It happened at exactly iii:30 P.M., right when Brendan was in the heart of drilling. At first, he thought it was an earthquake, this violent shaking which brought him to his hands and knees and sent his box of screws clattering all over the floor…
Only the floor wasn't shaking; Brendan was.
The fellow moaned equally he shook uncontrollably. His body was expanding out in all directions, muscles growing larger and larger with each shiver, and a plump, dump truck ass spilling out of his khaki shorts. Brandon hadn't even gone full-himbo before that primal urge began to overtake his every instinct… that urge to be dominated, to be used.
His days of drilling were over; from now on, Brendan was going to exist the one getting drilled.
Any volunteers?
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I've recently been trying to get back in touch on with my Russian cultural roots. Exercise y'all have anything that can aid me on my journey to release my inner Russian musculus creature?
Of grade! I never turn down an opportunity to help someone reconnect with their cultural heritage, and I certainly always have something for the job.
And for this job, I know just the thing…
Ever tried bristles oil? Well, I doubt you've ever tried anything quite like this. A few drops of this sucker volition unlock all your dormant Russian genes—and I mean all of them.
Translation: if you don't accept a drop of Russian blood running through your veins, zippo much will happen (though your beard will be dainty and shiny!)
But if you do? Ohhhhh homo, the changes I've seen guys get through after using this…
I once lent this canteen to a friend of mine. He said his family was all from Mainland china, so I just causeless he didn't have any Russian heritage. Turns out: his dandy, bang-up grandmother had fucked a sexy Russian lumberjack, and nobody knew!
Ten minutes afterward, he looked like this:
Yup. This is some potent-ass shit. I would argue some of the well-nigh potent shit I own.
As such, you lot're gonna wanna start with simply ONE drop. It might not feel like very much, just trust me when I say: you demand to start tiresome. One drib will change you plenty to requite me a sense of how much Russian blood yous have. From there, I tin can calculate a proper dose.
So, are you lot ready to find out simply how Russian you actually are?
Love information technology. Let's get you started with that beginning driblet… alrighty sir… great! Adjacent, I'm gonna need you to gently massage that into your beard…
Fantastic. Now, you probably won't see that many changes on this first go. Like I said, this is really just to gauge how deep your Russian roots go, and—
*RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP*
Holyfuckingshit.
Ummm… okay, so don't freak out but… fuck how to put this delicately? Well, the good news is that y'all've definitely unlocked some Russian genes!
The bad news? Ugh… practice you ain any XXXL shirts? Cus I think that'due south all you're gonna exist able to article of clothing from now on.
Don't look at me like that! I thought you had a couple drops of Russian blood, not a goddamn bucket! Besides, y'all're the one who wanted to "release my inner Russian beast." Is this non exactly what you asked for?!
Aaaaaaand you tin't even tell what I'm saying. Great. I've really got to brush up on my Russian.
Okay, and then we learned a couple things about your heritage, didn't we? Like every single male relative of yours has spent fourth dimension in a Siberian prison house. That's the merely other place I've seen tats similar those. We also know all your male relatives were engorged musculus monsters with x-inch cocks and literal pelts of hair…
Jesus. I can only say this correct now considering you lot don't empathize a lick of English but… you look unreal, man. Similar inhumanly large. How are you fifty-fifty going to fit through doors? Or curve your arms??
I'thousand getting ahead of myself. Allow's start simple, like finding you some new clothes. Hopefully ones that fit.
Great, so information technology looks similar sleeveless shirts and gym shorts for the foreseeable future. Congratulations.
This is rough. I oasis't seen size similar this in ages. Yous got so big, information technology looks like you could popular at whatsoever moment.
These fucking Russians are so obsessed with breeding the biggest, burliest men, and now you've got all their Deoxyribonucleic acid balled up in ane, ridiculously huge torso. You've inherited the brute strength of a hundred Russian strongmen, and from that doughy look on your face, it looks like you've inherited their less-than-staggering intellect besides, no offense. Not that you even know what I'k maxim.
Christ. What to do, what to do… I guess the only pick now is to stick you on a plane and send you lot back to the motherland, let you really reconnect with those "Russian roots." Peradventure someone at that place will recognize 1 of your tats and take y'all in. Maybe you lot'll have a stellar career as a professional bodybuilder, or end up in a Siberian prison house yourself. Either mode: not my problem.
I did leave y'all this nice, sleeveless sweater though. Thought it was concerning. Information technology gets pretty cold upwardly at that place in Russia, but I think between all that scruff and all that muscle, y'all'll feel right at home.
Have a prissy flying! (and that goes for the poor guy crammed next to y'all. I'm and so lamentable dude… or you lot're welcome 😏)
Come now, don't be shy!
I know you're not used to showing this much skin. After all, only i hour agone you were a knock-kneed, center-aged accountant who wouldn't so much as step in a pool without his shirt on. Simply await at you lot now: barely 21 with the torso of a Greek statue.
