Redneck Tf - Tumblr Posts

Blood is thicker than water

Peter hated being out in the fresh air. He had hated working on the farm ever since he had had to help his grandparents muck out the barn during the summer vacation. Yes, there weren't many other ways to earn money here in Lincoln now. But Nebraska wasn't Peter's future either. He was very sure of that. His future would be somewhere in New York, Singapore or London. Somewhere where the big money was. That's where he wanted to go. And that was where he belonged.

The job at the local bank wasn't that glamorous yet. But it was the starting point. Working at the cash desk, processing loan applications, it was all just a prelude to the glittering world of investment banking and hedge funds. He was hardworking, he was smart and charming. And he looked incredibly good in a suit.

When the board called him into his office, Peter saw his big moment had come. He adjusted his tie knot, took a deep breath, knocked and entered the office of his top boss. "Peter, good to see you, have a seat!" Mr. Harrison greeted him. "I hear wonderful things from you. I thought it was long overdue to meet you in person." Peter had to make an effort to stay cool. "As you probably know, the head of our corporate client department is being replaced. And even though you're actually a bit young for a position as head of department, I've been advised to consider you." Strike, thought Peter. "However, I have a, shall we say, delicate task… But if you master it successfully, I have no doubts that you are the right man for the job." A few minutes later, Peter wished he had never started at the bank.

The farm he was on his way to belonged to his uncle Cleatus. It had once been his grandparents' farm. His mother's parents' farm. Not the one where he had had the humiliating experience in the cowshed. This was his father's parents' farm. Damn it, he thought to himself. I must have manure running through my veins. I come from a clan of cows. "Anyone home?" he called out as he arrived in the yard between the stables and the house. The farm looked run-down. He hadn't been here for a long time. Suddenly he heard someone loading a shotgun. "I'm not expecting visitors!" Peter heard a harsh voice. Peter turned around and grinned as friendly as he could. "Hi Uncle Cleatus! It's me, Peter" "Peter, damn it, why are you in disguise? You look like an asshole from the bank!" Peter gulped. This was going to be fun. His uncle invited him into the large kitchen. It was dirty and untidy. Peter saw the pile of unopened post. He took a deep breath, declined the offered beer and began: "Uncle Cleatus, I'm actually not here by choice. And let me get straight to the point: I'm one of those assholes from the bank…"

"Junior!" roared Cleatus. "Say goodbye to your cousin!" Peter looked down the barrel of the shotgun. It hadn't gone as well as he had hoped when he told his uncle that the farm would have to be foreclosed. "Junior, now!". The floor shook as Junior approached the kitchen. It was beginning to stink. Slurry, sweat… And then his cousin Junior stood in front of him. A colossus! He took him in his arms and almost crushed him. "Throw him out, the asshole!" Peter lost the ground beneath his feet. Junior carried him out into the yard. And threw him into the mud. He lay in mud, cow shit and manure. Peter picked himself up and turned around. He wanted to protest. But one look in Junior's direction was enough. And he took off in the direction of the town.

Something was strange… Peter should actually feel humiliated and bad. But he was fine. The dirt on his ruined suit was drying. He was sweating in the warm air. He whistled a song. He was doing well. Of course, his uncle's farm hadn't been saved, but at least he hadn't put his own family out on the street. Shit, that wouldn't be worth a promotion on this planet either. He was beginning to develop pride in his grandparents' accomplishments working this land. They had made this country great. That made him very proud. And he was growing, without realizing it, in his suit.

He had parked his car outside on the country road so as not to get it dirty on the muddy dirt track. Peter now stripped out of his dirty suit on the road and sat in the car half naked so as not to soil the seats. The suit lay crusty, but neatly folded, in the trunk. It wasn't the end of the day yet. He had to report to the bank. He needed something to wear. And, given the way he smelled of cow shit and manure, a shower, too. Peter scratched his chin to think. His chin was scratchy. Very scratchy. And his upper arm looked kind of powerful. His cock in his boxer shorts was getting hard. Shit, what was he going to do now? Fortunately, he remembered the workwear store at the entrance to the town. He would find something to wear there. Maybe nothing from an Italian designer. But it would certainly be better than underwear.

The waitress in the store looked as if she was always serving men in their underwear. Peter mumbled that he needed something for the office. The waitress nodded understandingly and said that a guy who was built like him was certainly not the kind of person who would fit into an office. Peter didn't understand, but nodded. "Go into the changing room, I'll bring you something," said the sales assistant. Peter did as he was told. He looked in the mirror. Yes, he was a man who, in his underwear, you would probably expect to see as a construction worker or tree cutter. Arms like his didn't really fit into a shirt. "You look like you have an appointment at the bank," said the sales clerk. "You'll want to look respectable." Peter actually wanted to say that he worked at the bank. But somehow he had the feeling that wasn't true… "Yes, I have a farm to save," Peter replied. "Shit situation," replied the salesman. "Bankers are all vultures!"

When Peter arrived back at his small office, where he was a corporate account manager, he took a deep breath. Yes, he too was a vulture. But not as bad as the money-grabbing careerists up there. He was a passionate banker. He wanted to help people. His people. Before he called Mr. Harrison, he took a deep breath. His huge chest rose and fell. He reeked of sweat in his cheap polyester shirt. And after his visit to the farm, he probably had cow shit in the treads of his rough boots. But he just wasn't the type for penny loafers and Egyptian cotton shirts. He was a guy from Nebraska. Even if he did work in a bank.

The conversation with Mr. Harrison went as Peter had expected. You couldn't expect sympathy from a man like that. And Peter didn't want to work with a man like that again. He had saved hard. His dream had been to buy a house in the suburbs soon. But now there were more important things. One word followed the next in the phone call with Mr. Harrison. Until Peter plucked up his courage and told the vulture to stick his money up his ass. Peter would pay off his uncle's debts. And then turn his back on the bank. He threw his tie in the garbage can. And unbuttoned his shirt. Free! Free at last!

Junior was quite a challenge. His cousin was a few weeks older than him. And he hadn't been softened up by working in the city. But Pete had been living on the farm for a few weeks now and, thanks to his cooperation, there was a silver lining. The auction was off the table. Everything would be fine. And at the next wrestling match in the cowshed, Junior would lose and Pete would win. And the winner would get his cock sucked by the loser. Life on the farm was wonderful!

Spring Break

Noah was pissed. Today was supposed to be the beginning of the best spring break ever. He’d planned a week-long trip with his college friends to New York City. They’d had it all lined up- museums, restaurants, sightseeing, it was perfect. But about a week before, Noah’s mom had called and delivered devastating news. They were having a family reunion that week. In rural Florida. Attendance was not optional. She’d bought his ticket already and there was no way out.

The day had arrived, and he solemnly made his way to the airport and flew to Tallahassee. They were meeting at his relatives’ place in the Florida panhandle, in the middle of nowhere. He’d been once as a kid and vowed never to go back. After a two hour drive from the airport he made it, driving up a dirt driveway to the massive, yet ramshackle, house in the forest. The next hour was a blur of greeting extended family, most of whom he barely remembered since they tended to stay out here in the country. After that settled down his mom came up to him, clearly very excited about something.

“Noah! You’re not gonna believe this, but since it’ll be a few more days before everyone’s here, your cousins Chevy and Logan are gonna take you out on a hunting trip! Just for a couple days,” she was nearly bouncing off the ground.

Noah groaned. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He had nothing in common with his cousins, and certainly did not want to spend time alone with them out in the swampy wilderness. His mom was not hearing any complaints from him though, and she dragged him out back to reacquaint him with his cousins. Chevy and Logan were chatting with each other on the patio, beers in hand, decked out in the camo hunting gear Noah assumed they lived and slept in. They were only a couple years older than Noah, but looked quite a bit older compared to the baby faced city boy.

“Ayyy Noah! What’s up, it’s been a while man,” Chevy walked over and gave him a bear hug, spilling some beer on his back.

“Hey Chevy, nice to see you too. I heard you guys were uh, taking me out camping,” Noah said unenthusiastically.

“Not just camping my guy!” Logan butted in, “We’re talking full on country backroads hunting boy’s trip! We’ll show you what you’re missing by being cooped up in the city.”

Noah’s heart sank; it was worse than he’d thought. They were gonna drag him out there and make him hunt? He didn’t like killing anything and worse, having to deal with the aftermath. He put on a forced grin since his mother was right there.

“Wow, that sounds real great guys, I can’t wait,” he said through gritted teeth. His subliminal messages to them were entirely lost.

“Hell yes bro! Here’s a pack with some of our extra hunting clothing, you won’t want a whole suitcase out there,” Chevy said, handing Noah a backpack. “We’ve got some extra gear that should fit you, it’s already in the truck. We’ll leave in 30 minutes, so get yourself ready.”

30 minutes?? That was immediate, he wouldn’t even have time to plead his case to get out of it. Begrudgingly he went back inside to get his stuff together. The next thing he knew, it was time. The boys were out front in their pickup truck, the back full of tents, camouflage gear, and who knows what else. Logan laid on the horn.

“NOAHHHHHH! It’s time to scram, let's get outta here!” Logan shouted over the blaring horn. 

Noah groaned, this was setting the tone for the whole trip. He looked at himself in the mirror, the camo pants and hoodie just looked wrong on him. He for sure didn’t want his clothes getting covered in mud though, so he sucked it up and headed out front. Chevy grabbed his bag and tossed it in the back before climbing in shotgun, leaving Noah in the cramped back seats. And with that, they were off.

“There’s a real nice game area ‘bout an hour, hour and a half from here,” Logan said. “We’ll get in, set up a nice camp, then relax. Then at sunrise we’ll start you off with somethin easy, maybe a deer or boar,” he turned and looked at Noah, grinning. 

Noah bounced around in the back of the truck as Logan drove through the forest on bumpy dirt roads. Chevy had put on some country music up front, and they were practically yelling to have a conversation over it. They tried talking to Noah about what he’d been up to, but Noah was sulking and gave only short answers. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky when they pulled off, offroading through some clear land towards a spot they’d clearly been to before. They stopped at a neat little clearing near a creek. It was objectively a beautiful little spot, but Noah was not in the mood to appreciate it, already swatting at mosquitoes swarming him. 

“Alright man, you ever pitch a tent?” Chevy asked Noah. 

“Uh, no, I haven’t”

“Well here, I’ll help ya out,” he said earnestly. “We’ve already got a well used spot here, so first we just lay out this footprint, and here let’s have you start with the poles.”

Noah fumbled around with the metal poles before eventually getting them together. He was frustrated, why would he ever need to know this? Chevy took the poles and got the tent up while Logan was still unloading the back of the truck.

“Alright we’re nearly done, just gotta secure it with these stakes,” he handed them to Noah. “Just stick these through the corner, make sure they’re deep in the ground now.”

Noah took the stakes and tried pushing them into the dirt, but they only made it about an inch in. He tried scraping the dirt away with his hands but that didn’t help. Chevy tapped his shoulder, holding a mallet as a suggestion. They’d just gotten here and already Noah was annoyed despite his cousin’s encouraging attitude. His hands were covered in dirt too, he hated being dirty! And he had no escape from all of it. He stormed off to the water’s edge in a huff while the other two finished putting their site together. The sun was really setting by then.

“Ey Noah!” Logan called, “Come have a beer with us man! We’ve got some chili cookin’ too, ya gotta eat somethin,” he laughed. Noah sighed. There was no point in sulking the entire trip like this, even if he wanted to. He walked back over and pulled a beer out of the cooler they’d brought and sat down.

“It seems his highness has decided to grace us with his presence,” Chevy mocked. Noah chuckled. He’d make it through this, even if it took all the beer in that cooler. The boys ate dinner and talked as the sun dipped below the horizon, with Noah actually giving some substantial answers this time. He was exhausted, having flown in and driven all day. He climbed into his tent to hit the sack. If he’d had a mirror in there, he would’ve noticed what looked like some dirt smeared on his face, just on his upper lip and the sides of his face by his ears.

Noah was abruptly awakened by Chevy shaking him. “Hey bro! It’s just starting to get light out, let’s get moving.” Noah groaned, it was his vacation and he was getting woken up at five something in the morning. He crawled out of his tent, banging his head on the pole; was it really that small last night?  The boys were up and moving already, and Chevy handed Noah a granola bar to eat. “It’s a light breakfast I know, but we don’t wanna miss the prime time of the day,” he said softly.

Despite being exhausted, Noah’s annoyance was fading quickly. Maybe this would be a little bit of fun; at the very least it would be something different from normal. He scratched at his chin, his fingers brushing through the smallest bit of stubble that had sprouted overnight. Noah had never been able to grow facial hair, but for some reason this didn’t alarm him, it felt natural even. He put on his hat to hide his messy hair and began to chow down on that granola bar. As he did, that small amount of stubble began pushing out more, giving Noah a shadow across his jaw. It grew thicker, sticking out further until he had a rough, patchy beard. It made Noah look more natural in his hunting gear, aging him up just a hair. His clothes had also grown less baggy on him, attributing to an extra inch or two in height and some mass he’d never been able to pack on before.

