Indian Tf - Tumblr Posts

Hey himbo maker, I'd really like to be made into a Tamil South Indian guy, the hairier the better. I would really just love to immerse myself into their culture.. can you help me with that?

You’re… occupied when the first Himbo Maker notification arrives, busy stroking your cock to pics of beefy, hirsute Tamil guys. The notifications appear on your phone’s lock screen, and even though you don’t turn to look, each chime causes changes.

Himbo_mkr: Bro, how’s India been treating you? I swear you’re going native over there.

The room around you shifts and changes. You came to Chennai for a study abroad semester a few years ago, and you loved it so much that you stayed. Your Tamil is so good now that people sometimes assume you’re a native speaker, and you feel out of place when you visit home. The downside is that now, every day, you see, smell, touch, practically taste sexy Tamil men, so you’re pretty much always boned up.

Himbo_mkr: You pretty much went through a second puberty when you returned to the Tamil homeland, right?

Your cock jumps in your hand, the skin darkening as a stream of Tamil precum runs down the shaft. The darkened skin rushes over your body, followed by a thick growth of long, curly body hair. A well groomed beard, moustache, and thick eyebrows compliment your dark, heavyset features. You bury your face in your sweaty armpit, inhaling the stench of sweat and cooking spices. You always loved men of your race, so you turn yourself on all the time.

Himbo_mkr: Man, I bet you go to all sorts of cultivated events and enjoy all kinds of bros.

There’s a knock at your door. “Come in,” you call, in your native Tamil. The door creaks open, and you immediately smell the spicy musk of a Tamil man who’s been out in the Chennai heat, sweating and basking in his own stench. You can't wait for your fantasy man to join you in bed for a perfect main event.

Want to chat with the Himbo Maker? He loves to twist your words, so be careful what you're asking for.

This G.I. Jack was so proud to be an American. Of course…. But what if we leaned into the freedoms of buying cigs and meth on the streets, then he gets back to his buff self by working out with brown men. It rubs off on him. Now he’s so proud to be an immigrant. Abhinav loves his midwestern kitchen and is about to head to the gym with his other brown bros. So glad he left that other life behind…. So little of it he remembers.

Lotto Ticket Wish

You had been on a bit of a dry spell when I appeared before you. Your small town didn’t have a lot of dating options for a pretty average young gay guy like you—basic white boys are a dime a dozen. You had gone out with every guy you liked on Tinder, been catcalled more than you could count on Grindr, and Scruff wasn’t even in the cards as long as you couldn’t grow a beard. You were bumming around the bowling alley—it was the only place in town open after 8—when you spotted me.

For you, I took the form of an arcade lotto machine. Insert a coin, receive a random ticket with a prize printed on it. You were confused, since you’d never seen me before, but you were bored and horny and nothing interested was happening. You inserted your coin, and I printed out your prize:

FAME. GLORY. PLEASURE. SPEAK YOUR WISH NOW AND SEE IT GRANTED. SATISFACTION GUARANTEED.

You chuckled. Typical arcade shit, you thought. “I wish I was a hunk!” you said aloud, and laughed to yourself again. Well, maybe it was worth the coin for the laugh. You pocketed your ticket and headed home.

That night, while you slept, your wish came true. First, a dark spot appeared on your fingertip where you had held your wish ticket. The darkened skin raced over your hand, leaving your small pale hand larger, thicker, and dark, a rich brown shade. Thick, black hairs grew on the back of your hand and fingers. The change continued up your arm, which began to bulge with muscle and veins. You flexed your hand in your sleep, and new strong tendons shifted under brown, hairy skin as your bicep peaked into a mound like a baseball.

Your shoulder rounded out into a thick, capped delt, and a forest of thick hair grew in your armpit. You wrinkled your nose at the musky, spicy scent that started to emerge, but your sleep quickly calmed into a sexy dream of sniffing a musky, dark-skinned armpit. Meanwhile, your chest thickened into a set of huge, rounded pecs with dark, pert nipples. Dark, curly hairs grew in and immediately became soaked with sweat, adding to the spicy stench in the air. The transformation proceeded down your other arm, until it was the perfect match. You shifted in your sleep, sending your nose into your other rank armpit.

As the skin of your belly darkened, fat evaporated away and six thick abs swelled out of your midsection. Your whole torso thickened with sturdy back muscles. All this extra mass made you sweat even more in your sleep.

A thick treasure trail grew from your belly down to your pubes, which darkened and thickened, as the skin tautened and turned black. Your balls swelled, causing you to shift your legs in your sleep and let your new bulging sac rest lower. Your cock thickened and grew, quickly slipping out of your boxers to reach down toward your knee. As your cockflesh darkened, you grew a thick, well-stretched foreskin, which released a cheesy smell into the air as you dreamed of tongue-washing an Indian hunk’s balls.

Your ass grew as well, rounding out as a thick, muscular cushion rather than a flat pad. Your boxers became so tight they might as well be briefs, the fabric stretched thin enough that the thick hairs swirling over your ass became visible. As the transformation continued down your legs, quads, hamstrings and calves grew, darkened, and became covered in sweaty hair. Your feet stretched and the soles thickened.

Finally, the transformation proceeded up your neck. Your neck and Adam’s apple thickened, causing you to release a deep grunt in your sleep. Your hair darkened to shiny black and became wavy, falling perfectly into a slick, masculine style. Your skin cleared and became brown, and your brows thickened and lowered, giving your now dark eyes a hooded, mysterious look. Finally, your nose widened slightly as your jawline sharpened, becoming coated in dark stubble that would grow back in minutes if you ever shaved.

The musky smell of your new Indian body swirled around your bedroom, subtly changing the space. In place of your desk appeared a set of adjustable weights. Your bookshelf became a full length mirror. A Hindi self-help poster appeared over your now-simple, masculine bed. Your closet filled with gym gear, with some formal kurta for when you visited your family in Chandigarh.

You woke at sunrise and wrinkled your nose at the smell permeating your nose. “Bro, what the fuck,” you muttered, in a deep, Hindi-accented voice. You made to hop out of bed, but as soon as your thick legs moved apart, your overstretched boxers tore at the groin, letting your oversized cock and balls spill out.

For a moment, you gaped at your thick new uncut cock and swollen, churning balls, then you jumped to your feet. Using your new strong hands you ripped the tattered boxers off and caught a glimpse of your magnificent body in the mirror.

You had certainly become a hunk! The sight of your bulging muscles and Indian good looks brought your cock to full attention, and you instinctively started to jerk off. The smell of your unwashed, weeping cock mixed with the spicy musk your body gave off, and before long you were close. You watched in the mirror as you bounced your sweaty, hirsute muscles and licked your musky armpit. Finally, you exploded, coating the mirror with a huge load.

In an instant, you felt a burst of knowledge flood into your head. You suddenly began to think in Hindi, and translating your thoughts into English became more difficult. You realised that you were the hottest stud in town, especially with your hunky Indian looks and deep, Hindi-accented voice. You knew how to make a perfect homemade Indian meal, and also how to totally dominate any white boy you wanted. You were about to be king of the town.

You grabbed some of the clothes scattered on the floor. A jock, gym shorts, and yesterday’s tank top should be fine. You gave yourself a quick sniff test: the perfect level of unadulterated sweaty musk for a morning gym session. After all, there would probably be some jockboy there who couldn’t wait to get a taste of Raj, the musky Indian stud, and the hottest commodity in town.

Just as you were about to leave your room, you noticed your wish ticket lying on the floor. You picked it up, and wondered if the wish-granting lotto machine was still at the bowling alley…

Idea with assistance from the genie-bot by @mystrangetfs.

Ignorance Is Bliss

“Hello ladies and gentleman and welcome to the special edition of Ignorance is Bliss, the critically acclaimed gameshow where reality is not always as it seems!”

I nervously tap on my contestant podium. The host stands metres away from me, reciting his perfectly practiced speech into the intimidatingly large camera. The studio lights reflect off his teeth and blind me. Behind the camera stands three bleachers, seating large crowds of giddy gawking audiences. Most of them are men. Just a bit older than me, I say. But what really caught my attention was the cube on the other side of the stage. A big one too. It’s like a glass room. A room without a door. What the hell could that be?

The host smiles and waves his hands openly. He’s charismatic, I’ll give him that. I can see why people like his show. Though me personally, I’ve never seen it. I’ve heard about it though. Specifically through people on Reddit. Apparently, it’s a generic trivia show. Aired after midnight too, so the audience for the show can’t be too big. So, even if I embarrass myself on here, my dignity won’t be completely destroyed. I just have to answer a few pointless questions and then I’ll be rich. Shouldn’t be too hard. At this point, I’m broke, so I’ll take any cash prize I can get. Whether it’s $100 or the full $1,000,000, I’m not leaving here empty handed.

“I am your host, Jimmy Clark. Let’s get right into it!” The crowd lets out a large cheer.

“Our first contestant of the day is Atlas Green, an economics student at MIT. He’s a self-proclaimed maths genius, his favourite TV show is Survivor and he has never travelled outside of America!” The crowd lets out a light chuckle.

I didn’t think they’d use my application as my introduction. We’re not even a minute in and my cheeks are already red.