On the subject of fine fine art, let'south see some of those tats! Go alee, no need to be bashful. Information technology would be a criminal offense to cover up all that impressive body art, so yous better become used to wearing jockstraps… simply jockstraps.
Yous're nervous. I can tell. Why wouldn't you lot be? Your whole life is about to modify! You can't go back to your onetime married woman or your onetime job looking like a go-go boy.
Just that's exactly why I chose this body for you. I like to assist guys come up out of their shells. Sometimes, they just need a little push.
Speaking of, I may have plant y'all a new job. Expert news: you'll merely accept to exist naked for ane person at a time. Bad news: they might ask to… well… touch, and I don't just hateful your tats.
You'll get used to it, I hope. We'll make a proficient little slut out of you in no fourth dimension.
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Monster Mash
(Check out the full, NSFW version of this story HERE!)
Officer Bron hated Halloween.
Every yr on the night of Oct 31st, the immature cop would spend his whole evening running around and ruining everyone else's. Confiscating alcohol from teens, breaking upward huge house parties… not only was Bron not having fun, he was the reason no one else could have whatever fun either. He joined the force to brand the world a safer identify, not brand people angry. On Halloween, he felt like a monster.
Simply that all changed when Bron got a call from some sleepy neighbors virtually a rowdy frat party at the Delta Sigma Gamma firm. Here we get over again, thought a tired and irritable Bron, who'd been the one to bust the Delta political party three years in a row at present. At this point, those guys probably wanted to run into him dead. He couldn't blame them.
Officeholder Bron pulled upward to the frat firm five minutes later. Simply much to his surprise, the windows were dark and the house was quiet. Not a single frat boy in sight.
Weird.
Bron hopped out of his cruiser and switched on his flashlight. Through the windows, he could run into the inside of the house. It was empty. He marched upwardly to the porch and gave a knock.
The door creaked open up.
"Hello?" Bron called out into the dark, empty house, "anyone home? Nosotros received a noise complaint from next door."
Silence. Bron raised his flashlight, his other hand hovering simply higher up his taser. Something didn't feel right. Was this some sort of prank? Had the party ended early? Doubtful.
Bron crept through every room of the firm. There had obviously been a party at some indicate that evening, as evidenced by the tacky decorations, the mess of empty beer cans all over the flooring, and a bowl of claret reddish dial on the kitchen counter.
Probably spiked, Bron thought. He dipped a unmarried finger into the basin. This is a bad idea. Checking to see if the punch was spiked served no real utility. If at that place were a party to bust, it had long finished, and the beer cans were grounds enough to charge the frat boys with possession.
Bron gazed at the liquid clinging to his finger, shining in the light of his torch. Information technology was far more viscous than your average punch. If it had been spiked, it wasn't with alcohol.
The officer gently dabbed his finger on his tongue. Just a piddling taste. A footling taste never injure anyone, right?
Little did Bron know just how good the dial would taste, how the liquid warmed his throat similar cinnamon and pulsed similar sugar through his bloodstream. It felt… magical.
Bron looked around to brand sure the kitchen was in fact empty. The coast was articulate; it was just him and the bowl of punch.
And so he went to boondocks, dipping his fingers, and so his hands, and eventually his whole face into the bowl, drinking every bit much of the punch as his breadbasket would permit. God. It felt and so proficient. Later years and years of being the party pooper, Bron was going to have a party all on his own. He'd earned that much.
"So… delicious…" The warmth that began in his pharynx spread to every corner of his trunk. He felt held by the liquid, like it had always been a part of him, his very own blood re-inbound his veins.
But along with the warmth came a feeling of discomfort. His compatible—perviously loose on his rangy body—at present felt small and constricting. His muscles ached, the manner they did after a long workout. The weirdest part? His teeth felt foreign, particularly on the bottom row.
Fuck.
The basin dropped to the floor. Information technology shattered, the remaining carmine punch spilling over the kitchen flooring like a large pool of blood. What the fuck was he doing? Who knows what illegal substances he'd but ingested? LDS? Ecstasy? Or worse…
Bron stumbled through the dark house, his discomfort turning to all out pain. Something was happening to the young officeholder, something he could not sympathise, let lonely see in the all-consuming blackness. All he could exercise was writhe in agony as his torso began to change.
It started with his chest. Bron heard the threads of fabric squeezing and straining all over his torso. He ran frantic easily over his pecs, hoping that these sounds were just hallucinations. But to his dismay, Bron felt the uniform pulling autonomously between each button, and underneath, solid muscle, and thick, unfamiliar pilus.
Bron got caught in a doorway equally both shoulders shot out in either direction. His dorsum had near doubled in size, allowing his frame to suit for the enormous amounts of muscle he was packing on. The empty firm echoed with pops and cracks as the very bones in Bron's torso began to grow and adjust.