Within a few minutes, they were off, trekking through the tall grass into the brush. Logan guided them to a denser pocket where they set up watch and waited for some wildlife to show up. Logan had told them he knew there were deer that tended to feed nearby, so they just had to be quiet and wait. The tension grew as time passed, and before he knew it, a buck had shown up in the clearing. Chevy had prepared him for this, and he took the shot. The deer went down, and Chevy and Logan cheered.

“Hell yes dude! Nice shot, especially for your first time,” Logan patted him on the back.

Chevy gripped him with joy, “It must be in your blood bro, you’re a natural.”

The adrenaline was coursing through Noah’s veins and to his surprise he was actually having a good time. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t wanted to spend time with his cousins, they were chill, and this was turning out to be better than being cooped up in the house. The three of them carried the animal back, working together to hoist several hundred pounds. The sun was fully up now and it was humid. Sweat ran down Noah’s back, and he could smell the putrid stench coming off Chevy in front of him. He didn’t mind though, after all, that’s what a working man smells like.

The sweat was clinging to Noah’s damp skin, beading on his forehead. As he slogged ahead, carrying this massive weight on his shoulders, his body began to adapt. His twig like arms expanded with new muscle, his thighs exploded with size, and his chest produced an impressive set of pecs before softening with a layer of fat. The sweat and smell really began to soak into his skin, and under his sopping shirt small brown hairs poked up around his nipples. Those soft, small hairs didn’t remain so for long, sprouting from his chest, covering the expanse in a curly rug that was slicked down with sweat. Noah’s stubble was not to be left out, pushing further out of his face. Hairs wriggled out in the gaps between old ones, leaving him with much better coverage on his cheeks. Around his chin it even started to fluff up a little, coarse hairs puffing out.

They finally made it back to their camp, dropping the load and slumping into the chairs they’d left around the fire pit. 

“We’ll have to gut and clean that in a minute, but here champ,” Logan handed Noah a beer. It was cold, and exactly what Noah needed against the oppressive humidity. “Here’s to many more,” he toasted, before chugging his own down. Noah was finally able to take a breather, and thats when he noticed.

He STUNK.

He raised his arms back behind his head, airing them out. The sweat drenched pits aired their stench to the world, but to Noah, he just matched his cousins now. The exposed pits had a few hairs plastered to the skin. As he sipped the beer and relaxed, more wisps of hair shot out from his skin, growing thick and wiry. What started as a few extra hairs quickly blossomed into a thick forest of hairs, tangling together and poking out of the sleeves of his t-shirt. The hairs itched as they grew in, prompting Noah to dig his fingers in there, scratching through the sweaty, smelly hairs. He didn’t question it, as far as he remembered he’d had hairy pits since middle school. The hairs spread out of his pits, connecting to the dense coating on his chest. The rug on his chest had started creeping upwards, reaching with thick tendrils of hair towards his burgeoning beard.

After a short reprieve Noah was back on his feet, jumping at the opportunity to learn from his cousins how to clean their kill. They were eager to teach him, to fold him into their ways. Noah’s distaste for his cousins, the country, hunting, all of it was evaporating. He felt like he had so much in common with them now, how had he never realized? 

The rest of the day Chevy and Logan took Noah on a whole laundry list of activities they’d planned. Fishing, mudding, you name it. All hesitation had disappeared, Noah was in deep now. He kept drinking with the boys, not noticing that his gut was pushing tight against his shirt. In fact, his whole upper body was stretching out. His shoulders pushed out, growing broader. His frame was massive now, bigger than either of his cousins. He stood out on the edge of a pond in the harsh sunlight fishing, his shirt absolutely soaked with sweat that dribbled down his massive back. As it reached his waistband, it began fertilizing the growth of a new patch of hair right above his plump ass. The hairs sprung out of the wet skin, shooting up his spine in minutes. Before long the hairs had spread out across the wide expanse of his lats, pressing against the tight shirt. The fields of hair were thick, dense enough to darken the shade of his skin, and definitely didn’t help with the sweat situation. The hairs continued to spread, climbing over his round shoulders and down his arms, coating him with a wild fur that cemented his place out in the country. He was really starting to look like his cousins now, between his camo gear, hairy body, and beer gut. 

When the three of them returned to camp that night, Noah was exhausted. He grabbed another can from the cooler and cracked it open. Putting up to his mouth, he tilted it a little too far, spilling foamy beer down his face and into his chest hair. He chuckled and half attempted to wipe the foam off. Where it sat in his beard, the hairs began to thicken and sprout. His mustache grew incredibly thick, making itself known above the rest of his scruff. His chest fur also took to the growth, turning into a real carpet that climbed up and out of his shirt collar. Noah let out a massive burp in response.

“Yo Chevy, we really gotta head back tomorrow? Shit rocks out here,” Noah said with a deeper voice than he’d ever had previously.

“Yea bro, Ma will skin us if we miss the reunion. But don’t worry man, I know you’ll be back out with us in no time,” he flashed a grin at Noah. 

Noah went and dug through their bags, finding a lighter and pack of cigars. Now that the sun was going down, it was cool enough to enjoy being outside. He lit it up and took a hefty puff, his huge, hirsute body taking it in like a champ. Any thoughts about his old spring break, his old life, had been dragged through the mud and stamped out. All he wanted to do now was relax, listen to the sounds of the crickets, and spend time with his bros. 

Modulated

--- Original author: realhankmccoy ---

“I ain’t no motherfuckin’ redneck, you assholes! Don’t you fucking get it? I’ll never be ok with you being here and disrespecting our gay spaces!” I had shrieked and screamed, and I was being sassy as fuck. But they had darted me, so it was too late for me already. I had been one of the hottest little twinks in Colombia back then. I had such a tight little body, I was non-binary, and I was supportive of my local drag scene. I was absolutely into resisting these fucking fascists and their goddamn bullshit lifestyles, which I couldn’t stand.

That’s how I thought of it all back then, anyhow.

Man, that dart though, it had done its dirty work. I was writhing on the floor of the club, so I didn’t even get to witness the way it transformed me as I went into spasms. It was almost like having a seizure, but I could feel the muscle growing on me, and I could hear my shrieks and wails shift in pitch as I grew on into this whole new, far more masculine body.

I was getting to be built like a brick shithouse really fucking fast, and was taking on more of a mature look. Everywhere I was getting more muscle. I was splitting the seams of my jeans, and my underwear, and felt my back pressing up and splitting my tight pink t-shirt.

When I finally was able to sit up, I was in a daze. I had rendered my clothes asunder. I had bristles of hair all over my face, and the har on my head had grown longer, too, sort of flopping in my eyes. I was a mess.

And then the headache came. I was clutching the sides of my head and moaning, almost screaming in pain out loud, as my twinkish mind collapsed and got replaced by a growing part of me I didn’t even know existed. That part, my friends, is the motherfucking, take-charge redneck stud I am today.

My friends helped me get out of there, and I was still in transition. It takes a good seventy-two hours at least until you can fully collapse one of those weak-ass brains like the one I had before and until a more dominant, superior personality takes over like the one I was starting to get.

So yeah, like I said, I was a mess, and when my friends got me back to one of their apartments, I was still sporadically ranting about how dare those fascists do this to me, they’d never win, this was fucking awful. But as I heard myself talk, there was a growing part of me that was observing myself and thinking “so what? You sound like a raving lunatic. Look at this body! Damn, boy, just look at that muscle!”

Sleeping on it, man, that twink brain of mine must have collapsed even further. I woke up and I just wanted coffee with a splash of alcohol in it, so that’s what I got. Then I added two splashed. I had already stripped out of my shredded pink t-shirt, and my friends had some loose boxers that fit me, but I was just this naked, muscular stud in awe of his own body and trying to come to terms with who I was now.

I was seeing my friends with new eyes, too. They seemed anxious to me, weak, full of nervous, overly feminine motions, jittery, immature, skittish and mostly just kind of fucking annoying. “Those are your friends,” I’d remind myself. “This isn’t you who’s thinking this.”

But that growing part of me was thinking “This is you. This is all you, stud. You’re so much better than them. They don’t even know you’re thinking this, and if they only knew, they’d probably be terrified.” That thought made me want to laugh out loud, so I did.

“What are you laughing at?” one of them asked.

“Oh, nothing man, nothing,” I said, looking away and scratching my head. “These are your friends,” I told myself again, but I didn’t really seem to believe what I was trying to tell myself that morning. “So what if they’re your fucking friends,” my new mind was saying. “They’re fucking losers, man. Don’t let them drag you down. You ought to just get out of here.”

That morning, I was feeling just hornier and altogether more fucked up than I’d ever been. I was thinking, nah, this can’t be the new me. I’m no motherfucking redneck. I don’t think like them. But already I was feeling excited, having this body, having these different feelings, realising that I didn’t feel like such an evil guy like this, not like I thought I would, anyhow. All I wanted to do at that point in time, I felt like, was get the hell away from these people. I didn’t know to where. I borrowed some shoes and a t-shirt that was so tight it hurt, pleading that I had to get back to my apartment. It felt like the shoes would split, and the shirt was riding up on my belly, as I trotted back to my place.

I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was gonna do. When I got home, I felt thirsty, just wanting to drink a little, feeling like that would make this feel better, even though I told myself no, you have to compose yourself, you have to call people, you have to report this. Just one drink, I thought. It turned into shot after shot, and before I knew it, I was drunk, hard in my boxers, having kicked off the shoes and thrown that tight-ass shirt on the ground as soon.

Then I was beating off, and cumming, and the build-up to that orgasm, man, it flooded my brain with some real redneck juice. I wasn’t thinking of the type of guys I usually did. I was thinking about redneck studs, studs like myself, feeling the drool run down my chin as I beat off. As I came, shooting way up on my pecs, rubbing it in with my hand, I was whispering to myself, almost like a confession that I had yet to voice to anyone, “You hot fucking redneck. Holy fuck, you love this, don’t you. You’re a redneck now. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”

The desire to live for working out and fucking was already growing in me.

Thoughts were just racing through my head then. I knew I didn’t want to be some lame-ass yuppie or some weak-ass queer, man. I felt this powerful attraction to the redneck scene, the working class scene, the country scene, the military scene, the jock scene, you name it, any scene were men were men instead of the glitter fairy I had been before. I couldn’t quite pin it all down at that point yet, but my thoughts were sure racing.

Can you picture me, getting drunk in my apartment, turned on at my own body and swirling thoughts? And then I started to really know, man. I started to know. There was no going back now. The guy I used to be was a loser. I didn’t want to be him anymore. I was pissed off that I ever even was him.

I walked barefoot into the bedroom, checking out his stuff in the drawers and on the walls. Almost none of it would even fit me anymore. His feminine attire and the way his shithole apartment was decorated disgusted me. It made me want to punch the wall, even, so I did that and it felt good. I saw the paint crack and the drywall cave in. This new body had power.

I screamed then, a roar of pure rage and exhilaration. I punched the wall again, and it felt so fucking good that soon I was ripping all his shit off the walls and throwing it in a corner, ripping that flouncy shit off the mattress and I didn’t stop, screaming the whole while, until the bedroom at least look bare bones enough to resemble something a man would want to sleep in. I’d be damned if I ever let that loser back into this mind.

There were a few flashes, sure, and man was he a crybaby as he went out, as well as one hell of an angry little prick. Lots of hatred in his heart. I’d just laugh and say, “Fuck you!” sometimes out loud as I felt that twink brain collapse forever.

And now, as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone man. No longer a part of me, thank God.

I was nervous at first, when I started trying to hang out with guys I thought I’d have a lot more in common with that my old friends. Would they accept me? I was pretty desperate for acceptance at that point. I starting hanging out at a diner that I knew a lot of them liked to frequent, classic diner that pre-dated even the 1950s, a real antique. But these sexy ass guys would show up there, and soon we got to talking over waffles and hash browns.

Soon I was telling them I was darted, and they were saying that was hot as fuck, wanting to hear the story. Soon I was telling it to them, my legs in the air, sweat dripping down my bearded chin, as I was getting fucked.

Months after that, I was almost fully integrated into the lifestyle, man, and soon I was the one doing more of the fucking, especially after I got these sweet-ass tattoos all over my right arm. Getting fully into it, the desire to be that all I could be as man, hell, it ran in my veins now. I was going to let those commies know that I was better than them in every single way imaginable, and I wanted to show it off. I still get hard just at the thought of that, demonstrating my own superiority in the most tangible – well, to them, intangible, because I don’t want them even fucking touching me – methods available to me.

Yeah boys, it meant war for me, just like it had when I was a stupid twink, only this time I was playing for the other side, and it was chess instead of checkers.

Of course, there’s a lot more to life than just that for me, namely having hot-ass sex with all sorts of country studs and military men, hell, being part of that whole network of strong and powerful men who worship and respect other guys who’ve worked for it. I feel like I’m serving my country and being a paragon of virtue for it even when my legs are slung over some guy’s bull neck and thick, rounded deltoids as he plows the fuck out of me with his long-ass rod.

I had never gotten fucked this good when I was a twink.

I do real work with myself now, a man’s work. I dress like a man, I eat like a man, and I live my life like a man. I’m fucking proud of it, too. I love who I am now, and relocated to the other side of town, too, where the action’s hotter and I have way more in common with most folks.