“Hi there, Jimmy.” I exaggerate my phoney smile for the camera.

“So, Atlas, you know how the game works. Get a question right and you’ll be one step closer to our grand prize of $1,000,000.” The crowd goes wild as the figure flashes up on the large screens behind us. “Get a question wrong however…”

The studio falls silent, anxiously waiting for Jimmy’s reveal.

“You will leave here, no money, no grand prize. But don’t worry, here on Ignorance is Bliss, no one ever leaves empty handed…”

I glance nervously at the audience. They had reverted back to their obnoxious cheering and shouting. Although, a part inside me is celebrating too from hearing I won’t be leaving without some sort of prize. But what kind of prize? That’s the real question here. It won’t be a $1,000,000 dollars worth prize, I can tell you that much. Maybe it’ll be a small Ignorance is Bliss trinket or something? I hope not. Though I’m curious about the loser’s prize, I don’t intend on finding out what it is. I’m here for that grand prize. I’m not leaving without it.

“Let’s get started!” Jimmy beamed, the crowd screaming. “First question.”

The rounds start off easy. As easy as you’d expect from a stereotypical game show. Current events, pop culture, geographical stuff. Though, none were particularly difficult, I can’t let myself get cocky. It only takes one royal fuckup and that $1,000,000 dollar prize slips right through my fingers. And the questions are definitely getting more difficult. I know that much. Now, the questions are delving into actors I’ve never heard of or countries I know bare minimum about. I just gotta keep calm and I should be able to do it.

“Last question of the night!” Jimmy applauds me. “Almost no one has gotten this far. In fact, no one has ever won the cash prize, Atlas. Will you be the first?”

“The final question of today’s show is…. ‘In Hinduism, who is the male God of erotic love, lust and sexual pleasure?’”

I look towards Jim, then to one of the camera men and smile nervously. Weird final question. And what makes it worse is I have no clue what the answer is. I’m a young white student. Never left the country. Was raised Roman Catholic. There is no way I am getting this. At least not through rational thought or logical reasoning. I’m just gonna have to guess. I have a one in four chance of winning a million dollars. 25%. Fuck. That doesn’t bode well for me. One in four… one in four… okay. No point in delaying it.

“Your options are:

A) Vishnu

B) Krishna

C) Ganesha

D) Rama”

A timer appears on the screens behind us, ticking down quickly. I glance at all four options. It could be any of them. I don’t know. How am I supposed to know? I have to guess.

“We’re gonna need an answer now, Atlas!” Jimmy warns.

The timer continues to tick down.

Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

“3 seconds left Atlas!” Jimmy yells frantically.

“Rama!” I shout. Less than a second left on the timer. But is it right…?

“You chose option D, Rama.” The charismatic host looks towards the screens, waiting for them to turn green or red. “The correct answer is…”

Time stops. I look at the screen. Waiting. One million dollars…

Suddenly, the screen and studio lights turn a deep dark red. The words ‘wrong answer’ flash across the monitor. I feel my heart sink into my stomach. Jimmy emulates a sympathetic wince, letting out a condescending ‘awww’.

“The correct answer is…”

“Kamadeva”

What? Kamadeva? That wasn’t one of my options! Was it a mistake? Or was the show rigged? I’m betting the latter. No wonder no one has ever reached the grand prize. They’re being lied too, forced take the stupid loser prize home. I was set up.

“Hey! That’s bullshit! That wasn’t-“ I scream before Jimmy cuts me off.

“Don’t worry my boy! As you know, no one goes home empty handed!” He pats me on the back. “Get over here.”

Jimmy throws his arm around me, tightly holding me in place. He escorts me towards the other side of the stage. Towards the big mysterious glass cube. As I’m forced to approach it, a side of the cube lifts open letting mist seep out of it, like some kind of sci-fi movie. The intimidatingly tight grip of the host eases before he tosses me inside. As I stumble to the ground, the glass door behind me slams shut, leaving me trapped inside the glass cage. I scramble to my feet. The audience gawks at me. I feel like an animal in a zoo. Is this some kind of humiliation technique? Is there actually a loser prize? Or is this the loser prize after all? It’s a sham either way, that’s for sure. I begin looking for a way out but the cage is empty. Although, at the top of each glass corner, there are orange tubes. The tubes connect to the ceiling of the studio. God knows what’s in it. Maybe thats where the mist came from? It can’t be good, that’s all I know.

“So Atlas! You lost Ignorance is Bliss!” The host announces. I can feel rage filling inside me. “But, no one leaves here empty handed! It’s time to announce your prize!”

“You clearly don’t know much about Hinduism or Indian culture, Atlas!” The crowd giggles and whispers to each other. “So as your prize, Ignorance is Bliss is granting you a LIFELONG TRIP TO YOUR HOMELAND, INDIA!”

The crowd goes wild.

My clueless expression remains unchanged. Lifetime? Homeland? What does he mea- what the fuck? Suddenly, an orange gas is pumped into the glass cage from the tubes above, robbing me of clean air and replacing it with a hot suffocating warmth. I pounce onto the glass and yell for help. My cries are met with the audience gawking at me like I’m some kind of monkey at the Zoo. I try to avoid breathing the gas, but at this point it’s all-encompassing, giving me no choice but to take a gas filled breathe. As I breathe in, a strange feeling travels throughout my body. A strange pleasurable feeling. Erotic almost… I look down to see my 6 inch boner straining against my pants, on full display for the audience. I feel more and more blood rush into my cock. At this point, it feels as if my cock is hard enough to burst through my pants. I grab my boner with my two hands and then realise... never in the 22 years of my life have I fit both hands on my cock… one hand was enough to cover it whole. I slowly look down at my body. My cock… its growing. Inch by inch, I see my cock expand. As if I have a growing boner which never stops increasing in size. It grows and grows, straining my pants, until the tip of my boner presses against the side of my hip. The new cock, which fills my pants, suddenly stops growing in length. Instead, it starts thickening. My cock, which was just thicker than my thumb, begins fattening up, becoming chunkier and thicker. It grows heavier and heavier until my knees feel like giving out. Still adjusting to my new fat manhood, I take a step backwards, tripping. I twist and fall on my new fat package, causing the seams of my pants to burst open. My fat cock flops out, acting as a cushion for my pelvis to lay on. I pick myself up and sit back on my flat ass, my cock now long and heavy enough to still be laying on the ground. I panic, lift myself to my feet and turn around to the audience, displaying my new unnaturally large appendage. It hangs down between my legs, reaching my knee. The heat fills my genitals, more specifically, my balls. My balls, which looked ridiculously small compared to my new massive cock, begin to grow. Almost like a water balloon, my balls fill with hot potent semen, ready to shoot inside some fuckable ass. My new balls begin to appear proportionate to my unnaturally thick penis, forcing my legs apart to accommodate it.

“Look how flustered he is, folks! That new big appendage of his looks like it could cum everywhere at any moment!” The host laughs, inspiring cheers from audience members.

God… I’m so hard. The audience is staring at me… but that turns me on even more. They’re in awe of my Godly cock. My Godly Indian cock…. wait… no. Why am I thinking this? I’m not Indian. I’m not… gonna stuff my Godly Hindu cock into some pathetic white boy and impregnate his hole. Oh fuck! I need to stop. What’s wrong with me?! My average dick turning into a massive monster cock is one thing, but this is even more overwhelming. Not only have I lost control of my body, but now… I’m losing control of my mind. It’s as if the gas is seeping into every crevice of my brain, making my thoughts more lustful… more primal. Images of my fat cock breeding men assault my mind. Vivid fantasies which involve my thick sperm shooting into a big fat jiggling ass. I begin hitting my head. This is too much. It’s all too much. As I smack my head, attempting to knock some sense into myself, I notice something strange.

I look down at my body. It seems to be… growing. My chest… its inflating like a balloon. The two muscles press against my tight shirt. They look soft. The kind of soft that would make for the most comfortable and fuckable pillows. I decide to feel it. I press my hand on it. It sinks into it, fat flowing through the crevices between my fingers. My pecs look like the most beautiful pair of perky fuckable tits. Is that what they’re making me into? Some big titted, massive cocked hybrid? Maximising femininity and masculinity on the body of one person… I panic that this will be my final form. A bisexual’s wet dream.

This worry is soon subsided as I feel the growth shoot down my arms. My biceps triple in size, looking like the arms of a professional NFL player. My hands begin fattening up too. My fingers turning into sausage sized monsters. Each finger is as fat as my old penis used to be… I’m thankful that they’re still useable… mostly. I might struggle to use a keyboard or accurately press the numbers on my phone now. The fingers are fat enough to press multiple buttons at once, like some big brute. My stomach begins to develop abs. They form into six perfectly shaped mountains. I run my thick brute hands over them, feeling the calluses from my fingers glide over each crevice. The growth finally reaches my lower half. Thankfully, my massive cock and balls are unaffected. I don’t think I could handle them growing any larger. I wouldn’t be able to walk… The growth mainly affects my legs, feet and unfortunately… my ass. My two cheeks begin to inflate but not in the way you’d expect. Instead of an unnaturally large increase in muscle mass like the rest of me, my ass seemed to only fill up with fat. Like two water balloons, my cheeks grow and jiggle, bouncing and shaking around with every slight movement. The audience watches as my insanely fuckable feminine ass sways from side to side, preventing me from walking normally. I waddle. It’s humiliating. This will be on TV. My friends will see this. My coworkers will see this. My classmates. My family…

Jiggle. Jiggle. Jiggle.

