled red and finally to cherry tomato. “Security!” he bellowed into his radio transceiver. “Get me the footage for the last hour in the museum. Some prankster thought it would be funny to deface our latest acquisition. I want to find out who, how, and when, or heads are going to roll!”

The faintest ghost of laughter reverberated through the museum halls as a flicker passed on the edge of the curator’s vision, then was gone. Hermes continued to laugh as he sped on his way to guide the next soul to the afterlife. “Ah, Aphrodite, I do so love how you push those mortals’ buttons.”

NEW ***FREE FOR EVERYONE*** POST AT PATREON

Rock-Hard Muscles

Something strange is in the pre-made meals all the athletes at Global Gym are eating! If you like ASFR, male petrification or helpless bodybuilders, you’ll absolutely love this story. Come check it out! www.patreon.com/brandedx2

Himbo turns to stone - Transformation

Tim worked out constantly to keep his body rock hard. Now he doesn’t need to worry anymore.

Hey, I remember watching those on yt some time ago, anyone knows from what show/movie it is? reversed image search didn’t show me anything, and all I know is that it was something about princess who had to find love of her life and rejected men were turned into statues because of a curse, from what I understood.

How do you feel about petrification?

I’d love to be a witch who uses magic to turn you to stone, but leave your mind and senses intact. I’d tell you to lie down on an altar and open your mouth, and I’d stroke you until your cock is fully erect. Then, I’d turn you to stone, climb on top of you, and start using you as a dildo, dropping my ass down on your hips as you were helpless to even twitch a finger. When I’ve nearly reached orgasm, I pull off of you and masturbate to push myself over the edge, cumming directly into your open mouth.

So how about it? Do you want to feel the stone creeping up your legs, fixing your body in place with each second? Do you want to be displayed in my parlor, motionlessly watching me pleasure myself to the sight of you?

OAKSJDGROQOWJRGEIQOWJRGWIWJRRGWI

I NEED to know who you are. I have never thought abt petrification before but I have a feeling it's gonna be one of the only things on my mind for the rest of the day 🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤

You should totally slide into my dms and share some other things you'd like to do to me 👉👈