I am sure glad I’m a buff stud with a thick-ass chest these days, and I don’t ever go clean-shaven. Been really into guy’s pits lately, and getting them to flex for me so I can lick those. Yeah, shit, I’ve gotta stop, because here I’ve got a raging boner just telling you all about that right now. I swear I’m way more horny than I used to be. At least seventy-five percent of the time now, I’d bet, I’m a top these days.

I don’t really like bottom boys, either. Their mere existence tends to piss me off, to be honest, so when I do fuck them I tend to be an aggressive power top. A lot of the time I don’t even think of it that way, though. I just think of them as so weak that the same rules don’t even apply to them. Different rules, in a way, because they’re a different kind of guy than me. Much more like women, unable to control themselves, you know how they are. I used to be one of them, and I’m so glad I’m not anymore, that’s for fucking sure.

A lot of the time I prefer to just fool around with guys such as myself. I love topping another top, having to wrestle somebody for hours in a strength and dominance competition. Gets the blood flowing. I like somebody who puts up a fight. C’mon, son, do you have any idea how fucking fun that is for me now? To meet up and hook up with another guy who’s just as manly as I am? That’s the stuff I live for now. I’m ready to just fuck my life away with hot ass guys at this point.

So, yeah, I’m a top who loves to wrestle with other tops and see who can dominate. I must be pretty good at it if I swear I’m scoring a seventy-five percent these days, but that’s just because occasionally I throw in some twink losers. Yeah bud, even some of these leftists get thrown a bone by me every now and again. They need us, and I like them to know they need us. They wouldn’t know what to do without us.

One of these days, I might even check with one of my army friends and see if I can come along on a mission so that I can dart one of them myself. I think I’d laugh my ass off when my dart goes in his neck or his shoulder, wherever it his him. Just to see the look on his face, shit boy. That could turn a guy on just by imagining it, so one of these days I’ll have to make it legit.

Fuck if I care about the loser I once used to be or what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. My life is better now and that’s all that matters to me.

Hot-ass guys, man. That’s what I live for.

White Hat

--- Originally posted on 2018-08-20 by grandwagonranchmaker ---

You were staying with your aunt and younger cousins in Texas for the summer. So far your days consisted of running and hiding from your younger (but bigger cuz Texas) cousins to try to study for your college entry exams. Whenever one of them caught you with a book they would relentlessly bully you for trying to be smart and stay in school.

You were taking shelter in the basement one day when you noticed a door, almost invisible under layers of dust, dirt and debris. You figured this might be your golden oppourtunity to escape them. You crack open the door, coughing and wheezing on all the dust thats kicked up and inside find… a bedroom. The room was unnervingly clean and well kept as if it had been used just today. It looked like a typical Texas boy’s room with lots of jeans, belts, sports equipment and a few naughty magazines under the bed. But what you were most drawn to is the white hat laying on the bed like it had been waiting for you.

“What’s this new hat doing here?” You feel compelled to put it on and when you do you slide it around backwards. The hat seems to give a satisfying click as it slides into place and the room begins swaying gently and throwing you off balance. You stumble over to the closet feeling every footfall get heavier and harder. Your small nerdy size 7s expand, to 8s, then 9s, then 10s. They grow with each step causing you to almost fall over with your comically sized proportions. The big toes feel so much more sensitive and cover so much more floor space then youre used to. They continue sizing up to 11, 12 and finally 13 feeling like huge boats chained to your legs!

“What the fuck done happen to my feet” you blurt out. Your legs share the same fate, getting thick as tree trucks and longer to match. You barely slide your nerdy shorts off in time before your buff manly legs can destroy them. But it doesnt stop as your ass expands in your underwear and your dick explodes in size with big Texas balls to match. You’re forced to remove your underwear as well. The only thing in the closet you find is a big pair of boxers and jeans waiting for you. Desperate, you slide them on trying not to enjoy how comfortable they feel. Your big dick floating nicely in the large boxers while still making a reasonable bulge. You feel a need to complete the look and pull out a nice belt, wrapping it around your perfect waist and clicking it together sending another shock of pleasure through your body.

You notice your upper body changing next and strut over to the full body mirror with renewed confidence and excitement. You hasily tear away at your shirt revealing beautiful, full pecs with a dark Texas tan covering them. Your abs are now hard and firm with a darker, thicker treasure trail crawling up them. You eagerly flex, showing off those bulging new biceps and thick patch of musky underarm hair.

“Haha gonna need a bit of Axe bro!” You spray yourself down, inhaling the overwhelming scent. The particles seep into your head, rotting what was left of your nerdy brain. You won’t be worrying about those tests anymore, you can barely spell college. Your hair darkens and shortens, a puff coming out of the front of your hat. Your face arranges to be dumb and innocent looking with cute puppy dog eyes and a dull farmboy grin. As the last of the cloud is absorbed into you, you stomp out of your room, big bare feet slapping the ground and your bulging sweaty upperbody exposed for all to see. Its time to join your brothers for today’s chores before you go into town for some fun!

Hey there! - I was accidentally daydreaming when I was searching for dude ranches, and ever since, this city boy's inbox just keeps piling up with invitations to them. No,no I didn't follow through with any of them, but I've been eying the flyer to visit a rodeo though. I'd love to be a badass cowboy, but I know I would stick out a mile standing next the real deals. Plus, I've been hearing strange rumors about what happens to rodeo protestors who get lassoed in the arena. Fuck it! I'm going!

While it was true that New You Industries was supplying the small, rural farming town of Hayside with special equipment, it wasn’t well known outside of the handful of people running the town’s rodeos. The organization that protested those same rodeos had so far lost two of their members to the town. The group believed them dead or in hiding, perhaps having been threatened. You believed you knew better though. The more bizarre circles you moved in online spoke about rumors of men turned into studs by the full moon, a police force with a seemingly endless supply of handsome, buff cops; and a shady corporation with advanced or even magical technology; but what interested you most was a series of posts claiming that the missing protestors were merely “assimilated” into the town.

There was only one way to find out if this meant what you thought. And so you arrived in the town in time for the next rodeo. Only a dozen locals sat in the arena. Along with a protester, sitting silently in the stands with a placard over their head, perhaps too afraid to vocalize given the mystery surrounding their missing colleagues.

The rodeo proceeded as one typically would, with the townspeople paying both you and the protestor little mind, until the very end at least.

“So, uh, how’d you enjoy tonight’s show?” asked the cowboy in the center of the arena, gesturing at the protestor.

“M- me?” the thin, young man replied.

“Yeah, you. Why don’t you come down ‘ere and tell us all what you wanna say?”

The man shuffled nervously.

“C'mon there, don’t be shy!”

Anxiously, the man got up and made his way to the arena, clearing his throat as he was passed the microphone. He barely got a word out before another handsome strutted out from the passage underneath the bleachers and threw a lasso round the young man’s chest.

“And how’s that, we got another one ladies and gentlemen!” the announcer chuckled as the dozen or so people in seats hollered and hooted, “Let’s get you outta here, city-slicker.”

You watched closely as the protestor was dragged out of the arena. But something was amiss. He thrashed and wriggled strangely and his mouth seemed to slacken. More of his legs appeared to be visible out the ends of his jeans and his arms looked swollen in his shirt. This was your chance, you had to follow, and so you did.

You waited a few minutes as the rest of the crowd filtered out while you slipped down to the arena and through the passageway. Grumbling and moaning echoed down the corridor as you quietly crept closer. Shouts and growls boomed out from behind a half-closed door. You carefully pushed it open before stumbling back at what you saw. The protestor was tied to a pole by the rope he’d been captured with, newly hirsute muscles and lengthy, thick limbs protruding through his slim-cut clothing. Though you never got a very close look at the man earlier, he was easily bigger in every regard than he’d been just minutes ago. Most impressive of all was the huge, hard, slick cock pressed up against his bulging abs, held there by the waist of his increasingly tight jeans.

He tilted his head up at you, breathing heavily with a charming smile on his freshly bearded face. He looked different; sharper, sunkissed, and rugged.

“Holy shit… I was right,” you muttered aloud.

And that’s when you felt a powerful tug around your waist before being smashing into the floor.

“Right about what? You didn’t come here with him, so why are you down here, city boy?”

The voice was deep and serious. You looked upward to see the beautifully rugged rodeo master standing over you.

“I… I want… you to do… that… to me,” you gulped, glancing back at the tied-up protester.

“My oh my, can’t say this has ever happened before,” the studly cowboy chuckled, his sinister tone shifting to one of amusement, “but if you haven’t noticed, it’s already happening.”

Everything had happened so fast that you didn’t even realize that it was rope lasso that sent you hurtling to the ground. It was at that moment you realized you were getting exactly what you wanted.

Sweat pooled onto the concrete floor while you tried to stand up, only to fall to your knees as every bone, tendon, and muscle in your body began to reconfigure. You moaned loud and uninhibited at the feeling of your spine stretching and your legs lengthening wildly. What you hadn’t anticipated is how intensely pleasurable it would feel. It was like every part that grew and shifted brought with it a powerful sexual edging.

“You people normally fight it, but I’m sure you can tell now there’s no point,” the redneck chuckled, tapping his boot against the raging tent in your tightening pants.

You held yourself up by your hands, the rope dangling from your waist against the floor. Arching your back with a groan, your arms grew longer, pushing you further off the floor. You watched in delight at your hands spreading out larger and larger against the dirty ground. The fingers stretched long and thick, the skin on your swelling palms hardening from farm labor.

Upward from your massive hands, your veins began to bulge. Holding yourself up by your trembling arms became easier and easier as your arms inflated with thick, hard muscle, stretching and tearing your shirt. Hair densified across your thickening forearms.

The growth spread through your upper body. Howling in ecstasy you ripped open the front of your shirt with your powerful arms, revealing the rapidly expanding pecs and abs underneath. You rubbed your huge, rough hands along the growing, hairier mounds. Memories flooded your brain, these weren’t the muscles of someone who worked out, these were formed by years of real, hard, manly work.

A sudden and forceful pulling in your feet forced you to flip onto your back as tightness in your shoes intensified. Removing them was no use, they were far too tight now. You could feel your feet mercilessly stretching against their confines until with a shred and a moan of relief, two long, wide, and hairy feet burst forth.

And upward from the huge appendages came more growth, flooding your thighs and calves with hefty, ballooning muscle and thick, manly hair. As your ass pressed outward, hairier and rounder, you felt thoughts of your past life draining away, making way for one of small-town living and honest, hard work. You gave a dumb smile as a short beard spread across your increasingly handsome, rugged face. Your hair became short and maintainable, while also accentuating your manly, country features.

“G- gosh… darn it,” you gasped in a thick, rural accent feeling your cock stretch and swell. You fidgeted with your large, clumsy fingers for the waist buckle on your pants, groaning deeply as you loosened it and allowed the swelling head of your cock to inch further and further out of the pants. You were so close it was almost unbearable. Your hips thrust involuntarily as your member throbbed larger, toward a glorious, thick nine inches; your balls aching as they too inflated. Then, with a gruff cry of pleasure, you came; spewing load after load across the concrete and marking the conclusion of your metamorphosis.

The cowboy, who had stayed to watch the entire process, helped you to your feet. The rope around your waist morphed as you rose, replacing your old belt with one significantly larger. Your pants morphed into tough, worn boot-cut jeans while the huge feet protruding out of the front of your shoes were quickly covered as the tattered remains shifted into a pair of size fifteen boots. Your torn shirt similarly repaired itself, though dirtier and muskier with a plaid pattern.

“Welcome to Hayside, rancher,” the rodeo master said, “You ready to get to work?”

Everything seemed like a distant memory now, you knew this was all brand new, but it also seemed so familiar.

“Yessir,” you uttered, your charming smile shining through your new beard.

Modulated

--- Original author: realhankmccoy ---

“I ain’t no motherfuckin’ redneck, you assholes! Don’t you fucking get it? I’ll never be ok with you being here and disrespecting our gay spaces!” I had shrieked and screamed, and I was being sassy as fuck. But they had darted me, so it was too late for me already. I had been one of the hottest little twinks in Colombia back then. I had such a tight little body, I was non-binary, and I was supportive of my local drag scene. I was absolutely into resisting these fucking fascists and their goddamn bullshit lifestyles, which I couldn’t stand.

That’s how I thought of it all back then, anyhow.

Man, that dart though, it had done its dirty work. I was writhing on the floor of the club, so I didn’t even get to witness the way it transformed me as I went into spasms. It was almost like having a seizure, but I could feel the muscle growing on me, and I could hear my shrieks and wails shift in pitch as I grew on into this whole new, far more masculine body.

I was getting to be built like a brick shithouse really fucking fast, and was taking on more of a mature look. Everywhere I was getting more muscle. I was splitting the seams of my jeans, and my underwear, and felt my back pressing up and splitting my tight pink t-shirt.

When I finally was able to sit up, I was in a daze. I had rendered my clothes asunder. I had bristles of hair all over my face, and the har on my head had grown longer, too, sort of flopping in my eyes. I was a mess.

And then the headache came. I was clutching the sides of my head and moaning, almost screaming in pain out loud, as my twinkish mind collapsed and got replaced by a growing part of me I didn’t even know existed. That part, my friends, is the motherfucking, take-charge redneck stud I am today.