My fuckable ass reaches its limit. It looks like two huge beachballs attached to me. The growth spreads to my legs. My thighs and calves grow, though not to an unnatural size like my bouncy cheeks. Their size is still nothing to scoff at. My legs look like two heavy tree trunks. They make it even more difficult to walk, or should I say, waddle.

I look down at my new self… I feel weird even saying its me. My pecs… my ass… my muscles.. I don’t resemble the skinny economics student who entered this studio an hour ago. I don’t look like me. I look like some dumb fuckable brute. It’s humiliating. I watch the crowd laugh and cheer at me. The new me. Mocking my waddling. Flexing their biceps, which were nothing compared to mine. Bouncing their pecs, which looked nothing like my big fuckable tits. I even glance at one guy in the second row who is fingering his hairy straight ass, letting out a jokingly high feminine moan.

“Do you feel like an Indian God, Atlas?!” The host laughs, his voice booming through the entire studio. “No? Let us help with that!”

The host clicks his fingers causing the gas to become noticeably more intense. It pumps the orange transformation gas into the glass cage at a higher rate than before, forcing me to inhale even more than before. I look down at my huge body, anticipating what could happen next. What is there left to change? The gas already inflated every part of my once skinny body. It elongated my cock, inflated my ass. What more could this smelly gas possibly do? How much more humiliating could this become?

I glance down at my thick forearm to realise something… it seems hairier than before. The hair seemed different too. Well, at least it looked different. Instead of my normal weak arm hairs, this new hair is noticeably thicker, like a wolf’s pelt. I never remember my arm hair being so dark. I assume it must be the gas again. I look at my body, realising my arms aren’t the only part of my body sprouting in thick hair. My chest has too. My once hairless chest now sprouts a thick sweaty pelt of hair. My legs seem to have adopted the wet pelt too. My armpit hair also seems more thick, although that’s the least of my worries right now. My face begins to itch. I reach up with my hairy paws and scratch it. My face feels fully bearded. My eyebrows are significantly more bushy too. Untrimmed. As if they had never seen a tweezers in their life.

I glance beside me to see a man standing on the other side of the glass. He stares at me, watching my transformation. He has dark skin. Beautiful dark skin. It glistens with sweat. I could almost smell his stench from here. He continues to stare at me. He looks confused. Confused and dumb. Very dumb. His jaw hangs agape, breathing strictly through his mouth. His forehead is very pronounced. His eyes are vacant. As if he had no brain. Couldn’t form a single thought of his own. Drool dribbles out the side of his mouth. It gathers in his beard as he dumbly chuckles at me. He looks like he’s only good for one thing: fucking. He continues to stare at me. Dumbly. Vacantly. Confusedly. I reach up and scratch my beard… he does the same. I tilt my head to the side… he does the same. I grab my juicy fuckable big pecs… he does the same. I stumble back in shock. It hit me. All at once… the smelly stench… the big pecs… the huge muscles… juicy pecs… fat cock and fuckable ass… it’s… me.

The man… the one staring back at me… my reflection… his… his skin. His deep dark beautiful brown skin. It’s mine. Gone was my caucasian skin. Gone were my caucasian features. The show completely changed me. It changed me into some big, dumb, fuckable, Indian brute…

“There we have it ladies and gentleman! Our sex God, Kamadeva!” The crowd screams in awe. I gaze into the crowd, displaying my new Godly form. I see men jerking each others cocks while looking at me. Even some fingering their holes chanting my name. I am… a sex God.

“That’s it for today’s show, folks. Tune in next time to see what happens to our next contestant!” The crowd screams and cheers. “This has been Ignorance is Bliss. Goodnight!”

The lights and camera shut off. Members of the crowd pull up their pants and make their way out of the studio. The host walks over to my glass cage and chuckles. I adjust to my new weight. He stares at the Indian God in front of him.

“Don’t worry, Kamadeva. We’ll have you shipped off to India in no time.” He smirks. “Soon, all of this will be just a distant memory…”

“प्लीज मेरा सुराख भर दो। मैं बहुत हॉर्नी हूं” I mutter.

———————————————————————

And so, Atlas will live out the rest of his life in Mumbai as the Indian sex God, Kamadeva.

Reviews conclude he definitely lives up to his name. He puts both his massive cock and fuckable ass to good use, providing pleasure to men all over India. He lets men cum up his big juicy wobbling ass and he also breeds every man with a bubble butt that he sees, making the most out of his Godly body.

The man has no memory of his life in the US. To Kamadeva, he was always Indian. He was always a sex God. He was always a dumb fuckable brute with a low IQ. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

As Ignorance is Bliss promised, he definitely didn’t go home empty handed…

Driven To Change

“This is the stupidest slogan I’ve ever heard.”

Rob was hardly the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, but when that horse was actually the form of probably the most infectious app he’d ever seen. It had hardly been a year but the new DriveU app had started finding its way onto every person’s phone. Suddenly everyone wanted to be a driver or a rider instead of taking the bus or just a regular taxi. Rob would have resisted if he wasn’t already running late to dinner out with his friends and his ride cancelled.

Times like this, he wished he had a car, but then he remembered he lived in the city and half the people here didn’t own a car. So instead, Rob found himself twiddling his thumbs, hoping this stupid app with its stupid slogan and stupid minimalist UI would actually deliver him a ride like it promised.

A couple short minutes later and Rob got an alert: a rider will be with you shortly. He saw the image of a car gliding down a road in his neighbourhood. There was no picture of the driver, just the make and model of the car and a name, Sanjar. It wasn’t even a minute before Rob’s phone buzzed to let him know his driver was nearly outside.

He could see why so many people used the app, even the reports of people using it over ambulances seemed way too convenient to be true. But then again if it could get you a ride from anywhere in the city in ten minutes tops, then maybe it was really that good. Another buzz from the phone told Rob that the driver was right outside and beyond the sounds of the city, Rob heard the purring of an engine.

In total, it was only about five minutes for Rob to have gone from ordering a ride to being outside his apartment complex with his hand on the door of a car after checking its license plate twice.

“Hello, sat sri akaal,” greeted the driver and Rob hadn’t even noticed the car had tinted windows until he realised this was the first time of getting a look at his driver. In the front seat of a stuffy Toyota Corolla was a tanned man with a broad face of sharp features and dark facial hair. Rob didn’t get a good look of him before the driver, Sanjar, turned away. “Uh hi, what?” Rob blinked at the odd greeting. He didn’t quite understand the words as he sat down and shut the door, regretting it somewhat already as the car was already getting stuffier. The air was heavy with a strong scent weighing it down, one that Rob couldn’t quite place and that didn’t smell bad, but just distinct and a little too distracting. Hopefully the ride is quick too. 

“Oh sat sri akaal, it’s just a fancy way of saying hello,” Sanjar laughed as he looked back in the rear-view mirror. A few phone taps later and the driver spoke again. “You’re going to the new bar on 5th yes?” Rob nodded, working up some courage to ask if he could roll the window down. The smell was only growing stronger the longer that he was sitting in the back, as if his body wasn’t getting used to it but the exact opposite. “Okay and how are you doing?” Rob resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He supposed that no app was going to be good enough to have a driver that didn’t try to force a conversation lest there be some sort of awkward silence lingering around for the ten minute drive. But then again, perhaps the man was just being friendly and so with a forced smile he just looked back to the rear view mirror. 

“I’m doing alright, just meeting some friends,” answered Rob as his nostrils drew in a deep breath which he almost instantly regretted. He knew the smell now. It was the scent of musk, a sweaty and strong aroma that almost felt like it was weighing him down. Rob frowned, cringing at the scent and already thinking how uncomfortable it was to have to be in this the whole ride. “Uh can I turn the window down?” 

“It doesn’t work,” replied Sanjar, although Rob had the suspicion he was lying. “Why, does it not smell good in here?” Sanjar laughed. Rob resisted the urge to frown and just forced a smile, laughing awkwardly.

“Yeah no it’s fine, just like fresh air,” said Rob as he shifted in his seat. He tried so hard not to breathe in the musk, even when he tried to breathe through his mouth he could still smell it and now almost taste it too. Sanjar just nodded as he glanced over at Rob in the rear-view mirror and for a moment, Rob swore that he saw the man smirk before he blinked and the man was focusing back on the road. 

“Yes, well don’t worry, just enjoy it.” The words felt a little odd to Rob, especially as he saw Sanjar smile at him in the rearview mirror once more. Perhaps he just meant that he should enjoy the ride. But then he heard the man mutter something else. “Iha jaladī hī śurū hō jāvēgā.” 

If only Rob knew the words, then perhaps he might have been clever enough to check himself over. Instead, he never could see that as he continued to smell the musk, his nose had begun to darken, tanning into a rich brown as the nostrils flared and expanded. The nose had started to jut out, growing larger and slightly longer, the very tip of the nose slightly curved downwards as the bridge pushed forward. 