He barbarous to his hands and knees. There was just enough light creeping through a nearby window for Bron to meet his artillery transform. They quivered as new muscles snaked down through his biceps to his forearms, bringing with them the dusting of the night hair that at present covered his chest.
To Bron's horror, the muscles connected to grow. He could do zero but sentinel every bit his biceps inflated past the indicate of acceptability, subjecting him to a future of tank tops and XXL shirts. What would the sherif down at the precinct say when sugariness little Bron showed back up looking like an IFBB pro?
The growth spread to his lower section, and Bron involuntarily spread his knees to brand style for the incoming musculus. Bron would be the first to admit that he skipped leg day, only at present you lot would never be able to tell. The arrival of Bron's thighs brought with it some other series of pops and stretches, as his pants fought against the insane amount of mass at present occupying them. He winced as his new size fourteen feet tested the force of his size 11 boots, and an ass that required years of focus and attention threatened to make a behemothic hole in the back of his compatible.
"Good evening officer," came a vocalization from backside him.
The room filled with light, and Bron brought his colossal forearm up to shield his eyes. Through the dense black arm hair, he could see dozens of faces now occupying the space.
But these were unlike any faces Bron had e'er seen. The first thing he noticed was the skin. Everyone in the room was bright green, like the Wicked Witch of the West. Protruding up from every mouth were ii, horrible white fangs. No, they were more similar tusks. Why did everyone have tusks??
"Not bad costumes, wouldn't you say?" A effigy stepped out in front of Bron, "though I wouldn't call them costumes. Non exactly."
A laugh reverberated through the crowd, and the officeholder instantly recognized the scarlet varsity jacket and cocky opinion of Chet Wheelhouse, the president of Delta Sigma Gamma and the most notorious party male child of the county. Bron and Chet had butted heads many times… just the Chet that stood before him now was most unrecognizable, what with his lime greenish skin, mature muscular trunk and engorged dentures.
"What… happened to… all of…. yous… to… me…?"
"Shhhh," Chet knelt downwardly so that he was face-to-face with Bron, "it'll all be over soon." His breath was hot and musky, not the breath of a 20-year-one-time frat guy, but of something ancient, powerful, and deeply masculine. "Soon," Chet continued in a voice that was almost a whisper, "soon you'll be just like united states of america."
"NO!" Bron screamed, "I don't… don't wanna…"
"Don't wanna what? Have fun??" Chet stood up and paced the room. "C'mon man. You've been busting our asses for years. Don't you wanna permit lose for a change? Have some fun?"
He wasn't wrong: Bron did want to let lose. But not like this. He opened his mouth to retort, just stopped when a precipitous hurting shot up from the base of operations of his jaw.
Oh god.
Bron knew what was coming. His trunk tensed, every muscle bracing for the arrival of his own tusks. His jaw cracked as it jutting out an extra inch from his caput, and he felt as his teeth grew at an alarming pace. Out of the corner of his centre, Bron saw ii flecks of white creep up from under his cheeks
"WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME??" Bron cried, though the words were slurred and incoherent. Talking through these teeth was going to have some practice. But Bron didn't have time to ponder the consequences of his fate, as he was already noticing his skin accept on a green tint.
This was it. Bron was about to go just similar all the other frat boys—all of whom had likely consumed the aforementioned blood red dial.
But his changes were not complete. As Bron entered the final stage of his transformation, he allow out primal growl, forcing everyone in the room to accept a stride back, Chet included. He looked down between his legs, and witnessed the burl pressed up against his skin-tight pants inflated similar a water balloon.
He wanted to be scared. He wanted to be horrified that his dick was probably 11 inches and counting, that at that place wouldn't be a pair of pants on earth that could muffle his embarrassing size. But more annihilation, he merely wanted to whip it out and pipe downward every single guy in the room. This wasn't garden variety horniness; Bron was overcome with what he could only describe equally an animalistic urge to fuck.
Bron stood, at present towering above every frat male child in the room. "Woah dude," Chet said with a nervous laugh, "how much of that shit did you beverage? Nosotros only took a cup each, and we—"
But Chet stopped brusk when he saw what Bron was doing. The officer, who now stood just under 7 anxiety tall, unzipped his fly and freed the one eyed monster from his pants. Jaws dropped all around him, broad optics taking in the sight of his fat, green erect.
The crowd of giggling frat boys went dead silent. Bron's vocalisation boomed throughout the whole firm, his authority as an officer of the law coming together the sheer power of his new, orc body: "So here's how this is gonna go: you're all gonna become on your knees and take care of this niggling problem I got right here," he pointed at the dick swinging between his legs, "and I won't say anything to the sherif about the illegal substances you've been handing out. Capeesh?"
At around 3 A.Grand. the local police department received even so another racket complaint from the house next-door to Delta Sigma Gamma. Only this fourth dimension, the complaint was not of loud, rambunctious partying, but of ecstatic moans and rhythmic thumping. "If I didn't know whatsoever better," said the neighbour on the call, "I'd say they were shooting a porno over there!"