My friends helped me get out of there, and I was still in transition. It takes a good seventy-two hours at least until you can fully collapse one of those weak-ass brains like the one I had before and until a more dominant, superior personality takes over like the one I was starting to get.

So yeah, like I said, I was a mess, and when my friends got me back to one of their apartments, I was still sporadically ranting about how dare those fascists do this to me, they’d never win, this was fucking awful. But as I heard myself talk, there was a growing part of me that was observing myself and thinking “so what? You sound like a raving lunatic. Look at this body! Damn, boy, just look at that muscle!”

Sleeping on it, man, that twink brain of mine must have collapsed even further. I woke up and I just wanted coffee with a splash of alcohol in it, so that’s what I got. Then I added two splashed. I had already stripped out of my shredded pink t-shirt, and my friends had some loose boxers that fit me, but I was just this naked, muscular stud in awe of his own body and trying to come to terms with who I was now.

I was seeing my friends with new eyes, too. They seemed anxious to me, weak, full of nervous, overly feminine motions, jittery, immature, skittish and mostly just kind of fucking annoying. “Those are your friends,” I’d remind myself. “This isn’t you who’s thinking this.”

But that growing part of me was thinking “This is you. This is all you, stud. You’re so much better than them. They don’t even know you’re thinking this, and if they only knew, they’d probably be terrified.” That thought made me want to laugh out loud, so I did.

“What are you laughing at?” one of them asked.

“Oh, nothing man, nothing,” I said, looking away and scratching my head. “These are your friends,” I told myself again, but I didn’t really seem to believe what I was trying to tell myself that morning. “So what if they’re your fucking friends,” my new mind was saying. “They’re fucking losers, man. Don’t let them drag you down. You ought to just get out of here.”

That morning, I was feeling just hornier and altogether more fucked up than I’d ever been. I was thinking, nah, this can’t be the new me. I’m no motherfucking redneck. I don’t think like them. But already I was feeling excited, having this body, having these different feelings, realising that I didn’t feel like such an evil guy like this, not like I thought I would, anyhow. All I wanted to do at that point in time, I felt like, was get the hell away from these people. I didn’t know to where. I borrowed some shoes and a t-shirt that was so tight it hurt, pleading that I had to get back to my apartment. It felt like the shoes would split, and the shirt was riding up on my belly, as I trotted back to my place.

I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was gonna do. When I got home, I felt thirsty, just wanting to drink a little, feeling like that would make this feel better, even though I told myself no, you have to compose yourself, you have to call people, you have to report this. Just one drink, I thought. It turned into shot after shot, and before I knew it, I was drunk, hard in my boxers, having kicked off the shoes and thrown that tight-ass shirt on the ground as soon.

Then I was beating off, and cumming, and the build-up to that orgasm, man, it flooded my brain with some real redneck juice. I wasn’t thinking of the type of guys I usually did. I was thinking about redneck studs, studs like myself, feeling the drool run down my chin as I beat off. As I came, shooting way up on my pecs, rubbing it in with my hand, I was whispering to myself, almost like a confession that I had yet to voice to anyone, “You hot fucking redneck. Holy fuck, you love this, don’t you. You’re a redneck now. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”

The desire to live for working out and fucking was already growing in me.

Thoughts were just racing through my head then. I knew I didn’t want to be some lame-ass yuppie or some weak-ass queer, man. I felt this powerful attraction to the redneck scene, the working class scene, the country scene, the military scene, the jock scene, you name it, any scene were men were men instead of the glitter fairy I had been before. I couldn’t quite pin it all down at that point yet, but my thoughts were sure racing.

Can you picture me, getting drunk in my apartment, turned on at my own body and swirling thoughts? And then I started to really know, man. I started to know. There was no going back now. The guy I used to be was a loser. I didn’t want to be him anymore. I was pissed off that I ever even was him.

I walked barefoot into the bedroom, checking out his stuff in the drawers and on the walls. Almost none of it would even fit me anymore. His feminine attire and the way his shithole apartment was decorated disgusted me. It made me want to punch the wall, even, so I did that and it felt good. I saw the paint crack and the drywall cave in. This new body had power.

I screamed then, a roar of pure rage and exhilaration. I punched the wall again, and it felt so fucking good that soon I was ripping all his shit off the walls and throwing it in a corner, ripping that flouncy shit off the mattress and I didn’t stop, screaming the whole while, until the bedroom at least look bare bones enough to resemble something a man would want to sleep in. I’d be damned if I ever let that loser back into this mind.

There were a few flashes, sure, and man was he a crybaby as he went out, as well as one hell of an angry little prick. Lots of hatred in his heart. I’d just laugh and say, “Fuck you!” sometimes out loud as I felt that twink brain collapse forever.

And now, as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone man. No longer a part of me, thank God.

I was nervous at first, when I started trying to hang out with guys I thought I’d have a lot more in common with that my old friends. Would they accept me? I was pretty desperate for acceptance at that point. I starting hanging out at a diner that I knew a lot of them liked to frequent, classic diner that pre-dated even the 1950s, a real antique. But these sexy ass guys would show up there, and soon we got to talking over waffles and hash browns.

Soon I was telling them I was darted, and they were saying that was hot as fuck, wanting to hear the story. Soon I was telling it to them, my legs in the air, sweat dripping down my bearded chin, as I was getting fucked.

Months after that, I was almost fully integrated into the lifestyle, man, and soon I was the one doing more of the fucking, especially after I got these sweet-ass tattoos all over my right arm. Getting fully into it, the desire to be that all I could be as man, hell, it ran in my veins now. I was going to let those commies know that I was better than them in every single way imaginable, and I wanted to show it off. I still get hard just at the thought of that, demonstrating my own superiority in the most tangible – well, to them, intangible, because I don’t want them even fucking touching me – methods available to me.

Yeah boys, it meant war for me, just like it had when I was a stupid twink, only this time I was playing for the other side, and it was chess instead of checkers.

Of course, there’s a lot more to life than just that for me, namely having hot-ass sex with all sorts of country studs and military men, hell, being part of that whole network of strong and powerful men who worship and respect other guys who’ve worked for it. I feel like I’m serving my country and being a paragon of virtue for it even when my legs are slung over some guy’s bull neck and thick, rounded deltoids as he plows the fuck out of me with his long-ass rod.

I had never gotten fucked this good when I was a twink.

I do real work with myself now, a man’s work. I dress like a man, I eat like a man, and I live my life like a man. I’m fucking proud of it, too. I love who I am now, and relocated to the other side of town, too, where the action’s hotter and I have way more in common with most folks.

I am sure glad I’m a buff stud with a thick-ass chest these days, and I don’t ever go clean-shaven. Been really into guy’s pits lately, and getting them to flex for me so I can lick those. Yeah, shit, I’ve gotta stop, because here I’ve got a raging boner just telling you all about that right now. I swear I’m way more horny than I used to be. At least seventy-five percent of the time now, I’d bet, I’m a top these days.

I don’t really like bottom boys, either. Their mere existence tends to piss me off, to be honest, so when I do fuck them I tend to be an aggressive power top. A lot of the time I don’t even think of it that way, though. I just think of them as so weak that the same rules don’t even apply to them. Different rules, in a way, because they’re a different kind of guy than me. Much more like women, unable to control themselves, you know how they are. I used to be one of them, and I’m so glad I’m not anymore, that’s for fucking sure.

A lot of the time I prefer to just fool around with guys such as myself. I love topping another top, having to wrestle somebody for hours in a strength and dominance competition. Gets the blood flowing. I like somebody who puts up a fight. C’mon, son, do you have any idea how fucking fun that is for me now? To meet up and hook up with another guy who’s just as manly as I am? That’s the stuff I live for now. I’m ready to just fuck my life away with hot ass guys at this point.

So, yeah, I’m a top who loves to wrestle with other tops and see who can dominate. I must be pretty good at it if I swear I’m scoring a seventy-five percent these days, but that’s just because occasionally I throw in some twink losers. Yeah bud, even some of these leftists get thrown a bone by me every now and again. They need us, and I like them to know they need us. They wouldn’t know what to do without us.

One of these days, I might even check with one of my army friends and see if I can come along on a mission so that I can dart one of them myself. I think I’d laugh my ass off when my dart goes in his neck or his shoulder, wherever it his him. Just to see the look on his face, shit boy. That could turn a guy on just by imagining it, so one of these days I’ll have to make it legit.

Fuck if I care about the loser I once used to be or what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. My life is better now and that’s all that matters to me.

Hot-ass guys, man. That’s what I live for.

Modulated

--- Original author: realhankmccoy ---

“I ain’t no motherfuckin’ redneck, you assholes! Don’t you fucking get it? I’ll never be ok with you being here and disrespecting our gay spaces!” I had shrieked and screamed, and I was being sassy as fuck. But they had darted me, so it was too late for me already. I had been one of the hottest little twinks in Colombia back then. I had such a tight little body, I was non-binary, and I was supportive of my local drag scene. I was absolutely into resisting these fucking fascists and their goddamn bullshit lifestyles, which I couldn’t stand.

That’s how I thought of it all back then, anyhow.

Man, that dart though, it had done its dirty work. I was writhing on the floor of the club, so I didn’t even get to witness the way it transformed me as I went into spasms. It was almost like having a seizure, but I could feel the muscle growing on me, and I could hear my shrieks and wails shift in pitch as I grew on into this whole new, far more masculine body.

I was getting to be built like a brick shithouse really fucking fast, and was taking on more of a mature look. Everywhere I was getting more muscle. I was splitting the seams of my jeans, and my underwear, and felt my back pressing up and splitting my tight pink t-shirt.

When I finally was able to sit up, I was in a daze. I had rendered my clothes asunder. I had bristles of hair all over my face, and the har on my head had grown longer, too, sort of flopping in my eyes. I was a mess.

And then the headache came. I was clutching the sides of my head and moaning, almost screaming in pain out loud, as my twinkish mind collapsed and got replaced by a growing part of me I didn’t even know existed. That part, my friends, is the motherfucking, take-charge redneck stud I am today.

My friends helped me get out of there, and I was still in transition. It takes a good seventy-two hours at least until you can fully collapse one of those weak-ass brains like the one I had before and until a more dominant, superior personality takes over like the one I was starting to get.

So yeah, like I said, I was a mess, and when my friends got me back to one of their apartments, I was still sporadically ranting about how dare those fascists do this to me, they’d never win, this was fucking awful. But as I heard myself talk, there was a growing part of me that was observing myself and thinking “so what? You sound like a raving lunatic. Look at this body! Damn, boy, just look at that muscle!”

Sleeping on it, man, that twink brain of mine must have collapsed even further. I woke up and I just wanted coffee with a splash of alcohol in it, so that’s what I got. Then I added two splashed. I had already stripped out of my shredded pink t-shirt, and my friends had some loose boxers that fit me, but I was just this naked, muscular stud in awe of his own body and trying to come to terms with who I was now.

I was seeing my friends with new eyes, too. They seemed anxious to me, weak, full of nervous, overly feminine motions, jittery, immature, skittish and mostly just kind of fucking annoying. “Those are your friends,” I’d remind myself. “This isn’t you who’s thinking this.”

But that growing part of me was thinking “This is you. This is all you, stud. You’re so much better than them. They don’t even know you’re thinking this, and if they only knew, they’d probably be terrified.” That thought made me want to laugh out loud, so I did.

“What are you laughing at?” one of them asked.

“Oh, nothing man, nothing,” I said, looking away and scratching my head. “These are your friends,” I told myself again, but I didn’t really seem to believe what I was trying to tell myself that morning. “So what if they’re your fucking friends,” my new mind was saying. “They’re fucking losers, man. Don’t let them drag you down. You ought to just get out of here.”

That morning, I was feeling just hornier and altogether more fucked up than I’d ever been. I was thinking, nah, this can’t be the new me. I’m no motherfucking redneck. I don’t think like them. But already I was feeling excited, having this body, having these different feelings, realising that I didn’t feel like such an evil guy like this, not like I thought I would, anyhow. All I wanted to do at that point in time, I felt like, was get the hell away from these people. I didn’t know to where. I borrowed some shoes and a t-shirt that was so tight it hurt, pleading that I had to get back to my apartment. It felt like the shoes would split, and the shirt was riding up on my belly, as I trotted back to my place.

I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was gonna do. When I got home, I felt thirsty, just wanting to drink a little, feeling like that would make this feel better, even though I told myself no, you have to compose yourself, you have to call people, you have to report this. Just one drink, I thought. It turned into shot after shot, and before I knew it, I was drunk, hard in my boxers, having kicked off the shoes and thrown that tight-ass shirt on the ground as soon.

Then I was beating off, and cumming, and the build-up to that orgasm, man, it flooded my brain with some real redneck juice. I wasn’t thinking of the type of guys I usually did. I was thinking about redneck studs, studs like myself, feeling the drool run down my chin as I beat off. As I came, shooting way up on my pecs, rubbing it in with my hand, I was whispering to myself, almost like a confession that I had yet to voice to anyone, “You hot fucking redneck. Holy fuck, you love this, don’t you. You’re a redneck now. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”

The desire to live for working out and fucking was already growing in me.