Rob shifted. It was as if his larger nose was adding a weight to his face, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint it, not even as he continued to smell the deep and enriching musk that he could almost taste it. His lips were next to begin their change, thickening ever so slightly. The musk had been bad enough before, but now it was starting to make Rob feel stranger, lightheaded and…horny?

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself as he glanced down, furrowing his brows. The same brows had started to suddenly turn from brown to black as they started to get hairier and thicker. However, it wasn’t his nose, his lips, or his brows that were grabbing his attention, instead, it was his cock. Rob had to admit, he was slightly embarrassed by his size of five and a half inches. 

But he didn’t need a ruler to know that his dick was significantly bigger than it normally ever was. The cock was pressed up against his shorts, so slick with pre-cum that it had begun to soak the fabric and he could almost see the bulbous head of his member through his clothes. He couldn't even focus before he saw the cock throb again, causing him to bite back a moan.

“Are you okay back there?” Sanjar asked and Rob could only look up and quickly nod, not even sure if he could cover his crotch without running the risk of it throbbing and touching his hands, making him leak out even more as he was sure pleasure would spike from the sensitive and growing member.

“Mmf- fine,” Rob managed to strangle out just as the car bumped. He didn’t know for certain, but once again he could sense some amusement coming from the driver, just the slightest glimpse of a smile. But then his cock throbbed again, his growing member that made him unable to focus on anything but his body. “Uh how long until we get to the ਹਵਾਈ ਅੱਡਾ?” 

Rob clenched his throat, just in time to feel it beginning to change too. The tanned tone that had already overtaken most of his face was starting to crawl down his neck. 

It was only then that he could feel three things, arousal, his thickening neck, and his lengthening fingers sprawling across his throat. He looked down to see that his fingers were slowly beginning to get tanned and larger as he looked wide-eyed as both hands enlarged, the palms stretching and the tanned tone spreading down his arms.

“W-Wha- What the ਗੰਦ?!” Rob wanted to scream or to reach out and get the hell out of the car. But his hands couldn’t. They moved all with a mind of their own as the hands started to slowly trace down his body. “O-Oh god n-no please ਮੇਰੀ ਮਦਦ ਕਰੋ!” He whined and whimpered as the sleeves of his shirt began to tear, ripping from the increased mass of his new biceps. The muscles burned as the tissue continued to rapidly break and heal as it thickened with newfound strength. For a moment Rob Raj thought he could use the strength to his advantage to… “Wait…Wha…My name…I’m…” 

“Raj don’t worry, just relax,” Sanjar chuckled as Raj Rob looked up in confusion. Suddenly the seatbelt had grown tighter over his chest, his pecs inflating as they pushed forward. He  grabbed at his head, grunting and grinding, moaning and whimpering as his cock continued to leak out so much pre-cum that his leg was stained as if he had come undone already. “You are going to be such a ਚੰਗਾ ਮੁੰਡਾ.” 

Rob Raj didn’t know what was odder, the fact that his name was ping-ponging between Raj and…uh…what was it? Ron? Rick? Ro…something. It was either that or the fact that he knew what the Punjabi meant, and started to be able to discern the words as if it was a second language. Or his mother tongue. 

But what was ultimately worse was how he not only knew what the words meant, but the effect they had on him. He suddenly moaned out loud, cock constantly throbbing, so much so that it felt as if it was vibrating as it continued to spurt pre-cum.

Those words, ਚੰਗਾ ਮੁੰਡਾ, good boy. 

“F-Fuck what ਤੁਸੀਂ ਮੇਰੇ ਨਾਲ ਕੀ ਕਰ ਰਹੇ ਹੋ?!”

What are you doing to me?!

Raj hadn’t even realised that he’d leaked so much of himself out of his thick and tanned cocky that he was barely even speaking English, even those words started to have a different accent, sounding more like the way Sanjar spoke. 

“Oh you are becoming perfect,” Raj could only gulp as he knew that Sanjar was speaking Punjabi, but that he continued to find his legs stretching and growing. By no the pressure had reached all the way down to his feet, causing him only able to communicate through incoherent moans and groans as the toes started to push out against his shoes. 

“Please…can’t…Fuck!” The feet pulsed and burst out of the footwear, practically disintegrating his own socks. But not his shoes. Instead, Raj could start to see his shoes were turning into something else entirely, almost melting down as they rearranged and shifted, darkening from white trainers into deep brown sandals exposing his hairy and large feet. Musk continued to fill the car as his chest and pits only continued to grow hairier and as if on some command, dark hairs sprouted over his feet.

“Yes, we’re almost there,” Sanjar spoke, the words coming out in Punjabi now and sounding so natural, so easy for Raj to understand. It was less like a fluent language and more like his mother tongue because it was. He couldn’t even remember speaking much English until he moved to the country. All his memories, things that made him him were leaking out, replaced with something else entirely as Raj felt himself drooling, both from his lips and his cock. “Tell you what, if you can say your name in English honey, I’ll turn you back.” “My…Name…Name uh…” Raj couldn’t help it. “Name is…Name…Raj-” And just then, before he could even take another breath, he exploded in pleasure. His cock throbbed and came so much that Raj wasn’t just having a first or second or third orgasm, but instead one continuous torrent of pleasure as he bucked in his seat, spasming with each and every spilling of his seed. 

The pleasure overwhelmed him, made his eyes roll into the back of his head so fast that Raj thought he’d just shut them tight. He couldn’t feel the leather of the car seat anymore or the confusion and panic of the change or even the strong musk emanating from both himself and the hot driver.

As the final facet of his new life settled in, Raj opened his eyes at the sound of the man.

“We’re here.” Raj blinked and looked out, to see that he was at a home…for some reason he didn’t recognise it before he blinked and remembered that of course, it was his own. “Wasn’t that a lovely drive?” “Mmm definitely, I’ll give you a tip,” Raj assured as he smiled at the driver and looked down at his app, seeing the ride was complete and leaving the largest tip he could for the man. “There you go.” “Thank you very much and thanks for using DriveU,” Sanjar said as Raj stepped out of the car and into his new changed life, another satisfied customer. 

There was a ping as his phone vibrated and Sanjar looked at the phone, seeing that a few customers were wanting a ride to an Italian restaurant. He accepted the ride and started to drive over, wondering just how hot the men would look as Mediterranean himbos on holiday from Sicily. Either way, there were some more customers out there that needed to be driven and driven to change, just like his last customer.

If you want to read more stories like this, then be sure to check out nearly 100 TF/hypnosis stories here. Enjoy!

Subcontinental Promotion

Hotshot asshole loses out on a promotion to a workplace enemy and lands an apparently one way ticket to their branch abroad. Perhaps en route to India he'll learn a thing or two about decency, or if nothing else a lesson or two about being a man.

Quite like the way this one turned out! Probably the favorite piece of my own writing in some time! I hope you all enjoy it similarly! -Occam

“I hope you understand Samuel, at the end of the day he just trusts me more.” Everett made no attempt to hide the smarmy expression on his face as he broke the news to Sam. In response the exec could only sit there and stew, Everett was now directly above him and any further words spoken against his now boss were sure to only exacerbate their already long strained relationship.

After working together at RC-Tech for years it’s a wonder the two haven’t been physically at each other’s throats. The corporate ladder is quite the crab bucket, and Sam ever so much enjoys the cutthroat nature of their top floor world. Born too late to be a warrior but just on time to be a man in a suit making ruthless calls and shooting down others seeking to make their own ascent. Little does he know as he stares at Everett, mentally pleading for the power to blow up the man’s head, that his corporate coup de grace is already set in motion.

“It’s just a question of loyalty, you understand Sam. Derrickson thought I was a better fit for VP because I’m not, well you know, a cruel sack of shit.” Sam rolled his eyes at Everett’s self-appraisal before shrugging at the description of himself. It’s what he was hired to be, better to be the boot than what’s underneath it. His ears perk up despite himself as Everett continues. “After all, we’ve got the perfect opportunity lined up for your advancement Samu-”

“Cut the shit Everett. Just spit it out.” Everett stares down at the man absolutely unphased, as if he were looking at a caged animal. He’s grown adept at tuning out his now subordinate’s voice and as the moment grows nearer he finds himself growing giddy at the idea that he’ll never have to do so again. On the other side, Sam struggles not to go ballistic as glee becomes unmissable in Everett’s words. “The boss was concerned about our Indian account and I told him I knew the perfect man for the job.”

India. Sam has never been all too respectful of other American cultures. For him to day in day out be knowledgeable and understand of people a world away is beyond the perpetually egotistical man. It is, as intended, a death knell for his career. He clenches his jaw tight enough that Everett worries he may burst a blood vessel then and there. The boss’ grin quivers as he sees rage beyond rage rise in Sam’s eyes. He opens his mouth, presumably to scream any number of things at Everett, or perhaps to refuse. Instead he simply takes a deep breath and nods.

Everett’s chair creaks as he sits back in reticent thought. He had quite expected Sam to up and fold, quit immediately and never turn back. Still, Everett held out hope that he’d be cocky enough to give it a go. The man couldn’t wait to see his plan for Sam shift into high gear. He pulls out a contract describing Sam’s new role on the team and lays it in front of him. 