She wasn't far off. Bron spent his Halloween night fucking every fellow member of Delta Sigma Gamma, dumping a bucket of cum within each frat guy, and at least 10 loads in poor Chet. By the time the sun rose, their transformations had faded away, and the forenoon patrol arrived at the firm to notice over a dozen frat guys, fast asleep, and covered in what was described in the police study equally "bright green slime."
What they didn't discover, yet, was officeholder Bron. No one really knows where the immature officer disappeared to that night. But they even so say that if you cause plenty problem on Halloween eve, you lot just might be visited past a hulking orc in a raggedy sometime officeholder'due south uniform, hungry for justice, cum, and a good time.
Happy Halloween from The Irresolute Room!🎃 Cheers all for reading this story, and a HUGE thank you lot to Celery Human for letting me utilize some of his original artwork! Y'all tin check him out on Twitter and Instagram. Have fun, and stay safe!
Costume Party
thetfchangingroom:
The only thing more than embarrassing than a bad Halloween costume is no Halloween costume. You knew you should accept picked up something on the way, a shitty t-shirt, or at the very least a mask. But now here you are, costume-less, among a oversupply of hot guys, bouncing around in their sexy, revealing outfits.
Yous drift to the bar, hoping to hide your humiliation behind a cold drink. As you do, you spot something shiny on the flooring side by side to you. Conscientious not to shove into too many guy's asses, you lot reach down to pick information technology up.
It'southward a bluecoat. Shiny and heavy, clearly not a toy from a costume store. You lot look around to come across if anyone dropped information technology, simply the damn thing is so big, you uncertainty anyone could fit it in their skimpy pockets.
Well, you think, information technology's ameliorate than naught. You pin the badge onto your t-shirt, immediately feeling an electric rush of energy from your chest down to your toes. Information technology stops, than continues to pulse. You shake as the badge sends wave after wave of oestrus through your artillery, your back and shoulders, up to your head.
You accomplish for a drink, hoping to at-home your nerves, and that'south when you discover your forearm expanding. The skin hardens, rough from years of work on the strength, and your biceps tear at the edge of your t-shirt as they solidify into ii solid slabs of muscle.
What the…? but earlier you know information technology, your chest shoots out. You lot knock over some guy'southward drinkable. He spins effectually to tell you off, merely stops when he sees how big your body is condign.
"Damn man," the guy says with a wink, "great costume."
"What costume?" yous enquire, as the words go deep and authoritative in your pharynx. Just and so, your t-shirt repairs itself, the cloth becoming hard and dark as a utility belt appears effectually your waist. You lot look downwards just in time to see your jeans become greyness pants, 3 sizes larger to accommodate your massive legs. Finally, a pair of cop boots institute themselves on top of your sneakers. By at present, you don't need to convince anybody that yous're a cop; you already are.
As yous patrol the political party, checking for drugs and outbreaks of drunken violence, you start to accept observe of some of the guys checking you out. Eyeing your hard chimera ass through your tight fitting pants. You crack a grin, imagining what information technology would be like to throw them down in the dorsum of your patrol car, tear off those flimsy costumes, and tear their asses autonomously.
Just as an erection starts to form in your pants, several guys in superhero outfits rush past you. "Hold this," one of them says, throwing something into your hand. You spin around to yell, when you notice the object now heavy in your right fist.
Thor'due south hammer. It seems to gain in weight with every 2nd you hold onto it, as if transforming from a shitty costume prop into the actual Norse weapon.
As the hammer grows heavier you experience your body shifting and irresolute to accommodate the new weight. Your muscles grow thicker but bacteria, your skin finer and finer until it seems to shine in the dancing lights all around you. You watch as your clothes begin to vanish, the bluecoat and the shirt disappearing to reveal a shelf of pecs worthy of the gods, and a pack of abs that would take a normal bodybuilder years to obtain. But you don't need to worry about working out anymore, because you're Thor, the god of thunder.
Wait, y'all think to yourself, I'm not… OH! At that moment, you experience your height leap by three inches. In your pants (though it wouldn't be fair to phone call them "pants" at this point), y'all feel your dick keep to grow, angry by the mere sight and feeling of your own adonis trunk. Y'all lift a mighty paw to castor the long blonde hair falling in front of your perfect confront, and run it across your newfound nordic scruff.
By now, everybody is looking at you lot. Every center in the club is staring at your shining pack of abs as they shimmer out onto the dance floor, your clambering anxiety awkwardly lumbering effectually to avert stomping on the toes of every twink besides distracted to sentry where they're stepping.
Turns out dancing isn't really your forte. Conquering all of the seven realms, possibly. Simply non dancing. And it doesn't help that the raging blooper in your pants is growling larger and larger, rendering all kinds of motion impossible.