Thoughts were just racing through my head then. I knew I didn’t want to be some lame-ass yuppie or some weak-ass queer, man. I felt this powerful attraction to the redneck scene, the working class scene, the country scene, the military scene, the jock scene, you name it, any scene were men were men instead of the glitter fairy I had been before. I couldn’t quite pin it all down at that point yet, but my thoughts were sure racing.

Can you picture me, getting drunk in my apartment, turned on at my own body and swirling thoughts? And then I started to really know, man. I started to know. There was no going back now. The guy I used to be was a loser. I didn’t want to be him anymore. I was pissed off that I ever even was him.

I walked barefoot into the bedroom, checking out his stuff in the drawers and on the walls. Almost none of it would even fit me anymore. His feminine attire and the way his shithole apartment was decorated disgusted me. It made me want to punch the wall, even, so I did that and it felt good. I saw the paint crack and the drywall cave in. This new body had power.

I screamed then, a roar of pure rage and exhilaration. I punched the wall again, and it felt so fucking good that soon I was ripping all his shit off the walls and throwing it in a corner, ripping that flouncy shit off the mattress and I didn’t stop, screaming the whole while, until the bedroom at least look bare bones enough to resemble something a man would want to sleep in. I’d be damned if I ever let that loser back into this mind.

There were a few flashes, sure, and man was he a crybaby as he went out, as well as one hell of an angry little prick. Lots of hatred in his heart. I’d just laugh and say, “Fuck you!” sometimes out loud as I felt that twink brain collapse forever.

And now, as far as I’m concerned, he’s gone man. No longer a part of me, thank God.

I was nervous at first, when I started trying to hang out with guys I thought I’d have a lot more in common with that my old friends. Would they accept me? I was pretty desperate for acceptance at that point. I starting hanging out at a diner that I knew a lot of them liked to frequent, classic diner that pre-dated even the 1950s, a real antique. But these sexy ass guys would show up there, and soon we got to talking over waffles and hash browns.

Soon I was telling them I was darted, and they were saying that was hot as fuck, wanting to hear the story. Soon I was telling it to them, my legs in the air, sweat dripping down my bearded chin, as I was getting fucked.

Months after that, I was almost fully integrated into the lifestyle, man, and soon I was the one doing more of the fucking, especially after I got these sweet-ass tattoos all over my right arm. Getting fully into it, the desire to be that all I could be as man, hell, it ran in my veins now. I was going to let those commies know that I was better than them in every single way imaginable, and I wanted to show it off. I still get hard just at the thought of that, demonstrating my own superiority in the most tangible – well, to them, intangible, because I don’t want them even fucking touching me – methods available to me.

Yeah boys, it meant war for me, just like it had when I was a stupid twink, only this time I was playing for the other side, and it was chess instead of checkers.

Of course, there’s a lot more to life than just that for me, namely having hot-ass sex with all sorts of country studs and military men, hell, being part of that whole network of strong and powerful men who worship and respect other guys who’ve worked for it. I feel like I’m serving my country and being a paragon of virtue for it even when my legs are slung over some guy’s bull neck and thick, rounded deltoids as he plows the fuck out of me with his long-ass rod.

I had never gotten fucked this good when I was a twink.

I do real work with myself now, a man’s work. I dress like a man, I eat like a man, and I live my life like a man. I’m fucking proud of it, too. I love who I am now, and relocated to the other side of town, too, where the action’s hotter and I have way more in common with most folks.

I am sure glad I’m a buff stud with a thick-ass chest these days, and I don’t ever go clean-shaven. Been really into guy’s pits lately, and getting them to flex for me so I can lick those. Yeah, shit, I’ve gotta stop, because here I’ve got a raging boner just telling you all about that right now. I swear I’m way more horny than I used to be. At least seventy-five percent of the time now, I’d bet, I’m a top these days.

I don’t really like bottom boys, either. Their mere existence tends to piss me off, to be honest, so when I do fuck them I tend to be an aggressive power top. A lot of the time I don’t even think of it that way, though. I just think of them as so weak that the same rules don’t even apply to them. Different rules, in a way, because they’re a different kind of guy than me. Much more like women, unable to control themselves, you know how they are. I used to be one of them, and I’m so glad I’m not anymore, that’s for fucking sure.

A lot of the time I prefer to just fool around with guys such as myself. I love topping another top, having to wrestle somebody for hours in a strength and dominance competition. Gets the blood flowing. I like somebody who puts up a fight. C’mon, son, do you have any idea how fucking fun that is for me now? To meet up and hook up with another guy who’s just as manly as I am? That’s the stuff I live for now. I’m ready to just fuck my life away with hot ass guys at this point.

So, yeah, I’m a top who loves to wrestle with other tops and see who can dominate. I must be pretty good at it if I swear I’m scoring a seventy-five percent these days, but that’s just because occasionally I throw in some twink losers. Yeah bud, even some of these leftists get thrown a bone by me every now and again. They need us, and I like them to know they need us. They wouldn’t know what to do without us.

One of these days, I might even check with one of my army friends and see if I can come along on a mission so that I can dart one of them myself. I think I’d laugh my ass off when my dart goes in his neck or his shoulder, wherever it his him. Just to see the look on his face, shit boy. That could turn a guy on just by imagining it, so one of these days I’ll have to make it legit.

Fuck if I care about the loser I once used to be or what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. My life is better now and that’s all that matters to me.

Hot-ass guys, man. That’s what I live for.

i'm a skinny nerd from the northeast who goes to college in Kansas i'm about 5 foot 7 tall who was on my way to  the Chemistry Lab when a pair of big burly hands grabbed me , punched me in the gut. When i came to ,i was tied to a bench with rope in the male locker room. my legs were tied to a bar below the bench and my hands two the pegs above. my mouth was coved with duct tape with a mouthguard inside my mouth. i look down to see all my clothes were gone i was wearing only a jock strap . i have never worn a jockstrap before it was so uncomfortable .i look to see my red star trek t-shirt , my jeans, my sneakers and socks & my "geeky" white briefs were are cut up on the floor. i look up to see that i was surrounded by the hairiest, most manly, most self-centered, most muscled guys on campus : The college football team. the football team was wearing gray tank tops & crimson basketball shorts. the football players were who look like normal corn fed Kansas farm boys. they were at least 6 feet 3 inches tall in height and is broad-shouldered and muscular in build .they took off their tank tops i saw they all have 6 pack abs , substantial pecs and arms are also are broad-shouldered . they pull out a gym bag with my name on it with other pairs of boxers& jockstraps& clothes such as gym shorts, tank top including a red star trek tank top , sweats,  and a table right in front of me on that table was a football uniform, The helmet, cleats, jersey, and gear .they show me the jersey with my last name. they told me i was going to become a corn fed Kansas farm boy like them i will still be a geek. they told me all the guys on campus in town even the nerds on this small Kansas college campus has a 6 pack, substantial pecs and arms& are also broad-shouldered cause even the nerds work on farms & have to join the football team & get modeling gigs so they pay for college. when they put the football uniform on me turning from a skinny geek into a geeky Kansas farm boy.

Dude, I'm sorry, but sometimes it really pays to read the fine print. Your college has a partnership with us. When you enroll, you agree to undergo a Chronivac transformation if needed. And there is no need to justify the need. The mere fact that your upper arms are too small is sufficient. So welcome to Kansas, farm boy, I'm activating your jockstraps now, let the transformation begin!

Your body starts to tremble. Your hips shake. And your cock gets rock hard. The jockstrap fits your narrow hips and tight ass like a glove. A glove that is quickly soaked in precum while the twitches spread from your cock in all directions. Your thighs become powerful and hard as boards, your belly flattens and with every twitch your six pack becomes more and more prominent. At first you react in horror. But you enjoy it more and more. You would love to jerk off. But you have no control over your arms. Instead, your growing pecs start to dance. Your calves turn into real diamonds. And then the twitches reach your neck. It quickly becomes wider than your head. Your Adam's apple protrudes prominently, your moans become deeper and deeper. And as your facial features become more and more angular and masculine, your bulging muscles spread across your shoulders towards your hands.

Bruh, that was two weeks ago now. You have quickly become accustomed to your body. The only thing that bothers you is your smooth skin. But your body hair is already starting to grow. Soon you will be in no way inferior to your bruhs. Your brain and your cock are in a constant battle to see who controls you. But you are and always will be a geek. Your brain usually wins. But mercy on the ass you fuck if your cock wins.

You're still the same in your mind. Okay, you don't remember going to the philharmonic or art museums in your youth. You played football with your buddies and cleaned your old man's stable. But you're a geek and your goal is to get a good college degree. Even without a football scholarship. Although I'm sure you'd get it. Enjoy it, geek! There are worse things than growing up to be a really big boy in Kansas.

Pic found @backwardsnapback

Lost a lot of my stories when I deactivated my old blog, but I managed to find this one. It’s been one of my most popular, and the guy in the picture in super hot!

Caleb rested on the dock, trying to ignore the drunken antics of his so-called friends and past football teammates. The stud had reluctantly decided to go back home for a visit during break from college, irritated over his southern small town’s simple way of thinking and living.

The muscled up country boy had spent years at college trying to dispel the stereotype of the less than intelligent redneck, irked that many of the students who were from more metro areas automatically viewed him as inferior or stupid. That led to Caleb taking incredible joy in the surprised looks on their faces whenever he would “casually” drop into conversation that he had a full merit scholarship for the university’s computer engineering program. He’d even fought hard to hide his southern accent so that people wouldn’t make false comparisons between him and a hick. His 129 IQ was something he was extremely boastful about, and now as he was at the lake with some of his old friends he’d left behind, he was quickly realizing that he’d outgrown them.

“Hey man, why ya sittin’ here by yourself?” the old quarterback, BJ, asked him as he sat by him on the dock, playfully nudging his broad shoulder.

Caleb inwardly cringed at the pronounced southern accent that only grew more prominent the more beers the guy drank. He ignored it and shrugged. “I guess I’m just not that excited to be home,” he admitted. “I was thinking about heading back early.”

BJ mock frowned. “Pussy,” he teased, handing the annoyed man a beer. “Just drink up and you’ll feel a lot better.”

Caleb took the offered bottle that didn’t have a label because it was most likely bootlegged. He waited until BJ had wandered off to go be a nuisance elsewhere before rolling his eyes. Still, a beer was a beer.

Caleb took a deep gulp of the bitter drink, grimacing a little from the intense alcoholic aftertaste.

“Whoa doggy!” Caleb whistled loudly out of instinct, wincing at the backwoods phrase he’d unintentionally uttered. He cleared his throat and pulled his phone out to read up on some engineering articles so that he could maintain his number one position in class.

As the stud read some of the articles, he knitted his eyebrows together. Normally the genius could tear his way through countless scientific articles in an hour. However, for some reason, Caleb found himself struggling to concentrate. A thick fog seemed to be forming in his head, clouding his thinking and making it difficult to understand what he was reading.

“Ma-macheen— Machin… uh?” Caleb tried to sound out M-A-C-H-I-N-E-R-Y, struggling to figure out what the letters spelt out. In fact, all the letters on his phone screen didn’t make any sense at all.

BJ smirked over at his friend, enjoying the sight of the hunk scratching at his head absentminded as he stared intently at his phone. “Doin’ alright over there, Smart Guy?” he called out.

Caleb looked up from the confusing words on his screen, glancing over at his shirtless friend. “I can’t figure out none of these words on my dang ol’ phone!” he answered, his southern accent back into his voice full force, even stronger than when he’d left for university. He paused and thought that something sounded weird, that something was wrong. However the fog in his head thickened and all Caleb could seem to focus on was BJ’s thick, meaty pecs and the large bulge in his trunks.

One of the other guys began to laugh. “Damn, BJ, you gave it to him?” he called out.

Gave what to who? Caleb struggled to grasp what was happening, but it was getting so hard to think. His thoughts seemed to melt in his head, no matter how desperately he grasped at them. He would force himself to think of something in one of his lectures, like cir… circuit… uh, something. Caleb’s heart began to race in his beefy chest as he slowly began to piece together that something was indeed wrong.

He stood up and took a step forward before he got distracted by his reflection in the lake. The man who stared back had an empty, glazed look in his blue eyes and his jaw was hanging open. Then he got distracted by the way his own meaty pecs moved whenever he took a heavy step.

Caleb dimly giggled. “Hey y’all!” he called out in his country boy accent. “Check out mah tits!” He bounced his large pecs, laughing to himself as the large mounds bounced and jiggled in front of him.

The rest of his friends began to laugh at him, some even cheering him on.

Caleb didn’t know why his friends were laughing, but they seemed to really enjoy the way his pecs bounced, so he kept on giving them a show, a dim smile on his handsome face.

“Dude’s gotta be stupider than a flat tire,” one of his hick friends mocked him.

Stupid? Caleb wasn’t stupid, he was a genius. He was smarter than his bumpkin friends and they were all super jealous of it. He opened his mouth to offer a retort, spill some knowledge about what he’d learned in university, but he struggled to even remember sitting in a lecture at all.

The muscled dummy gasped loudly as he realized what was wrong.

“What’s up?” BJ patronizingly asked, wrapping a buff arm around his broad shoulders.