All this time Sam has been doing some calculus of his own. He could come back from this, India’s the fucking largest honey pot RC-Tech could have really. If he rejuvenates their HQ over there he’d have Everett singing his graces to Derrickson on the daily. His eyes dart across the fine print noticing little out of the ordinary at all about the job, ‘you will help merge our cultural identities’ blah blah ‘promote growth’  yada yada yada. Samuel does however tilt his head at the dotted line, the name written underneath is not his own but some ‘Shamir Rajput.’ He wordlessly looks up at Everett who shrugs and coyly says “Misprint.”

As fucking if. Probably some temp they were gonna send over in his stead. Sam taps his foot with haste as he mulls over the best move, he asks a question just to confirm the obvious, “If I don’t accept this I’m fired right?” “Oh yes absolutely, out of here faster than you can say Uttar Pradesh!” Sam grimaces thinking about what an uphill battle he will face to get his revenge. That will make it all the more satisfying when he succeeds.

His hand glides to sign. He starts to write and realizes he accidentally began to copy the name written underneath ‘Sha-’ before promptly crossing it out and writing his own. ‘Samuel Thomas’ Everett’s grin flickers wider as he watches what is sure to be only the first of many little peculiarities just like that in Sam’s immediate future. He can barely control himself as he pictures his tormentor losing himself. His thoughts are interrupted before he can spend too much time delighting in the beginning of the end of Sam as he tosses the signed contract across the desk.

“Wonderful!” Everett claps his hands and his assistant comes in with a car full of books and other miscellanea to ‘ease his transition’ to living in India. Lying on top of it all is a clean and fancy looking kurta. Sam almost laughs at the idea that he would wear that, biting his tongue as he realizes there is just as great an uphill battle to be waged in his own psyche. Turns out if you’re a chauvinistic asshole for years you won’t grow decency even if it’s in your self interest.

“You’ll fly out at the end of the week just so you’re aware.” Sam scowls at Everett thinking about uprooting himself in a week, on top of scrounging together what little knowledge he can on the subcontinent. Everett assures him, “Oh and don’t you worry about your affairs stateside, I’m sure they’ll take care of themselves shortly.” Sam scrunches his face and mentally jumps across the desk to pounce on the man. In reality he takes yet another lump and starts to page through one of the many books of recommended reading.

Sam continues reading for a minute or two, already finding a rising interest in Indian culture that even with his commitment to vengeance is surprising. After not long at all Everett clears his throat and motions to the door. Sam blushes and uncharacteristically apologizes to his senior. Shaking his head as disdain returns to his mind as he steps out the door, what the fuck is up with that. He turns to see Everett wave farewell with a guarded smile as the door closes behind him.

This challenge set, Sam puts his head down and bucks up. At every opportunity the man tells himself he is motivated by revenge against Everett, working hard to pretend that he is not instantly absorbed any time he opens a book on the culture. All too soon he finds a burgeoning respect, and almost affection, for his soon to be expatriated country. Though any ground gained is of course not a flame to the adoration he has for his own nation. He continues day in and out reading the texts given to him by RC-Tech, pouring himself into his studies with a fervor.

About halfway through the week Sam notices something bizarre begin to happen. It’s almost as if his hair is darkening. He is certainly going outside less, hitting the books from dawn to dusk, but would one week make such a difference? It also seems as if it’s starting to thicken! Since turning thirty the stress of work had taken a toll on his hairline. He tells himself that perhaps the return to research harkens him back to his undergrad days and his body is responding accordingly. There’s sure to be less stress abroad than sitting in boardroom meetings all day! 

He checks his angles in a mirror and feels a rising pride as he looks at his black locs. Sam can’t help but appreciate the way they fall on his head, growing with far more haste than his hair usually does. God he looks good though. The night before his scheduled departure Everett contacts him to let him know that their branch abroad is expecting him to wear the kurta they sent on the flight. 

Sam’s eyes quickly dart to the garment as he blushes. After his sudden and bizarre appreciation for Indian culture he looks at it no longer with judgment but some kind of strange eagerness to have it on. He knows it’s just an everyday piece of clothing but as he feels it it’s like a woman holding her wedding dress. He informs Everett of his acquiescence, calling the man Sir in the correspondence, which his boss takes no small amount of delight in. That night Sam dreams of his immigrant country, the bustle of the streets, spice filling the air, the feel of that kurta against his skin. 

His morning preparations go off without any great hitch. He pauses looking in the mirror as it seems his usually light facial hair seems to be coming in darker as well. He decides to shave after the flight though, not like he’ll be in the office today. He packs extremely light, the bulk of his luggage being equipment for work and some of the supplementary books given to him. 

En route to the airport he’s listening to a podcast by some Indian-American immigrants to better understand the accent. He decided against learning their language but made a good deal of effort to ensure he would always understand their accent and slang. He laughs at the idea that he’s spent so much time listening to it he may well develop the accent himself!

On the way to board the plane he notices an issue that could very well send him back to RC-Tech immediately. His name was spelled wrong on the ticket, Shamuel Thomus. He grits his teeth at Everett, sure this is yet another act of retaliation against his subordinate. Nevertheless he crosses his fingers and gives it a go. Security doesn’t stop him and afterwards Shamuel does a double take at his passport and finds it matches the ticket exactly. 

He scrambles between the two trying to figure out where his confusion lay, deciding in the end that he must go by Sham so frequently as to have forgotten his full name. Focussing on that flimsy ground, he neglects to notice his passport photo displaying his full black head of hair and stubble even thicker and darker than he has now. Sham pockets the passport and makes for his boarding zone, swiping through some Hindi influencers on twitter en route.

Sham finds himself understanding their online culture with an ease that fills him with confidence. Everett sure will eat his words when Sham turns this branch against him! Underneath his words though he finds some sick desire to make his boss proud, he promptly roots it out as he clicks his tongue to himself. Grimacing and drilling into himself that Everett only gave him the opportunity as punishment. To think, he would see working in the world’s greatest country as punishment. His blood begins to boil with ire at his boss as beyond his attention his pale skin finally begins to darken.

He sits in the window seat next to two Indian brothers on the flight. The two chat in Hindi and Sham smirks as he sits there reading the Ramayana, proud as he distractedly eavesdrops and catches a word every now and then. Already learning the language without even trying. The sun beats down on him from the window, and despite the heft UV protection his right arm quickly develops a tan worlds darker than the one he left the house with this morning. 

His tan rapidly spreads up his neck and onto his kurta-covered torso. Sham’s mind is already doing double-duty trying to read the epic and listen in on the brothers he can’t help but miss as his hands darken as if his skin were steeping tea. The brothers talk of जिम and व्यायाम, which Sham rapidly translates, his mind dashing to spending time at the gym with the two of them. He shakes it off as bizarre as he finally notices a heat rising in his body where his skin has tanned.

Sham clears his throat as his neck begins to thicken beyond the thin stick it has ever been. The tan spreads below his waist line as his previous goal of keeping weight off his thighs disappears as they begin to grow heavy, large to support an upper body that would make his country proud. He puts the book down as for the first time he takes note of something bizarre happening, why is his kurta uncomfortable all of a sudden?

Looking down he finds the barest hint of muscle forming on his chest as it begins to push against the buttons. His sleeves however look drastically fuller as he moves in his seat, the sound of the garment he oh so adored straining as he makes the slightest move in his seat. The brothers continue to talk of their maxes and conquests as Sham’s own traps push against his clothes, as if he were right there with them. He feels callouses from time spent in the gym form on his palms as they change from those of a perpetual typist to one who never passes a जिम gym without entering. 

His eye twitches as his mind continues to understand the brother’s conversation better by the second. His pale blue eyes glaze over as he sits, the sapphire color he has been proud of rapidly darkening to the brown of coffee as his skin finishes staining the color of chai.

He hears them start to begin talking of their lovers and his own package pulses at the idea. At this he audibly grunts and they go silent, turning to look at him in concern, “अरे भाई, तुम ठीक तो हो? (Hey bro are you okay?)” Sham does a sigh heavier than he intended as he tries to wave them off, “Yes yes.” he pauses as his eyes widen hearing his voice has somehow grown deeper. It must be the altitude, or something, messing with his mind. His voice just sounds deeper, or something. “I’m alright, thank you for checking.” That however does not begin to explain the slightest hint of an accent sneaking into his cadence.

The brothers smile as they look at the man wearing a kurta, they would’ve sworn it was some white guy just appreciating their culture but now that they look closer they can only see a fellow bharati. They quickly rope him into their conversation, introducing themselves as Nitant and Ardash. Less than aware of what languages their new friend speaks they stick with English as they start to chat. Beginning where they left off they start talking about going to the gym and returning to their partners after. Sham again feels something in his chest burn as his pecs pulse and strain his kurta. Even more pressing than that, he feels his cock push up against his robe as he too begins to feel the passion that seizes him after a workout begins to brew.

Despite the best efforts of his balls as they pulse and grow with lust, an existential fight or flight takes control of his mind and Sham endeavors to steer the conversation back to his own ends. Centering himself, he feels an itch on his face as he begins to explain his own situation. He tells the brothers of his new position and asks what the duo know about his new homeplace. 