Aimlessly, you expect around for some way out. Simply the guys accept formed a wall around every corner of the floor, eager to catch of glimpse of that musculus body in activeness. What that activity is going to be, however, you don't know.
But that'due south when you see it: a red hat, lazily perched atop some dude's head. Something inside of you tells you to grab it, to put information technology on, and start dancing.
"Hey!" the guy protests as you remove his hat and put it onto your ain caput. But his vox falls silent the second he sees you begin to dance, the movements gyrating from the top of your head like trickling water.
Everything comes so naturally afterwards that. Your hips swinging and your breast rolling with astonishing ease as the oversupply around your grows larger and larger and larger. By now, there'south no hiding that dick, just you don't care. Y'all were born to testify off this packet, your body was made to pop and lock. You don't fifty-fifty observe the hair recede up into your head, or the muscles thin out as they become drenched with sweat.
Before yous know it, you're Magic fucking Mike, and earlier the night is over, you'll accept your choice of every guy at the political party to bring home. Just then once again, why would you need to? You lot seem pretty happy right here.
Happy Halloween you sexy fucker. And next time, bring your ain costume.
Mystery Inc. had seen all way of strange things throughout the years, just nothing could prepare "those meddling kids" for what transpired that chilly Oct evening…
The gang was investigating what was being described as a "virus" in a small-scale coastal town; all the men had allegedly transformed into bigger, burlier, and beastlier versions of themselves. What's more: they were all gay, and their libidos were off the charts.
Velma insisted that she and Daphne investigate solitary, but Shaggy couldn't resist the urge to stowaway. Sure enough, when the Mystery Automobile pulled into the hotel that evening, Shaggy was unrecognizable. Muscles shot out from every office of the formally lanky stoner, tearing right through his large light-green shirt.
The girls (being the only smart ones, as per usual) immediately placed Shaggy in quarantine, locking him in the van while they figured out just what the hell was going on. But poor Fred couldn't resist his urges either. He had to see just how unsafe this virus actually was.
The Mystery Machine creaked and groaned all dark long. Daphne assumed Shaggy had just been pleasuring himself, staving off that insatiable need to breed. Simply when she opened the van doors the following morning, she permit out a blood-curdling scream; Fred—her Freddy—was on all fours, moaning like a bitch in heat while Shaggy decimated his ass from backside.
The new Fred looked as if he spent all his fourth dimension at the gym instated of solving mysteries. Jutting biceps strained against his skin-tight sleeves, a pair of pecs pulled at the remaining buttons on his shirt, and thick blond scruff had overtaken his once shine pare.
Fred arched his back and stroked his erect (which she did not remember being that huge), and Daphne watched in horror as the horny himbo who used to be her boyfriend blew his wad all over the floor. As he did, Shaggy took both easily and gripped the roof of the van, flaring his large guns and butt breast as he bucked his fifth consecutive load into Fred'due south eager ass.
Mayhap this was all for the best, urged a placidity voice in the back of Daphne's heed. She was amend off with Velma anyway.
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I know y'all've changed guys into dicks, but e'er change someone into an donkey?
(Check out the full, NSFW version of this story Here!)
You know what… I don't believe I have!
This is crazy; I've been around for a while now and I've turned guys into all sorts of shit, just I can't name a single time I turned one of them into a butt! Which is tragic actually because it can exist a lot of fun (depending on who'due south butt; some guys don't know how to make clean upwardly downwards there).
Merely there's a kickoff for everything, right? Now, who's ass would y'all like to exist?
Oh, I'm sorry. I just assumed that since you asked, you were the one looking to exist transformed. Was this merely meant to be a hypothetical question? A curious query? Well, let me walk yous through some potential candidates then you tin can "ass"-ess your options. Perhaps I can change your mind…
Starting time, let's offset with the classics:
Why not exist any ordinary, run-of-the-factory donkey when you lot could be America's Donkey? Yes, I am offering you lot the opportunity to be Captain America'due south tush.
As yous tin imagine, Cap'south donkey sees quite a scrap of activity—and I'thousand not just talking about fighting bad guys (though I must say he is one limber son of a bitch and that suit breathes similar Egyptian cotton wool. Yous're bound to have a great fourth dimension either mode).
No, I'm talking about the action Cap sees off the field. You're kidding yourself if you don't think all these ridiculously hot superheroes aren't fucking each other senseless when they're not off saving the world. All that pent upwardly stress, all that athletic ability going to waste… the Avengers headquarters is basically one not-stop orgy, and while Cap might boss the battlefield, his tastes in the bedchamber are a little more…
Yes, you lot get the idea. Equally Cap'south ass, you'll exist getting real familiar with Thor'southward bristles, Natasha's strap on, and the Hulk'southward yous-know-what (trust me: it fits). Captain Rodgers won't exist able to accommodate upwards without someone'southward load leaking out of your pretty pink hole, and go ready to have bright reddish handprints on your cheeks 24/vii. That donkey sees a lot of love… tough dearest.