Caleb forced himself to look away from his friend’s muscles, which felt like a herculean feat. “Bro!” he whined, stomping his foot like a child throwing a tantrum. “My head feels slower than a three-legged dog!” His accent was so exaggerated it was comical now, making him wince. “What’s wrong with me?”

BJ smirked as he rubbed a comforting hand over Caleb’s large pectorals, making the idiot whimper and shiver. “You poor dumb redneck,” he cooed. “We all got tired of you thinkin’ you were better than us all ‘cause you went to that fancy school.”

“I’m not some dumb redneck!” Caleb tried to argue, but when he stomped his foot again, his pecs bounced from the motion and he got distracted and started to squeeze them, moaning loudly for the other guys to hear.

“If I had to place a bet,” BJ smirked, “I’d say that 129 IQ of yours is probably down to 60. You’re good for nothin’ but fuckin’. You’ve got to be the dumbest redneck I ever did see.”

The fog continued to thicken in Caleb’s mind, and he was lost in the sensation of his strong hands fondling his own meaty pecs. It didn’t take long before the other guys joined in on the action, feeling up the stud’s muscles. All the while the redneck howled, happy to be back home with his fellow hicks.

Wish: Hey please do what ever you’d like to me …

@willwritesagain​ 

– – –

You were sitting at your desk, typing away on your laptop when you started to squirm in your chair. A tingling sensation blew over you and before you could react, your body started to feel flush.

The first thing you noticed was that your hoodie started to feel snug, almost constricting. Your first fear was that your clothes were shrinking, but the moment you tore your top layer off, you were quick to realize that you were in fact growing.

Your jaw dropped when you witnessed your arms bulk up, your biceps blowing to insane proportions and curling out of the short sleeves of your white t-shirt. Your pecs were next and they bubbled out in front of you and you had to readjust your arms around them due to their massive size, looking like they were straining your shirt to burst.

“What in tarnation is happenin’?” you asked aloud, wincing at the odd way you spoke and the new southern accent you’d acquired.

You shoved yourself away from your desk in time to see your sweatpants turn into a deep blue color, the cotton material growing firmer as they morphed into bootcut denim jeans. Out of nowhere, cowboy boots appeared on your feet. They had flecks of dirt on them, letting you know that you’d been hard at work. Speaking of, your beefier hands grew rougher as callouses formed, illustrating your new hardworking lifestyle.

You hurried over to the mirror and stared in shock at the reflection that looked back at you.

In the mirror was a muscled up cowboy who wore a tight t-shirt that did little to conceal his heavy pecs and pants that hugged his bubblebutt tantalizingly. You noticed you were also wearing a cowboy hat that completed your sexy look, making you look like a country model on the cover of those cheap romance novels.

Your fear quickly disappeared as you examined your bulky new body in the mirror, smiling widely as you flexed your massive arms, enjoying the groaning sounds of your sleeves as your biceps flexed.

“Dog gone, I gotta be the finest cowboy out ‘ere!” you beamed, walking out to your Dodge Cummins to head to the bar to pick up a guy who was into cowboys.

– – –

[Photo Source: https://www.deviantart.com/bigbergman/art/Cowboy-Muscles-481020105]

Derek Hale huffed as he followed the spastic Stiles through the Beacon Hills Mall, irritated to be surrounded by such a huge crowd of people. However, Stiles had asked him to accompany him there because he was positive that there was a hint that would help them solve the town’s latest supernatural crisis (and supposedly there was a crazy clearance sale at the retro video game store as well).

Although when he’d been asked Derek had given his trademark scowl of annoyance, he’d instantly agreed because he was helplessly in love with the nerdy human who obliviously chattered away about some obscure cheat in an old game he’d never heard of. Still, despite the gruff, annoyed expression he wore, Derek was all ears, his heart fluttering in his chest as the boy he was secretly in love with talked.

“…but you have to be careful when performing that because you can potentially softlock your game,” Stiles went on, speaking so rapidly and quickly that Derek sometimes worried the guy would pass out from a lack of oxygen.

“Mm-hmm,” Derek grunted, clenching his jaw in irritation over the fact that he was mentally unable to confess his true feelings to Stiles. Things with his ex had been so horrendous and the usual brooding-infused self-hatred made Derek feel like the human was way out of his league, even despite his status as an alpha werewolf. Therefore, he fought hard to keep Stiles at a distance, despite currently trailing him through the mall like an eager puppy… and “accidentally” letting his leather jacket-covered bulk brush up against the smaller man every so often.

The human frowned a little but shrugged his thin shoulders before perking up. “I think this is where the trickster works,” he whispered to the werewolf, pointing to a store.

“Boot Barn?” Derek scoffed, rolling his eyes as he crossed his buff arms over his muscled chest. “I have to admit that it was odd that we were seeking out a trickster at the mall, but at a cowboy store?”

Stiles shrugged in response. “Everybody has to pay bills,” he retorted before making his way towards the store that reeked of leather.

The alpha werewolf followed closely behind, sniffing at the air to see if he could catch the scent of a trickster. He swallowed down the growl that formed in his throat when he caught whiff of the sickly sweet stench that was characteristic of the magical creatures, and he took a protective step closer to the human.

“Stay close to me,” Derek whispered in Stiles’s ear. “It’s here somewhere.” Out of instinct, he wrapped a secure arm around the other man and pulled him into his leather jacket, his inner wolf preening at the proximity.

Stiles’s eyes widened and he quickly snatched the closest object off the shelf closest to them. “Um, here, act like we’re buying this,” he hurriedly said as he tossed a white cowboy hat at Derek.

The alpha werewolf scowled at the blank, white cowboy hat with the $85.95 price tag hanging from it. Still, with a deep huff, he put the cowboy hat on his head and looked down at the young man in his hold. “How’s it look?” he grunted.

Stiles fought back a giggle, making Derek’s heart speed up. “I like it.”

The sweet scent of the trickster grew stronger and Derek straightened his posture and squared his broad shoulders, glaring at the guy the scent seemed to be emanating from. “Go wait for me at the food court,” he growled to Stiles, shoving him behind him so as to leave zero room for argument.

Stiles looked conflicted as he bit down on his lower lip, but he scurried off to the food court to wait for the alpha werewolf.

Derek stalked over to the trickster who was unloading product onto a random shelf. In order to up the ante, he puffed out his chest, making his pecs look bigger as they strained against his t-shirt. He even bared his teeth the slightest bit to show off his werewolf canines.

The trickster looked up from the box he was digging through, putting on a standard customer service smile. “Hello, how may I help you— oh shit,” he groaned when he saw that he was speaking to an alpha werewolf. “Look, Dude, I haven’t down anything wrong. I get that this is your territory and all, but I haven’t even practiced any magic since I located here.”

“So you just have a passion for woking at cowboy stores?” Derek countered, crossing his powerful arms over his chest. “I don’t buy that bullshit. You have exactly one minute to get out of my sight and leave my territory.” To emphasis his threat, his flashed his canines as he checked his watch.

The trickster tossed his hands up in the air exasperatedly. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your territory’s shit anyways.” He ripped his name tag off his polo and tossed it to the ground before stomping off. He glanced over his shoulder as he was about to exit to store and smirked. “And ‘cowboy store’?” He snapped his fingers and disappeared into the crowd of mall shoppers.

There was an odd electric quality to the air, but it passed just as quickly as it had come, making Derek doubt that he’d even felt it in the first place.

He shook his head, but paused when he caught sight of his reflection in one of the many store mirrors. He thought he looked ridiculous wearing the cowboy hat when it was paired with his favorite leather jacket. He reached up to take the hat off, but found that it was stuck.

“What the hell?” Derek grunted as he grabbed at the cowboy hat with both of his hands and tugged at it, clenching his teeth as he yanked with all of his strength, but the hat stayed in place. He pulled until he was red in the face and panting from exerting so much energy, scowling at his reflection that still had him wearing such a tacky cowboy hat.

However, Derek’s attention was quickly torn away from the cowboy hat stuck on his head when he looked down at the huge belt buckle that was in the front of his jeans. It was about as large as his hand and it had such intricate designs on it that depicted cowboys and longhorns. Derek hadn’t even been wearing a belt earlier, let alone one with such a garish buckle that only served to draw peoples’ attention straight to his groin.

The werewolf gasped loudly when he saw that even his generic shoes had somehow magically been replaced with cowboy boots, his pants even shifting to accommodate them by becoming bootcut style.

“Now what the heck am I wearin’?” Derek asked aloud, his eyes going wide at the way he heard himself speak. His normally rough and pointed tone had morphed into a deeper bass-filled voice with such a heavy southern twang that it was almost comical. “Now what had gone and ‘appened to mah voice?”

Derek hurried out of the store in a panic, clearing his throat over and over and rubbing at it frantically. This couldn’t be happening. He knew that the trickster was behind this and somehow the cowboy hat that was stuck on his head was acting as a catalyst for this transformation.

He continued to shove his way through the crowd of people, none of them paying attention to the panicking alpha werewolf.

Derek took a deep breath and tried to mentally psyche himself up to speak in his normal voice. My name is Derek Hale and I live in Beacon Hills, he mentally chanted. Just say it.

“Mah name’s Derek Hale. I was born ’n’ raised here in Beacon Hills,” he said in his thick country accent that he couldn’t shake. “Darn it!” He stomped his cowboy boot down in irritation before he was alerted to something else.

He looked down at his gray t-shirt, frowning when he was realized that he was no longer wearing his trademark leather jacket. He rolled his eyes but quickly froze as he examined his forearms, his stomach dropping as he saw the dark hair that was thickening over them. In a panic, Derek looked over the rest of his body, the blood draining from his face when he saw the wisps of new chest hair curling over the collar of his tight t-shirt.

“Now what in the Sam Hill is happenin’ to me?” he wondered aloud, wincing at his altered vernacular.

The changing Derek pushed through the crowd of people and made his way to the food court, his eyes immediately honing in on Stiles who was happily munching down on fries. For a brief second, he was embarrassed to have Stiles see him like this, but he knew that the human was incredibly intelligent and may have an idea to help him.

“Whoa doggy, ain’t ya a sight for sore eyes,” Derek cried as soon as he reached him.

Stiles looked up in confusion, cocking his eyebrow at the werewolf who sounded like some caricature from CMT and who dressed like someone’s exaggerated, stereotypical idea of what a Texan might dress like. “Derek?” he asked, looking the alpha up and down before smiling slightly. “So, you decided to buy the hat.”

Despite basking in the fact that Stiles was smiling at him, Derek grabbed a hold of his hand and yanked him out of his chair, quickly ushering him out of the mall and towards the parking garage.

“Uh, Derek?” Stiles muttered as he was practically dragged behind him.

“What is it, mah darlin’?” Derek answered, flinching when he heard how he’d just referred to Stiles. 

Luckily the human seemed to ignore it for the moment. “Um,” he stalled, sounding conflicted. “Either your shirt is shrinking or you’re growing.”

The werewolf yelped and stopped in his tracks, immediately starting to feel just how snug his already tight t-shirt had become. Looking down, his jaw dropped at he witnessed his pecs puff up and pack on meat as they pushed further away from his torso. His nipples hardened and perked up, poking tantalizingly against the tight fabric of his shirt that was strained to bursting. His already-broad shoulders pushed further outwards as his back widened, pushing him to near bodybuilder proportions. Derek watched with awe as his now hairy arms thickened, his biceps inflating to the size of bowling balls, displaying the upmost masculine power. Even his thighs widened and he felt his cock and balls start to feel extremely confined in his bootcut jeans.

RIIIPPPP!

Derek’s gray t-shirt finally gave up, bursting into tatters and leaving the bulky, hairy werewolf standing shirtless in the parking garage of the mall, wearing his cowboy hat, jeans with a huge belt buckle, and his cowboy boots. His inflated, hairier form oozed manliness and seemed to be a mixture of being obtained through his alpha genes and years of hard, physical labor.

“Damn, Derek,” Stiles gasped in wonder, “you look like a—”

“Like some redneck cowboy werewolf,” Derek finished for him in his country accent, a frown settling in on his face as he examined his new form in the reflection of a tinted window on some nearby car. His broad, beefy shoulders dropped as he walked towards where he parked his Camaro, gritting his teeth in annoyance at the new way his thighs rolled over each other and the awkward way his biceps and lats kept pushing against each other, making his arms hang at a weird angle by his sides. His fuzzy pecs felt so cumbersome and heavy, and he found himself arching his back to help support their weight, which only seemed to accentuate the massive muscle mounds.

However, a large piece of him was hyperaware of the fact that he still had a strong hold of Stiles’s hand. Not only that, but the human had even gone to far as to intertwine his fingers with his, making the alpha blush. Derek was so focused on how he was walking hand in hand with Stiles that when he reached his vehicle, he was hit with such shock.

“What in tarnation?!” Derek roared in irritation as the space where he’d parked his Camaro was now occupied by an old, red pickup truck.

Stiles kept his mouth shut (for once), knowing that Derek had loved his Camaro. He gave the cowboy werewolf’s beefy, hairy hand a reassuring squeeze, not unaware of the way Derek unconsciously ran his thumb up and down his.

The alpha sighed in resignation, unsure of how to fix this. “C’mon, Darlin’,” he grunted as he led Stiles to his new truck, taking a while to realize that he’d just called Stiles “Darlin’” for a second time.