With this his mind is able to return to what is important to him, doing his company proud, and sticking it to, uh, someone. He continues to scratch at his face as the brothers explain their homeland to him. His smile is soon enough haloed by stubble darker and thicker than he could ever imagine. Listening to them discuss their childhood Sham twitches as his own memories begin to be overlaid. Malls become bustling marketplaces. Memories of sitting through oppressive sermons change to walking through stunning temple complexes.

It’s quite a resource to finally talk with other men actually of the culture he’s moving into. Feeling his face in his hands as his jawline sharpens underneath the still spreading beard he wonders why he never did so before, something in his mind feels a stubborn pride that he doesn’t need anyone to tell him about India. After all, it's where he’s from right? He does a spit take as the thought appears, obviously that’s not right. One of the brother’s grabs his shoulders in concern once more, “Shami!?” 

No, that's not right. He’s American born and bred. He’s always been proud of his white identity, whatever that means. His newfound appreciation of Indian culture won’t change that. Ignoring the brown hands holding his phone he quickly goes through it looking for confirmation of his own identity, he scrolls past apps he doesn’t remember downloading and goes straight to images. There he is struck a blow that he would never come back from. Shami stares at images of himself at a जिम gym just as he imagined when he was eavesdropping on the brothers. Behind him a picture of the Indian flag His- No! Not his flag. He is distracted before he can dispute the idea anymore, red white and blue are rapidly replaced by saffron and India green.

Scrolling down further he finds quite a few more explicit photos of himself that he must have sent to someone, or more likely someones. He smirks at the idea of sending photos of his brown dick to others after steamy workouts. God he’s a horny बेवकूफ़ fucker. Nitant looks over his shoulder at his phone and shakes him a bit in excitement “Bro! पवित्र बकवास! Holy Shit! You look so good, I bet the ladies are all over you.” He pauses as Shami continues scrolling in shock, looking for anything to remind him of himself. Doing so he passes nudes from a good deal of other men, “Fuck, or the men राजा king.”

At this point a stewardess comes with their meals. Shami balks as he sees that he ordered a burger. His stomach turns as the idea of eating meat makes him sick. But that can’t be right can it? His mind races through years of meals. Times he would’ve sworn he had steaks to celebrate sales and mergers. Having burgers just like this one, hot dogs at baseball games, pepperoni pizza while moving. Landmark meals he was sure he had meat at. Or no that can’t be right? The memories remain present, though not unchanged. There is a tidal wave in his mind as any memory of meat touching his tongue vacates, obviously. He’s alwasye been a vegetarian. Even the hamburger sitting before him changes into a veggie burger as he heartily bites into it without pause. 

Whatever is left of the man who sat in the boardroom continues to cede ground as Shami chats with the brothers. He struggles to keep up a hardwall, refusing to talk of the gym as his body yearns to flex further and rip his prized kurta, now seeming more like an everyday piece of fashion to him. He’s got more at them after all, his eye twitches. Shami scrambles for an out and decides to pretend to sleep the rest of the flight. He ignores the itches that begin to rise from his armpits and crotch as they surely begin to grow thick black body hair the likes of which he somehow knew he shouldn’t have. 

As he sits and stews, trying to pay no attention to his thick thigh rubbing against his seat partner, he realizes that this must be Everett’s doing. His mind barely recalls signing the contract, the name on it not his own Shamir not Shami, and the words within. Pledging to help merge their cultural identities. His brows furrow as they thicken in his fake rest. That मूर्ख fucker! This has been some sick trap and sitting next to these उल्लू lunkheads has rotted his mind, just as Everett surely wanted. His eyes strain as his mind scrambles for salvation.

Upon landing some twenty hours after hopping on board, Shami struggles through the airport. Everyone first speaks to him in Hindi, only switching to English after he claims to be American. Though their eyes remain narrowed as he speaks that forced foreign tongue with an accent they find all too familiar. He says farewell to Nitant and Ardash, fighting the urge to offer to hit the gym with them as he departs. 

Exiting the airport he hops into a taxi and heads off to find his new accommodations. He fights with all he can against the sense of familiarity that being in the taxi brings him, spices that should not be familiar to him bringing back memories of a childhood he did not have. The faces of his parents abstracted as his father suddenly has a beard that Shami always one day hoped he would have himself. His mother’s home cooked curry filling the house with an unmistakable scent that he has long missed during his time in America. Flavors he swore he’s only read about dance across his tongue as his mind can’t help but grow eager to relive the nation’s non-diasporic cuisine.

Looking at his hands holding his luggage as hair begins to snake from underneath his kurta just as it so proudly adorns his face. His sense of masculinity grows affirmed as the taxi driver talks to him of his own strapping boys, the lives they lead and how proud they make him. He feels his balls surge with virility as he hears of their exploits at construction sites and in boardrooms alike. Everything Shami knows to be true warps as he listens to the driver.

His arms grow even larger, finally sending tears down the kurta as the man discusses his firstborn foreman. Pride burns in his chest for his job and for his boss as the driver points to a picture of an executive all similar to himself. Shami squirms as his balls grow and demand even more attention as the driver discusses his grandchildren, laughing as he suggests Shami should not always focus on his work. Hair grows on his muscular chest as he nears his destination and he bolts out, leaving the driver with more than enough fare as Shami sprints into the apartment block, desperately in need of release.

Cooped up on a plane for nearly a full day, Shami makes his way up to his new apartment without a second’s pause to realize he somehow knows the way. His larger thighs blast up the stairs as his body produces a new odor, one that beautifully mingles with the heavy spice sifting through the air from each and every apartment. Making use of his body’s new power he wrenches open his apartment door and slams it behind him rushing into the bathroom. He tears off his torn kurta and cannot help but stare at his own body.

He flexes at himself in the mirror as his cock stands to full attention, pubes inching past his waistline as his balls grow heavier at the sight. Pits exposed he takes a deep breath of his own BO and almost loses control then in there. The remains of his American mind barely keep his hand off his cock in fear that that would be the ball game. His head tilts in his reflection as the idiom he just used almost loses clarity as he retains his English fluency but something deeper wanes even yet as he feels more at home in both his body and, of course, his true home country.

Exiting into his living room Shami finds a goodie basket on the table with a note from Everett, “Namaste Shamir!” Something within him waits for the other shoe to drop, for some reason nervous about the man who left this. After a second glance he is instead wholly overpowered by an affection for his boss. What a sweet gesture after all. “I do hope this finds you well and the flight home wasn’t too bad. I wanted you to have a parting gift of all your favorite American treats from the time you spent here! After all, it will be some time before your return, I wish you the best of luck rejuvenating RC-Tech India, if anyone can do so it would be you Mr. Rajput. Yours, Everett”

Reading the note it’s as if a bell tolls in his mind. Each calculated phrasing by his boss is a final swing against his American identity. His beard grows thick on his face as his Boss calls him by his true name Shamir, giddiness filling his body as it thickens still. Reading of his flight home so matter-of-factly makes it indisputable, this was his home. This has always been his home. America was fine, if not grating. He is beyond happy to be back and as much as he appreciated working directly alongside his boss he feels power surge within him at the idea of leading his own men once more.

“Shamir Rajput” He dreamily says the name out loud and with that everything becomes crystal clear. The life of an all too hotheaded business brute fades from his mind, as well as from the minds of the few who saw him as a loved one. In their wake grows the bharati titan that stands tall in his own living room. He flexes as his mind transitions permanently from thinking in English to his true mother tongue of Hindi, though he has certainly taught himself every Indian dialect he’s come across. What kind of boss would he be if he didn’t make an effort to understand his employees after all.

Shamir disrobes entirely and begins to make for his bed to sleep off the jet lag. He passes photos of his family on the walls and a room solely dedicated to a home gym as he flops onto his bed. In his dreams he stands opposite some scrawny white man that looks familiar but he can’t quite put a name to the face. Shamir asks a question in Hindi and the man’s scowl goes greater, he opens his mouth to surely scream some obscenity but before anything can fall from his vile little mouth Shair blinks and he is gone. In his place is a large mirror, one that Shamir heartily makes use of, flexing at himself and delighting in every angle of his powerful body.

The next morning he awakes a mess in his sheets, not peculiar of course. A man of his vigor, his virility, must deal with release at it comes. Sun lights through the curtains as he stands in stretches, the same sun that woke to in America but here it just seems warmer. He opens his window to let in the sounds of commerce in the streets and to allow the spices mingle with the oppressive body odor he worked up in his sleep. He takes a deep breath and sighs, his heavy pecs bouncing as he scratches at his chest. Today was going to be another wonderful day and he couldn’t wait to make his company, and his boss, proud.

House Party

It was going to be another quiet Saturday night in. No plans expect to curl up and play some video games. Just as you were about to settle down, you hear a knock at your door. You glance at your phone; no messages from any of your friends. Maybe it’s that package you ordered? You swing open the door, only to be greeted by a quartet of shirtless, muscular Indian men.

“Hey man, thanks again for hosting!” one of them says in a thick Indian accent, as he and the rest of them barge past you into your small apartment. They pull out some drinks, turn up your speaker to some music you don’t recognize, and start the party. 