Butt wait! There's more! If you think a existent life superhero might be a scrap too intense for a get-go time tourasst (yes, I just came up with that) why non one of the guys who plays one?
God went a little overboard when he designed Chris Hemsworth. Big biceps, big pecs, big Disney paychecks and, most importantly, a large fucking ass.
Being Chris Hemsworth'south barrel means getting to sit in (or rather, be sat on) for all of his crazy Marvel workout sessions. Yous know what I'one thousand talking about: those incessant instagram posts of Chris in diverse states of undress, sweating similar a stuck pig, pumping fe as if he's grooming for Mr. Olympia while some every bit attractive personal trainer screams in his ear.
You lot're hard just thinking about it, aren't you? I sure as hell am.
Now: imagine existence Chris' barrel. You lot can practically taste all that celebrity sweat dripping down your crevice, your puckering pigsty tensing in tandem with each guttural grunt.
Just wait 'till he starts doing squats. Chris loves those squats. He likes to go pretty low, spreading y'all out and stretching your muscles until yous're burning white hot.
And when he'due south done? Chris likes to spend some quality "me" time in the sauna. Of course, "me" in this case includes you, and so if you've ever wanted to become up close and personal with Chris while he beats his fat donkey cock, this is almost equally close as you can get (unless y'all wanna be his dick, but that's another chat).
Who knows? He may even stick a finger or two in you. It wouldn't be the first time…
And so, what do you call back then far? Does being a butt sound like a good time? Well just you wait because I think our final candidate has some attractive "ass"-ets.
Run into Sam.
That's correct: I saved the best for terminal.
Sam's donkey is—for lack of a better word—legendary. This human being has spent years and years sculpting those cheeks into ii perfect globes of muscle and fat. To say they are his pride and joy would be selling it short. Guys come (and cum) from miles around to get a taste of Sam's perfect butt… literally. Nary a twenty-four hour period goes by when Sam's hole isn't filled with a dick, a dildo, or someone'southward thirsty tongue.
As such, Sam runs a tight ship downwards there. His butt is clean and well manicured, which means if you choose to become Sam's ass, you'll be treated like a princess (and likely chosen one likewise).
And the best function? Y'all'll get a lot of sunday. Sam doesn't keep his ass hidden under suits or sweaty workout shorts like Cap & Chris. Quite the contrary; Sam seldom finds himself in a situation where his donkey isn't hanging out or on total display. You'll be getting very familiar with his vast drove of jockstraps, singlets, and thongs.
Needless to say, he can be quite the exhibitionist.
Have you cum to a decision? Are you lot downward for some "butt stuff" or are y'all gonna pass on this one?
Simply I already know the answer.
I can come across information technology, flashing in your mind's eye. I've gotten very practiced at reading people over the years, at sniffing out their deepest desires and giving voice to their unspoken wishes. I know exactly which donkey you desire to be, you don't even need to tell me.
After all, it's not like you could anyway. Your transformation has already begun!
That's correct; there'due south no apply for talking when your mouth is slowly becoming an asshole, when your lips start to scroll into a round, flowery sphincter. You may start experience each of your cheeks inflate similar those of a chipmunk, growing and growing until they've consumed your unabridged face. You lot feel them gently touch each other, forming a crack over your former oral fissure.
Yous desire to reach upwards and touch the miraculous changes occurring on your face, simply y'all no longer have any hands to touch with. Your arms are gone. Everything is gone, in fact: your legs, feet, body, even your own ass is missing.
Because zippo belongs to you whatever more. You are but a part of him, i of many muscles on a big and busty trunk.
Ugh, y'all make such a beautiful barrel, don't yous? Well, I hope you lot take a great time equally Sam's ass. Who am I kidding: I know you will! There's already a big muscle stud with a 10-inch cock on his way to dump a load in you as we speak!
But be sure to permit me know once you lot've had your fill of spunk and spit (amongst other things).
How will you let me know, you ask? Oh don't worry… I tin only tell.
Take fun getting torn a new 1!
Thor'southward Day
thetfchangingroom:
Derek Theler has big shoes to fill up. Literally. The second he plant out that he'd be playing Thor, he hit the gym difficult. He had to piece of work out seven days a calendar week, twice a day, if he was always going to achieve the physique of the god of thunder.
It was the Thursday solar day before the shoot, and Derek was sweating bullets. It was ab day, and he'd been holding the aforementioned plank for over five minutes.
"GAAAAAGH!" Derek growled, and dropped to the floor. Panting, he picked himself upwards and headed within to rinse off. He grabbed a towel from the rack in the bath, and looked at himself in the mirror.
By all standards, Derek had the body of a god. The kind of body that could sell underwear. The kind of trunk you dreamed being on top of yous every night.