The two of them settled into the pickup truck. Derek fought back a growl when he realized just how much muscle he’d packed on once he was in the tiny cab of the old truck. His broad shoulders made it so that his left was pressed against the driver side door and his right had Stiles pressed tightly against him. His massive biceps made it hard to bend his arms to grip the steering wheel, and his pecs were so large that he had to readjust his grip around them constantly; and his seatbelt completely disappeared into their deep hairy crevice. Worse was that his larger, erect nipples kept getting stimulated by his massive biceps jostling against them as he turned the wheel, making him stifle a moan and feel the front of his pants grow tighter and tighter.

As he drove back to his loft, Derek glanced in the rearview mirror, a frown deep on his face. “I really got no idea how I’ma fix this,” he sighed.

Stiles offered him another smile. “I don’t think you look that bad,” he offered, placing a reassuring hand on the alpha’s inflated bicep.

The newly transfigured Derek was unsure if it was by his own will or a result of his transformation, but he felt himself wrap a buffed up arm around Stiles’s thin shoulders and pull him into his beefy, hairy body. “C’mere, Darlin’,” he cooed, finding it oddly hot how he completely dwarfed the smaller man.

Stiles snickered as he leaned into the alpha cowboy werewolf, running an admiring hand over Derek’s larger pecs, sending a shudder though the other man. “It’s about time you make a move,” he teased. “I just didn’t think it took you turning into some cowboy to finally get the balls.”

Derek jerked back and looked down at Stiles in wonder, his heart racing in his massive chest. “Whaddya just say?” he asked, starting to finally feel hopeful since his transformation started.

Stiles blushed and squirmed a little in his hold. “I’ve had a thing for you for a bit,” he admitted, looking away momentarily before glancing back up at the alpha.

Derek stopped at a red light and took advantage of the situation to yank Stiles closer and deeply kiss him, moaning loudly as he did so. His inner wolf howled with pride over having finally kissed his mate. He pulled back for a moment, feeling his smile taking over every expanse of his face. “I’ve been in love with ya, Darlin’ ever since ya trespassed on mah land,” he gushed, leaning back down to pepper kissed all over the human in his grasp.

Stiles leaned into it and quickly reached up and took the cowboy hat off Derek’s head, setting it onto the dash. “The brim keeps getting in the way,” he muttered before resuming their make out session.

It took Derek a moment to realize that the cowboy hat was finally off his head. He still held Stiles in his hold and let the human’s hands travel all over his bulky form. They were still making out in an old pickup truck. Derek was still wearing cowboy boots and had an obscenely large belt buckle. And Derek’s body was still at least sixty pounds heavier and much more hairier. His stomach dropped at the revelation that, although the cowboy hat had began his transformation, apparently it’s work was done and permanent. A part of the alpha werewolf winced as he knew deep down that normal Derek Hale, the stud who’d spent a chunk of his life in the city and was known to wear leather jackets and drive a hot sportscar around town, was gone. In his place was the new Derek Hale: the redneck cowboy who had a thick country accent and muscles so large that they barely fit in his pickup truck. 

And this new Derek Hale had Stiles.

Immediately all of his indignation disappeared and Derek puffed out his chest with pride, tightening his grip on his boy and planting another kiss on his lips as the light turned green. If it meant that he had Stiles in his life and that they were finally together, Derek could make it work as some muscled-up cowboy.

“Darlin’, I’ma take ya back to mah loft and I’ma knot that tight hole of yours,” Derek playfully growled at the blushing man. 

He started to drive forward again, but couldn’t ignore a brand new sensation that washed over him and told him that he was missing something. He snorted and shook his head, knowing just what it was.

Derek reached over and snatched his cowboy hat off the dash and put it back onto his head, that anxiety disappearing as soon as it was back in place. “Gotta have my hat,” he winked down at Stiles, rock hard as he envisioned all the things he was going to do to his mate… and he knew he’d be wearing his cowboy hat the entire time.

I don’t know what’s happening to me, recently I’ve been burping non stop and no matter how much I wash I keep getting smellier. I’ve also been having urges to go to the gym and turn my twink body around plus I’m blacking out loads and the last time I can to I had some confederate flag underwear in my amazon basket

As the sharp snaaaaapppp of the sound ricochets through your room, it’s followed by an unsettling wave of smoke that billows around you. The acrid scent of burnt material invades your senses—a noxious blend of sweat-soaked gym clothes and the vile stench of rotten eggs. The smoke feels dense and suffocating, clinging to the air and coating your throat like a heavy, oppressive mist. Each breath you take feels labored, and your body convulses with a violent cough, the hacking sound mingling with the smoky haze that seems to grow thicker by the second.

Your mind, once sharp and clear, begins to dissolve into a foggy mush. The smoke isn't just suffocating your lungs; it's clouding your thoughts. Your once vivid memories of nerdy hobbies— coding, collecting comic books, or lameass role-playing games—begin to fade into a dull blur. The details that used to bring you joy are slipping away, leaving you in a state of confusion and mental numbness.

As this disorienting haze continues, you feel an uncomfortable shift in your body. You start to grow taller, your frame expanding in a grotesque, almost cartoonish manner. The weight on your body seems to melt away, replaced by an exaggerated muscular bulk. You look down and realize you're clad in a pair of ratty, unwashed boxers emblazoned with a Confederate flag. You let out a dumb, bewildered chuckle, noticing the deepening Southern twinge in your voice as your laughter grows more guttural and brash.

A deep, resonant burp escapes your throat, and a sharp ache courses through your body. Your muscles twitch involuntarily, each spasm sending waves of discomfort through your once weak and thin frame. As the transformation completes, you become a hulking figure of exaggerated Southern masculinity. Your physique is a grotesque parody of the redneck bro archetype: massive, rippling muscles straining against your skin, a tanned and greasy sheen covering every inch of your body.

Your chest is a dominant feature, each pectoral muscle resembling a slab of meat rather than mere flesh, rippling with every movement. Your abs are a rock-hard, jackhammer-sculpted six-pack that bulges unnaturally. Your arms are enormous, thick veins and sinew pulsing with raw, unrefined strength. Your legs are massive, with thighs like tree trunks and calves that bulge comically. Your glutes are a round, firm rear end, exaggerated for maximum impact.

Your skin, a tanned, ruddy shade, is slick with sweat, and your face is rugged—broad nose, square jawline, and squinting eyes. Your hair is short and unkempt, often covered by a worn-out trucker hat. A stubbly beard or unshaven chin completes your rough-hewn appearance.

As you let rip an awful, wet fart, the room fills with an even more unbearable stench, a potent mix of stale beer, unwashed clothes, and a sense of neglect. The room begins to morph into a grotesque parody of a trailer home, with beer cans scattered around, a Confederate flag hanging in the corner, and Fox News blaring in the background, amplifying the grotesque transformation and reinforcing the overwhelming sense of repugnance and exaggerated masculinity.

You let out another loud, smelly fart as you heave yourself out of bed, your fat, jiggling ass giggling with each movement. You grab a beer from the fridge, your huge hands crushing the can. You take a swig, but most of it ends up pouring down your thick, muscular chest. You slam the empty can against your head, letting out a loud, wet belch.

Suddenly, you hear a call from outside. "Chet! Now, come out here and show your wife some loving!" You step out of the trailer and see the hottest little redneck chick you've ever laid eyes on. She's wearing a tiny American flag bikini, and there's a Trump 2024 sign in the yard. You swing your MAGA hat back and lay a big, wet kiss on her.

"Damn, baby, you're looking fine as hell today," you say, flexing your massive muscles for her. "The Lord sure did bless me with a fine piece of ass like you."

She giggles and grabs you another beer. "You better believe it, sugar. Now, why don't you take me inside and fuck my brains out?"

You grin, your eyes roaming over her curves. "Oh, I'll fuck you alright. I'll fuck you so hard, you'll be seeing stars and stripes for days." You grab her ass, feeling the soft flesh fill your huge hands. "But first, I gotta show you what these muscles can do. I'll make you scream so loud, the whole damn trailer park will know who you belong to."

She shivers in anticipation, pressing her body against yours. "Then what are you waiting for, big boy? Take me now, before I explode."

Hey there! Becoming a dumb, stinky redneck would be sooooo hot...

You hear a knock at the door, an unexpected interruption in your quiet day. Confused, you head over to investigate, opening the door to find a small box sitting on the ground. There’s no recollection of ordering anything, but your name is printed on the label in a hasty scrawl. Curiosity piqued, you bring it inside, setting it down on the table.

As you open the package, a wave of unease washes over you. Inside, there’s nothing but a small, unremarkable can of body spray. You hold it up, examining the label, when, without thinking, you accidentally spray yourself in the face. A sudden, sharp smell fills the air—a faint whiff of used gym socks that quickly intensifies.

As the pungent scent wraps around you, a warm sensation spreads through your limbs. Your muscles start to shift and swell, as if being pumped up by some unseen force. The tightness in your biceps intensifies, veins snaking like bold rivers across the surface, showcasing newfound strength. Each tricep and shoulder begins to expand, the fabric of your shirt straining against the burgeoning mass beneath.

Your chest swells outward, pectorals bulging, defined and powerful, the faintest sheen of sweat glistening across the surface. You feel the fabric of the tank top cling tighter, the material barely containing the raw energy radiating from your form. A faint thud echoes as your heart races, matching the rhythm of the transformation.

The muscles in your back ripple and flare, thickening into a robust V-shape, the power radiating through your core. You catch a glimpse of your reflection, and the rugged, sun-kissed skin is marked with scars—each a testament to the grit of hard labor and wild escapades. The warmth of the reddish tan feels almost primal, as if it’s a badge of honor earned through years spent under the sun.

As your quads thicken, the very fabric of your jeans seems to stretch and strain, the definition becoming more pronounced with every pulse of energy. Your calves grow solid, like rocks, capable of propelling you forward with sheer force. It’s intoxicating—the raw vitality surging through you feels both exhilarating and overwhelming.

Yet, the relentless smell remains—a blend of stale beer, unwashed underwear, and that lingering fart, wrapping you in a cloak of unapologetic masculinity. You’re no longer just an observer; you’re becoming a living embodiment of the rough, unrefined spirit of the redneck life.

As you blink, a pounding headache starts to emerge, each throb matching the relentless stench surrounding you. You glance around, and suddenly you’re no longer in your pristine apartment but in a ratty, disgusting trailer. The floors are littered with crushed beer cans, remnants of past nights spent in revelry. Used, unwashed clothes are strewn everywhere, some draped over free weights that sit like forgotten relics of a once-ambitious workout routine.

The walls are adorned with peeling posters of hunting scenes and some blonde bimbos, while the air is thick with a mix of stale smoke and something decidedly worse—like the aftermath of too many late-night barbecues. The headache intensifies, and the reality of your surroundings sinks in. You’re now in this rugged, chaotic space, and it’s as if the very essence of this hick life has seeped into your bones, leaving you feeling both bewildered and strangely invigorated. As the musky scent of the body spray bottle shifts to the sharp, crisp cold beer, you chuckle heartily. A deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through your newly-chiseled chest. You unscrew the cap of the bottle with a deft twist of your claw-like fingers, already half-drunk on the idea of indulging in your new favorite vice.

You take a long swig, feeling the icy liquid dance along your throat. It soothes the burning ache building behind your eyes, easing the throbbing between them. The TV flickers to life, the bland faces of Fox News hosts filling the screen. Right on cue, your normally sharp mind begins to slow, each thought fuzzy and indistinct. You watch in detached fascination as your worldview shifts, perspectives warping to align with the most conservative talking points you've ever heard.

One hand drifts down to cup your burgeoning erection through your pants, giving it a casual squeeze. It twitches eagerly beneath your palm, already half-hard and straining against the confining denim. A beautiful blonde bimbo materializes on screen, all big fake tits and glossy lips. Her low-cut top strains to contain her ample assets as she leans forward, a coy smile playing across her painted lips.

You groan at the sight, a low, primal sound that catches in your throat. Your cock pulses under your touch, hot and eager for attention, the swelling member straining against the confines of the fabric. Pre-cum bubbles at the tip as your thumb circles the throbbing head through the fabric barrier, teasing the sensitive flesh until you're almost panting from the lack of stimulation. The bimbo continues to flaunt her barely restrained tits on the screen, drawing your attention back like a moth to a flame even as a part of your brain struggles to understand what's come over you. The sudden shift towards the right makes perfect sense now - conservative views always held a particular appeal for the simple and uncomplicated.

A growl rises in the back of your throat and you shrug out of your jacket impatiently. The smell of stale body odor still lingers beneath the sweet bouquet of fermented hops and heavy metal riffs wafting in from somewhere nearby. In the confines of this trashy hovel, however, even that scent becomes almost inviting - a tangible reminder that everything is bigger and dirtier and better than the clean, safe world you came from.

A wince escapes your nostrils as you take a deep whiff of the stagnant air in your cramped living space. The combined aromas of stale sweat, week-old beer, unwashed gym socks and old cigarette butts assault your olfactory system. But unlike the overwhelming stench of moldy foot that normally fills your nose in a typical bachelor pad, these smells have an earthiness to them now. Like a musk of well-used gym mats, dried semen, and countless cans of beer.