You’re still standing there, a little shocked at this turn of events. You wanted to try to kick them out; tell them you they had the wrong address and to get lost. But, I mean, you didn’t really have any plans anyway. And who were you to break up this happy group of friends?

You stand to the side, watching them dance in almost sexual way against each other. You decide to take a sip of the alcohol they brought; no idea what it is but it tastes amazing! You continue to drink, until one of them pulls you right into the dancing. 

You’re right in the thick of it, dancing with the rest of them. They are avidly chatting in Hindi; you not understanding a word. 

“Everything good man?” Raj asks you, looking a little concerned. 

“Yeah man everything's good!” answer back in Hindi. Wait, since when did you know a word of Hindi? Before you have time to think, Amar hands you another drink and you unthinkingly take a big swig.

“Thanks Amar!” you grin, giving him a playful slap on his bouncing ass. Since when would you do something like that? Something was up, you could tell… you need a break. You manage to sneak off to the bathroom, and the second you get a glimpse at the mirror you gasp.

You are a thick, dark Indian hunk. At least, that’s what your reflection is clearly telling you. But.. you weren’t like this when you woke up right? These big pecs and abs.. thick arms and legs. This massive beard around these plush lips.. I mean there’s no way right? It must be these strange-, you mean, your friends doing this to you. 

You burst back into the main room, only to find them all chilling on the couch. Clearly the party has died down a bit. Amar gestures for you to take a seat, and despite your instincts, you find yourself listening to him. Each of them exchange some sly grins, before slowly pulling down their pants, revealing the fat bulges in their underwear.

They continue, pulling out their hard, thick cocks and start stroking. You are shocked, but to be honest with yourself, much more aroused. You find Raj’s meaty hands on you, helping you join them, as he coaxes out your sexy brown cock, that of course you have.

He starts jacking you off, and you can’t help but let out a deep moan. You find another fat cock in your field of view, and you feel obliged to help him out. Soon everything merges into a sexual blur, each of you is sucking cock, taking cock, making out; its all too much for all of you. You feel a hot load burst out and paint your brown chest white, and that’s all it takes for you to cum as well.

Your mind blanks, post nut clarity hitting you like a brick; reminding you of who you are. You’re Jamsheer, born and raised in India, and a sexy gay muscular hunk who’s always hanging out with his equally sexy and horny friends.

The next morning, you always sleepily wake up, hungover as shit. They all thank you for hosting such a great party, we needed to do this again! Your phone pings, getting a text from this skinny white guy wondering why you weren’t online last night. You grin; you know exactly who’s going to be hosting the next party.

I've love to go to one of those house parties! I hope that the group likes hairy guys, though..

Oh, they don’t like hairy guys.. they love them! Speaking of which, I already tipped them off that they had another guy eager to host one of their legendary parties; and based on that loud knocking at your door, seems like they are already there!

You eagerly let them in, and they bustle past you, quickly setting up the music and booze. It’s not long till they convince you to join them; you’re drinking, dancing, and grinding against them.

As you do, you manage to catch yourself changing. Skin getting darker, a coat of wiry black hairy expanding across your ever increasing pecs. Then, a burst of hair all over your face where a nicely trimmed beard nestles itself onto you. You manage to take a break from the party to snap a picture of the new you and send it to me.

Looking good man! But your new friends aren't done with you yet! You walk back into the room, only to find everyone staring at you hungrily. Jamsheer approaches you first, staring deep into you before hungrily locking you in a kiss; beards meshing and tents rubbing against each other. 

Raj is next, eagerly helping you out of your clothes, exposing both your hairy ass and your hardening dark cock. Amar crawls towards you, taking that fat dick into his mouth and sucking you off like a pro. Raj bends down, beginning to eat away at your hole.

It continues on like this, the three of them servicing and worshiping your body; that is, until you feel a stirring in your fat nuts. You explode into Raj, cumming deep down his throat. The rest of them follow, covering you in their cum, claiming you as the latest member to the group.

You knew who you were now; Sanjay, the hairiest of this horny group. You had always been this sexy, hairy, Indian man; all you needed was a little help from your friends to realize it.

And to the rest of you reading, wishing they had paid you a visit instead, don’t you worry. They’ll be at your door soon enough, partying with you, changing you into the perfect Indian stud you never knew you really always were.

Hey man! Love what you've got going on with your blog and helping people out! Would love to see what else is out there for me, love a good race tf personally!

- TF Lover

Hey there! Thanks so much for your kind words about my blog and the unique content I share. I'm always happy to help spark people's imaginations!

As you know, my current setup relies on peering into alternate realities via this custom-built multiverse gazing machine (which is a long story!). While full transformations aren't yet possible with my current tech, I've been able to capture some fascinating versions of yourself from other dimensions. Here are three such glimpses:

First up, meet yourself as a young Indian man from another reality.

In this version of yourself, you are a skinny and nerdy-looking young man in your early 20s. You have long dark hair, bright brown eyes framed by thick glasses, and your face sports quite a bit of facial hair that you trim to look tidy.

You work as a software engineer at a large tech company in the heart of Silicon Valley making the big money. When you're not coding away, you love to play video games at home in your pajamas and eat junk food while binge-watching anime series.

-

Next up, meet your Japanese popstar doppelganger:

In this reality you're dressed to impress in a tailored ensemble that accentuates every sculpted muscle beneath. Your brownish hair is perfectly coiffed, contrasting with porcelain skin and dark piercing eyes. The confident smirk that usually plays on your lips suggests you know exactly how captivating you look.

Under the glare of the lights, every inch of your lean physique seems to shimmer with an otherworldly allure. Your jeans hug the swell of your ass as you move fluidly across the stage, commanding the audience's attention with every sway and thrust. The energy is electric - you can almost hear the collective sighs of adoration from the crowd!

-

Finally, across yet another dimensional divide, we can find yourself tapping into your nordic roots:

In this reality, you exude a quiet confidence that commands respect. Your piercing blue eyes seem to bore into everything you look at, and that strong jawline is accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard. The way your body fill out your clothes makes other people wonder what other assets lie beneath...

Beneath that buttoned-up exterior lies a beast waiting to be unleashed - a physique sculpted through grueling gym sessions, where muscles ripple and flex as you pour sweat. Just imagine the raw power coiled within those piercing blue eyes...

-

These glimpses offer just a taste of the incredible diversity possible across the multiverse. Who knows what other versions of yourself await discovery? As I work on my timeline converger, maybe one day I'll be able to share the gift of full transformations with you and others. Until then, I hope these alternate realities inspire you into achieving the best of you!

Shukriyaa Bhai! Ah, vhat a breath of fresh airr do quit smoking! You must let me redurn dhe favorr. Let us see, how did dhat otherr person change you? Ah yes, the "Change my interlocutor" setting.

Chod! I dhink I made you biggerr dhan me! Ah vell, I like having another muscular tattooed desi around. Bud don't go dhinking you arre the strongest, Bhai. Ve'll wrestle forr dhat ditle!

Salam, Akhi. Make explanation for me. Why my Chronivac says I was changed twoice today. Now my memory of the changes ees, eh, 50/50. But I saw two support articles from you of hackers making men Arabs, and then someone accidentally using the alpha Arab preset. I admit my current body ees very noice, but I would like to become my proper body, if you blease.

Oh yes, there has indeed been quite a lot mixed up today…. And it will take the Chronivac team quite a while to sort it all out again.

It's a bit difficult to reconstruct everything, but according to my records, this should have been your original body. I put some muscles on it. As an apology. And the tattoos are also free.

Now you should speak excellent Hindi and Indian influenced English again. And I have also stopped you smoking. I hope everything else is fine again. If you have any wishes or questions, please contact me!

Harvey Gives Fashion Advice

< Previous Part | Next Part >

Harvey still had time before his next class, so he headed straight for his dorm. Harry's bed was topped with cardboard boxes, and Harry himself was rummaging through his wardrobe. He would evaluate individual items before deeming they were no good and tossing them behind him. "Dude, I've been gone for a few hours, are you still trying to find something to wear?" Harvey asked his room mate.

"Oh, Honey, I already picked out a casual outfit for the day" Harry replied without taking his eyes off his clothes. "That's what I wore to pick up all those boxes."

"By the way, what is all this stuff?" Harvey sat on Harry's bed and peeked inside the boxes. It was a mix of decorations, papers, and small items that looked like they could be used for games.

"Those are the supplies for tomorrow's Queer Student Union meeting. As secretary it was my job to pick them up from storage."

"So why are you changing again?"

"And repeat an outfit on the same day? Hell no. There's an executive meeting with all the Queer Student Union's leaders tonight, so I need to look my best."

"Sheesh, I'm glad I'm not a member of your gay club" Harvey sighed, "If I spent as much time on clothes as you did, I'd never get out of this dorm."

"Oh shut up" Harry said, tossing a shirt he was looking at onto his bed, "I bet I spend less time on clothes than you do styling that ridiculous pompadour" Harry ran his fingers through his own curly hair, then turned around to face his room mate, finally seeing that Harvey was wearing a patka, "Or at least, how much time you usually spend on it. That thing on your head is new. Is it some kind of fashion statement?"