But it wasn't Thor's body. His muscles weren't large plenty. His biceps not thick enough. Hell, he didn't fifty-fifty have enough of a beard to play Thor.
He dropped his shorts and looked at his cock. Again, not a bad dick for a guy of his size. 7 inches, pretty girth-y. He wasn't even going to take to testify his dick on screen, and he was Nonetheless insecure almost it.
Thor doesn't have a 7-inch dick, Derek thought to himself. Thor probably packs a x-inch, uncut monster. A dick worthy of a Norse god. Merely in that location was aught Derek could do about that.
He hoped in the shower. With the scorching water on his back, Derek tried to put himself in the mindset of the iconic hero.
He imagined the water being poured from a golden bucket. Instead of his easily, he imagined the hands of a dozen Asgardian women, scrubbing and washing his naked body. He imagined that he wasn't in his firm, but rather in the glorious halls of Valhalla, lounging in palaces of pleasure for all eternity.
The doorbell rang. Derek looked down. He was hard as a rock. "Damnit," he cursed to himself as he turned the shower off and scrambled for a fresh towel. He tried to fill up his mind with boring thoughts to get his erection downwards, to no avail.
Information technology rang again. "COMING!" Derek shouted, stumbling out of the bath, his dick tenting the wet towel around his waist.
"Who is it?" Derek called out to the door, praying that it wasn't someone important. Merely at that place was no answer; the ringing had ceased.
Cautious, Derek approached the door and swung it open. Equally expected, at that place was no i there. Just a large package sitting on the porch below his feet.
Correct, he remembered. The production had mentioned that they were sending him something today. He took a huge sigh of relief, and brought the box within.
Derek tore open up the cardboard flaps. Inside where what appeared to be a suit of armor, a big beard, and a hammer. It was his Thor costume. On top of the pile of chores was a note:
Try this on, big guy.
The Changing Room
Assuming the production just called their costume department "The Irresolute Room," Derek shrugged and began to put on the outfit.
The armor was real metallic. He shivered every bit he fitted the plate over his naked chest. Instead of pants, the armor had a leather brim, each tendril adorned with golden studs. Information technology sent a breeze across his wet, exposed under regions as he pulled it up and began to fasten the straps on his boots.
I guess Thor doesn't vesture a whole lot, Derek thought to himself as he stared downwardly at the box. All he had left was the wig and the hammer, and he felt underdressed. And however, it was exhilarating. Fundamental. Why should the god of thunder wearable peasant clothes?
Derek pulled the shaggy blond wig over his short copper hair, and fastened the faux bristles around his chin. He looked in the mirror.
NOW he looked like Thor. But the sight of the burly bristles on Derek's face up sent him into a frenzy. His dick shot up, poking out from in between the leather brim.
With 1 mitt, he stroked. With the other, he rubbed his glistening muscles. It well-nigh felt as if they were getting bigger under his touch on, slowly swelling until the golden armor was practically bursting with his thick mounds.
He reached down and picked upward the hammer—HIS hammer. Mjolnir. The second his hand touched the ancient Asgardian metal, he felt a rush of something powerful and electric, like lighting pulsing through his veins.
He felt another breeze. But this time, it was cool. The cakewalk became a gale, which became a hurricane, and before Derek knew it, he was in the air. He was flying.
The apartment around him disappeared into a delusion of lights and colors. A rainbow span, stretching across a m galaxies. Derek felt himself soar through the very fabric of space and time, and as he did, his trunk continued to alter.
His frame stretched from six'5'' to a jumbo 6'9'', and his muscles expanded to match. Suddenly, the pocket-sized leather straps that held the metal plate onto his torso were straining against the force of his growing chest. Each individual ab grew to the size of a big rock, and every time Derek flexed, he could experience them bending the chest plate with unimaginable force.
The straps on his boots snapped and fluttered into the rainbow abyss, every bit his anxiety were and then huge now, human footwear was out of the question. The growth shot up his legs, his calves turning from baseballs to footballs, his thighs from turkey legs to Christmas hams. His ass got so thick, the extra weight sent him wobbling on the rainbow bridge, forcing him to grip the hammer even tighter.
Every bit he did, his arms—which were quite impressive to begin with—practically exploded with musculus, an unstoppable stream of growth that shot from his forearms, to his biceps, to his shoulders, and divide off towards his dorsum and chest. Within seconds, Derek had put on plenty muscle weight to make a bodybuilder jealous. Through the rushing current of air, he brought his arm up and gave it a hearty flex.
The feeling of his bicep, thick and curled and glistening with sweat, triggered a new wave of changes in Derek. This fourth dimension starting at his dick, which instantly sprung up and shot a powerful load, growing a full inch with every pump of raw, god juice until it stood a total 10-inches. The sudden orgasm rocked his body like a commodities of lighting. There were "snaps" all over as he out-grew every slice of clothing on him, from the breast plate to the leather shirt.