"Huh?" Harvey placed his hands on top of his head, feeling cloth where he expected to feel gelled hair. "I thought I took this thing of last night. Did I tie it back on this morning?"

"What are you mumbling about?" Harry turned back to his wardrobe, "instead of making fashion statements like that, I wish you were a fashion guru. I could use some advice." Harry grabbed a pink scarf and wrapped it around his neck. He considered it for a moment before tossing it towards the bed like all the rest. This time, it landed on Harvey's head.

The scarf wrapped itself around Harvey's patka, forming a pink UK-style turban. "Wait… this is just like with Gurpreet's table cloth. Was- was that real? It is happening again!?" While Harvey was expressing a great deal of panic, the texture of his face became smoother, and his cheek bones were more pronounced. All of his hair once again darkened to a shade of black. His mustache thickened, covering his upper lip, and his beard grew to his collar in a squared off shape. To maintain this shape it was not cut, but rather well maintained. Harvey winced, expecting to bloat into a fat man like before. Instead, he grew a bit taller and slimmed into a model physique. He got that warm feeling again as his skin turned an Indian hue, a bit darker than Harvey's normal time, but a good amount lighter than previously. His features changed slightly to be more telling of a Punjabi man, but it was unmistakably Harvey's face.

Finally the rest of his clothes were altered. He was wearing a light blue silk button up with grey wool trousers and brown leather shoes. A tricolor, diagonally striped long tie appeared around his collar. A pink scarf, matching his new turban, hung from his neck, and a dark navy suit jacket topped his shoulders. Harvey looked at his arms in disbelief, his wrists were decorated with a gold watch on the left and an iron Kara bracelet on the right. "Am I imagining things again? Why is it so different this time?"

"So Harpinder" Harry started, as if Harvey hadn't said anything just now. He was holding up two shirts, one in each hand, "Which do you think would look better on me tonight?"

"What are you talking about, Harry?" Harvey realized this was just like with Gurpreet. Harvey, or Harpinder as he was now, seemed completely normal to Harry. "You never ask me for advice about clothes."

"I just didn't want to bug you with my day to day stuff" Harry admitted, a bit embarrassed "you're such a famous fashion influencer after all. I'm sure you have more important things to do." Just then Harvey got a notification on his phone, actually he was receiving several. He unlocked it and the phone opened to a photo-sharing social media app. Instead of his usual profile, he was logged into @sikhstyleguru under the name Harpinder Singh. The page looked like it was regularly updated with photos of Harvey as he appeared now, wearing a variety of fashionable suits and street wear. Scrolling down, Harvey figured this page had to have been active for a few years, which should have been impossible because he only transformed a few weeks ago. Was reality changing? Is that why no one thought his sudden changes were odd? Either way, Harvey took this as proof that he wasn't imagining things, he really had become a Sikh man.

He tapped on his most recent photo, the one he was getting notifications for. The like count was already well above three thousand and still ticking up. Comments included phrases like "waheguru" followed by praying hands emoji and "Att" with the fire emoji. "I really am a fashion influencer" Harvey said to himself.

"That's why I'm asking you, you know better than anyone" Harry said. Harvey was confident he'd be able to return to normal, as he had before. For now he decided he would play along with Harry's vision of him, as it would be useless to try and convince Harry that he was someone else. Still, Harvey's idea of a good outfit was a white tee and black jeans, hardly the wisdom that Harry was expecting. He decided he should just answer truthfully. "Honestly, Harry, I don't think either of those shirts would work." Harpinder stroked his hairy chin while thinking, "If you're going to meet with other leaders of your organization, you yourself should look like a leader. I think I can lend you something." He turned to his own wardrobe and saw that it was replaced by a pop-up closet. Due to the dorm's restricted space, it was smaller than any proper closet would be, but it still had enough rack space to hold Harprinder's many suits, with drawers at the bottom for the rest of his clothes. He picked out a deep blue dress shirt, a vibrant yellow dress tie, brown slacks, and matching black leather belt and dress shoes. Harry quickly changed and the items fit surprisingly well on him, despite belonging to someone else.

"This is awesome, I've never had a suit I liked this much" Harry was checking himself out from a few different angles.

"It's all about finding the right fit. Now you look ready for business" Harprinder grinned. Harry threw his arms up and gave Harpinder a big hug. He chuckled and hugged back, "Easy there, try not to wrinkle my shirt too much." Harpinder impressed even himself with his wisdom. Maybe this fashion influencer thing wouldn't be too hard. Once Harry had let go, apologizing for any wrinkles he might have caused, Harpinder turned back to his closet and considered his next move. He thought Harry's outfit could use a little something more to truly stand out. He grabbed two cloths from his closet. "Hold still Harry, I just need to add one last touch." Harpinder first tied the blue cloth around Harry's head into a patka. Harry did as he was told and didn't stop Harpinder, but he was still visibly uncomfortable.

"You know, Harp, these turbans look really good on you. I'm just think this is weird on a white guy like me."

"Nonsense, you just need to see it all together" Harpinder tied the yellow cloth into a morni pagg turban. Then he used a salai needle to smooth out the folds. "See? Isn't that better?"

Harry looked at himself in their dorm's mirror, turning his head to check a few different angles. "I guess so…" Harry saw his face turn a darker shade of brown and became delighted. "Yes! This vibrant yellow does go well with my skin tone. That was a good choice, Harpinder" Harry said in a Punjabi accent.

Harpinder nodded, "Now we must do something about your hair."

"But all of my hair is under my dastaar" then a short chinstrap of curly black hair grew on Harry's previously bare face.

"Obviously I meant your facial hair" Harpinder chuckled, using a wooden comb to remove the tangles in Harry's new beard.

"Ah, that is much better" Harry admired his Punjabi features in the mirror.

"I'm glad I could help" with this task complete, the pink turban on Harpinder's head unspooled and returned to being a simple pink scarf. Harpinder himself reverted to being Harvey, and his pop up closet disappeared, leaving behind Harvey's original wardrobe. The only thing that didn't turn back to normal was the now Sikh Harry. "Woah, who are you!?"

"Harvey you are so sweet. Pretending you don't recognize me because I look so much better in this suit? I'm flattered" Harry winked.

Harvey recognized that jokingly flirty attitude, "Harry, is that you?"

"It's pronounced Harri, you know that. Anyways, thank you for helping me pick out an outfit, I'll have to return the favor some time. But for now, I'm off to meet my felllow Queer Student Union leaders" Harri lifted the boxes from his bed and made his way to the door of the dorm.

"You can't leave, there's something wrong!"

"The only thing wrong here is that a cute guy like you is still only wearing a patka. Before the next Sikh Student Alliance meeting I am going to have to tie the most handsome dastar on you. See ya!" And with that, Harri blew a kiss and left the dorm.

"No, Harry, wait!" But it was too late, Harri was gone. "This is so freaky! First I'm changing, now Harry is too! Did I do that to him?" Harvey took a look at himself in the mirror. "It's got to be because of this patka I got from that Indian club. It's making me look like them!" Harvey tried to yank the black cloth from his head, but it wouldn't budge no matter how he pulled. "It's no use, the thing is tied on like some kind of magic." he sighed. "At least I can take care of you" Harvey said, looking at his short brown beard. Harvey went to his "hair care" drawer. He was pretty obsessed with maintaining a perfect pompadour, so he always kept a drawer stocked with hair scissors, razors, tweezers, an electric shaver, Combs, and his favorite gel. Opening the drawer, he discovered that most of these items were gone! In their place was a wooden comb, a salai needle, some kind of beard oil, and multiple patka cloths. "Where's all my stuff!? I thought I changed back" Harvey slammed the drawer, "I am not giving up that easy, you stupid beard"

Harvey grabbed a pair of office scissors from his study desk and went back to the mirror. They weren't the ideal tool for grooming his beard, but they would have to do. He brought the scissors close to his chin and attempted to cut, but the scissors wouldn't close. "Huh?" Harvey pulled the scissors away from his face and heard the satisfying "snip" of the scissors cutting the air, but as soon as they got close to his face, he couldn't bring himself to close his fingers together. "Are you kidding me? I can't cut my beard either!?"

It had become evidant that whatever magic had transformed Harvey twice today was also preventing him from removing his patka and hair, even in his white form. "I need to find a way to get 100% back to normal, and also prevent future transformations." Harvey thought the best way to do that was to write down everything he knew about his predicament. He grabbed his Religious Studies 372 notebook and started a list on a new page. 1. This all started when those people from the Sikh club tied this patka on my head. 2. I can't take the patka off, except to sleep and shower. Even then, I end up tying it back on without noticing. 3. When fabric touches this patka, I turn into one of those turbanned Indian guys. The table cloth and the scarf had very different results. Maybe the type of cloth matters? 4. When I transform, my personality changes a little bit and my memory gets a bit foggy. I should keep this notebook with me so I don't forget who I really am.

Harvey sighed and closed the notebook. He didn't know much yet, but this was a start. "It goes without saying I need to avoid that Sikh club, even if it does cost me a grade" Harvey checked the time on his phone "can't let my other grades slip though, my break's almost over" Harvey packed his things and marched to his next class, believing that he was temporarily safe from Punjabification.