Now fully nude, Derek could feel the wind caress every inch of his torso. Bodily lighting began to shoot out of his pores like sweat, and he let out a central howl that rung through the universe similar rolling thunder.
His face prickled. Not because the static that he was emitting, but because of the fake wig and beard, which were at present fusing themselves to his face up. It was his beard. This was his hair. He wasn't playing Thor… he was Thor.
And with that, his terminal alter begun. As the man perviously known as Derek Theler hurtled towards the gates of Valhalla, he forgot virtually all his picayune time on world. Every bit an thespian, as a model. As a human. Because at present, he was more. He was Thor, the god of thunder. He'd watched over the nine realms for a millennia. He'd fought in countless battles confronting ancient enemies and triumphed over every one. He'd slept with thousands of men and women, all kneeling in worship at the sight of his legendary physique, and ten-inch uncut monster.
There was a loud BANG, and everything went blackness.
Thor awoke with a beginning.
He'd just had the strangest dream. He dreamt that he has been trapped on earth for 32 years. Forced to live the life of an… thespian. What was his name? He couldn't recall. Information technology was, after all, only a strange dream. A long, strange dream.
He rose upwardly out of his bed, taking in his environs. Around him were luscious halls of gold, arches that seemed to stretch deep into the sky. He was in Asgard. He was dwelling.
Drenched in his own sweat, Thor walked over to the water basin by the balcony overlooking his father's city. Walking at present felt so foreign. His body lumbered awkwardly, as if his muscles were a brand new adapt of armor. But this was foley; Thor had e'er been this beautiful… right?
As he washed off the sweat of a long, restless night, Thor was certain to stop and admire every ane of his godly muscles. It was like he was feeling them for the very offset time, like this torso was his reward for making information technology through such an elaborate and troublesome dream.
He didn't even notice his cock was hard. He reached down to stroke information technology, but stopped. There was no need to masterbate in Asgard. He had a line of men and women who could enter his bedroom and delight him with the snap of his fingers. He never had to please himself over again.
Thor smirked, fancying the notion of staying in today. He'd given his hammer a workout last week when he'd fended off legions of monsters to protect the nine realms. Now, it was time to requite his OTHER hammer some much needed attention.
Likewise, he'd earned it. The universe could go one mean solar day without thunder.
Asked by Anonymous
Hi, I envy Chris Evan. I would want to exist reborn as him but make things different as him. Exist a playboy, a famous actor, and do a lot of things that people would like to practice. Help me make my dream.
cinaedefuri:
I also don't actually understand this prompt. And similar in @thetfchangingroom'south incredible story, make sure you spell his proper name right. You lot desire to be Chris Evans, I presume.
-C.F.
This is a PSA:
PROOFREAD 👏 YOUR 👏 FUCKING 👏 ASKS
I see asks like this all the goddamn fourth dimension. I'm sorry merely I can't write a story if I can't fifty-fifty empathize what you're trying to say.
Furthermore: when I answer an ask, information technology becomes a permanent part of that story, meaning your silly typos are on display for the whole world to come across. Forever.
Information technology'due south embarrassing, and honestly? It's non that hard to fix! Seriously, but read it back to yourself a couple times. Is every sentence consummate? Are people's names spelled correctly? Smashing! That's all I'yard asking for, really. It'southward non that hard.
Just like @cinaedefuri said, you don't want to end up like poor Blake and plow into a completely unlike guy, don't you lot?
Or… possibly you do. I don't know. He does seem to exist enjoying himself.
"So… fucking… hot…"
Juan breathed each give-and-take betwixt heavy pants. He tugged at the straps of his baby blue tank elevation until they looked like spaghetti noodles. This provided no relief; the oestrus emanating from his trunk was intense, so much that it upped the temperature of the unabridged gym by one whole caste.
To everyone at that place, Juan was only a bodybuilder in the middle of a specially intense workout. Petty did they know that less than an hr ago, Juan looked like any other guy just trying to get in a decent pump.
He didn't know what triggered his transformation, just that came on very fast. One minute, he was struggling to do a single bicep ringlet. The adjacent, he was benching 150 like information technology was zippo. Information technology wasn't until Juan'due south gym apparel began to feel unusually constricting that he noticed something was wrong.
And the oestrus… god. It was unbearable. Juan's bulbous muscles glistened with simmering sweat, and they were like hot coals to the bear on.
Eventually, he constitute a spot under an Ac register where he could attempt to cool off. Tucked in the corner with wall-to-ceiling mirrors on either side, Juan was treated to an upward close view of his new build.
As he studied the contours of his muscles, the exaggerated curves and pulsing veins, Juan began to experience a different kind of heat… 1 that started at the stiffening dick between his gargantuan legs and spread to every corner of his vast body.
"Damn," he said in a depression, sultry voice, "I'1000 then fucking hot."
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