You stroke yourself idly as the sultry blonde continues her coy schtick on Fox Business, one hand trailing lower to grope at your pulsing cock through your pants. It kicks up the volume of your grunting, each movement coaxing more pre-cum onto your fingertips until it dribbles down your thigh and stains the denim a lurid wet spot. Goddammit, it feels so good to let go. No more thinking about things that are good for you, no more fighting those base urges that live for indulgence in pleasure at every turn.

You inhale deeply, drawing in the rancid stench of your den of sin. The stink of unwashed gym socks mingles with stale sweat from weeks of hard living, forming a pungent yet oddly arousing perfume in this fetid space. Beer fumes tickle your nostrils, sweet and sour and headier than any brew you ever drank in college. A whiff of sex lingers in the air as well, mingling with the other odors. It's ripe and musty, thick with pheromones and body fluids. Just the bouquet you'd expect from the trailer of a red-blooded, foul-mouthed, horny-as-shit hobo.

Your fist clenches around your aching prick, giving it a few rough pumps as you eye the blonde bombshell sashaying across the TV screen. Each stroke brings fresh bursts of pre-cum drooling from the swollen cockhead, staining your zipper with pearly streaks. Your other hand skims up the curve of your abs to wrap loosely around your own neck. The muscles are rock-solid beneath your palms, even more defined than you'd ever been back home in your corporate cocoon.

Spring Break

Noah was pissed. Today was supposed to be the beginning of the best spring break ever. He’d planned a week-long trip with his college friends to New York City. They’d had it all lined up- museums, restaurants, sightseeing, it was perfect. But about a week before, Noah’s mom had called and delivered devastating news. They were having a family reunion that week. In rural Florida. Attendance was not optional. She’d bought his ticket already and there was no way out.

The day had arrived, and he solemnly made his way to the airport and flew to Tallahassee. They were meeting at his relatives’ place in the Florida panhandle, in the middle of nowhere. He’d been once as a kid and vowed never to go back. After a two hour drive from the airport he made it, driving up a dirt driveway to the massive, yet ramshackle, house in the forest. The next hour was a blur of greeting extended family, most of whom he barely remembered since they tended to stay out here in the country. After that settled down his mom came up to him, clearly very excited about something.

“Noah! You’re not gonna believe this, but since it’ll be a few more days before everyone’s here, your cousins Chevy and Logan are gonna take you out on a hunting trip! Just for a couple days,” she was nearly bouncing off the ground.

Noah groaned. That was the last thing he wanted to do. He had nothing in common with his cousins, and certainly did not want to spend time alone with them out in the swampy wilderness. His mom was not hearing any complaints from him though, and she dragged him out back to reacquaint him with his cousins. Chevy and Logan were chatting with each other on the patio, beers in hand, decked out in the camo hunting gear Noah assumed they lived and slept in. They were only a couple years older than Noah, but looked quite a bit older compared to the baby faced city boy.

“Ayyy Noah! What’s up, it’s been a while man,” Chevy walked over and gave him a bear hug, spilling some beer on his back.

“Hey Chevy, nice to see you too. I heard you guys were uh, taking me out camping,” Noah said unenthusiastically.

“Not just camping my guy!” Logan butted in, “We’re talking full on country backroads hunting boy’s trip! We’ll show you what you’re missing by being cooped up in the city.”

Noah’s heart sank; it was worse than he’d thought. They were gonna drag him out there and make him hunt? He didn’t like killing anything and worse, having to deal with the aftermath. He put on a forced grin since his mother was right there.

“Wow, that sounds real great guys, I can’t wait,” he said through gritted teeth. His subliminal messages to them were entirely lost.

“Hell yes bro! Here’s a pack with some of our extra hunting clothing, you won’t want a whole suitcase out there,” Chevy said, handing Noah a backpack. “We’ve got some extra gear that should fit you, it’s already in the truck. We’ll leave in 30 minutes, so get yourself ready.”

30 minutes?? That was immediate, he wouldn’t even have time to plead his case to get out of it. Begrudgingly he went back inside to get his stuff together. The next thing he knew, it was time. The boys were out front in their pickup truck, the back full of tents, camouflage gear, and who knows what else. Logan laid on the horn.

“NOAHHHHHH! It’s time to scram, let's get outta here!” Logan shouted over the blaring horn. 

Noah groaned, this was setting the tone for the whole trip. He looked at himself in the mirror, the camo pants and hoodie just looked wrong on him. He for sure didn’t want his clothes getting covered in mud though, so he sucked it up and headed out front. Chevy grabbed his bag and tossed it in the back before climbing in shotgun, leaving Noah in the cramped back seats. And with that, they were off.

“There’s a real nice game area ‘bout an hour, hour and a half from here,” Logan said. “We’ll get in, set up a nice camp, then relax. Then at sunrise we’ll start you off with somethin easy, maybe a deer or boar,” he turned and looked at Noah, grinning. 

Noah bounced around in the back of the truck as Logan drove through the forest on bumpy dirt roads. Chevy had put on some country music up front, and they were practically yelling to have a conversation over it. They tried talking to Noah about what he’d been up to, but Noah was sulking and gave only short answers. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky when they pulled off, offroading through some clear land towards a spot they’d clearly been to before. They stopped at a neat little clearing near a creek. It was objectively a beautiful little spot, but Noah was not in the mood to appreciate it, already swatting at mosquitoes swarming him. 

“Alright man, you ever pitch a tent?” Chevy asked Noah. 

“Uh, no, I haven’t”

“Well here, I’ll help ya out,” he said earnestly. “We’ve already got a well used spot here, so first we just lay out this footprint, and here let’s have you start with the poles.”

Noah fumbled around with the metal poles before eventually getting them together. He was frustrated, why would he ever need to know this? Chevy took the poles and got the tent up while Logan was still unloading the back of the truck.

“Alright we’re nearly done, just gotta secure it with these stakes,” he handed them to Noah. “Just stick these through the corner, make sure they’re deep in the ground now.”

Noah took the stakes and tried pushing them into the dirt, but they only made it about an inch in. He tried scraping the dirt away with his hands but that didn’t help. Chevy tapped his shoulder, holding a mallet as a suggestion. They’d just gotten here and already Noah was annoyed despite his cousin’s encouraging attitude. His hands were covered in dirt too, he hated being dirty! And he had no escape from all of it. He stormed off to the water’s edge in a huff while the other two finished putting their site together. The sun was really setting by then.

“Ey Noah!” Logan called, “Come have a beer with us man! We’ve got some chili cookin’ too, ya gotta eat somethin,” he laughed. Noah sighed. There was no point in sulking the entire trip like this, even if he wanted to. He walked back over and pulled a beer out of the cooler they’d brought and sat down.

“It seems his highness has decided to grace us with his presence,” Chevy mocked. Noah chuckled. He’d make it through this, even if it took all the beer in that cooler. The boys ate dinner and talked as the sun dipped below the horizon, with Noah actually giving some substantial answers this time. He was exhausted, having flown in and driven all day. He climbed into his tent to hit the sack. If he’d had a mirror in there, he would’ve noticed what looked like some dirt smeared on his face, just on his upper lip and the sides of his face by his ears.

Noah was abruptly awakened by Chevy shaking him. “Hey bro! It’s just starting to get light out, let’s get moving.” Noah groaned, it was his vacation and he was getting woken up at five something in the morning. He crawled out of his tent, banging his head on the pole; was it really that small last night?  The boys were up and moving already, and Chevy handed Noah a granola bar to eat. “It’s a light breakfast I know, but we don’t wanna miss the prime time of the day,” he said softly.

Despite being exhausted, Noah’s annoyance was fading quickly. Maybe this would be a little bit of fun; at the very least it would be something different from normal. He scratched at his chin, his fingers brushing through the smallest bit of stubble that had sprouted overnight. Noah had never been able to grow facial hair, but for some reason this didn’t alarm him, it felt natural even. He put on his hat to hide his messy hair and began to chow down on that granola bar. As he did, that small amount of stubble began pushing out more, giving Noah a shadow across his jaw. It grew thicker, sticking out further until he had a rough, patchy beard. It made Noah look more natural in his hunting gear, aging him up just a hair. His clothes had also grown less baggy on him, attributing to an extra inch or two in height and some mass he’d never been able to pack on before.

Within a few minutes, they were off, trekking through the tall grass into the brush. Logan guided them to a denser pocket where they set up watch and waited for some wildlife to show up. Logan had told them he knew there were deer that tended to feed nearby, so they just had to be quiet and wait. The tension grew as time passed, and before he knew it, a buck had shown up in the clearing. Chevy had prepared him for this, and he took the shot. The deer went down, and Chevy and Logan cheered.

“Hell yes dude! Nice shot, especially for your first time,” Logan patted him on the back.

Chevy gripped him with joy, “It must be in your blood bro, you’re a natural.”

The adrenaline was coursing through Noah’s veins and to his surprise he was actually having a good time. He couldn’t remember why he hadn’t wanted to spend time with his cousins, they were chill, and this was turning out to be better than being cooped up in the house. The three of them carried the animal back, working together to hoist several hundred pounds. The sun was fully up now and it was humid. Sweat ran down Noah’s back, and he could smell the putrid stench coming off Chevy in front of him. He didn’t mind though, after all, that’s what a working man smells like.

The sweat was clinging to Noah’s damp skin, beading on his forehead. As he slogged ahead, carrying this massive weight on his shoulders, his body began to adapt. His twig like arms expanded with new muscle, his thighs exploded with size, and his chest produced an impressive set of pecs before softening with a layer of fat. The sweat and smell really began to soak into his skin, and under his sopping shirt small brown hairs poked up around his nipples. Those soft, small hairs didn’t remain so for long, sprouting from his chest, covering the expanse in a curly rug that was slicked down with sweat. Noah’s stubble was not to be left out, pushing further out of his face. Hairs wriggled out in the gaps between old ones, leaving him with much better coverage on his cheeks. Around his chin it even started to fluff up a little, coarse hairs puffing out.

They finally made it back to their camp, dropping the load and slumping into the chairs they’d left around the fire pit. 

“We’ll have to gut and clean that in a minute, but here champ,” Logan handed Noah a beer. It was cold, and exactly what Noah needed against the oppressive humidity. “Here’s to many more,” he toasted, before chugging his own down. Noah was finally able to take a breather, and thats when he noticed.

He STUNK.

He raised his arms back behind his head, airing them out. The sweat drenched pits aired their stench to the world, but to Noah, he just matched his cousins now. The exposed pits had a few hairs plastered to the skin. As he sipped the beer and relaxed, more wisps of hair shot out from his skin, growing thick and wiry. What started as a few extra hairs quickly blossomed into a thick forest of hairs, tangling together and poking out of the sleeves of his t-shirt. The hairs itched as they grew in, prompting Noah to dig his fingers in there, scratching through the sweaty, smelly hairs. He didn’t question it, as far as he remembered he’d had hairy pits since middle school. The hairs spread out of his pits, connecting to the dense coating on his chest. The rug on his chest had started creeping upwards, reaching with thick tendrils of hair towards his burgeoning beard.

After a short reprieve Noah was back on his feet, jumping at the opportunity to learn from his cousins how to clean their kill. They were eager to teach him, to fold him into their ways. Noah’s distaste for his cousins, the country, hunting, all of it was evaporating. He felt like he had so much in common with them now, how had he never realized? 

The rest of the day Chevy and Logan took Noah on a whole laundry list of activities they’d planned. Fishing, mudding, you name it. All hesitation had disappeared, Noah was in deep now. He kept drinking with the boys, not noticing that his gut was pushing tight against his shirt. In fact, his whole upper body was stretching out. His shoulders pushed out, growing broader. His frame was massive now, bigger than either of his cousins. He stood out on the edge of a pond in the harsh sunlight fishing, his shirt absolutely soaked with sweat that dribbled down his massive back. As it reached his waistband, it began fertilizing the growth of a new patch of hair right above his plump ass. The hairs sprung out of the wet skin, shooting up his spine in minutes. Before long the hairs had spread out across the wide expanse of his lats, pressing against the tight shirt. The fields of hair were thick, dense enough to darken the shade of his skin, and definitely didn’t help with the sweat situation. The hairs continued to spread, climbing over his round shoulders and down his arms, coating him with a wild fur that cemented his place out in the country. He was really starting to look like his cousins now, between his camo gear, hairy body, and beer gut. 

When the three of them returned to camp that night, Noah was exhausted. He grabbed another can from the cooler and cracked it open. Putting up to his mouth, he tilted it a little too far, spilling foamy beer down his face and into his chest hair. He chuckled and half attempted to wipe the foam off. Where it sat in his beard, the hairs began to thicken and sprout. His mustache grew incredibly thick, making itself known above the rest of his scruff. His chest fur also took to the growth, turning into a real carpet that climbed up and out of his shirt collar. Noah let out a massive burp in response.

“Yo Chevy, we really gotta head back tomorrow? Shit rocks out here,” Noah said with a deeper voice than he’d ever had previously.

“Yea bro, Ma will skin us if we miss the reunion. But don’t worry man, I know you’ll be back out with us in no time,” he flashed a grin at Noah. 

Noah went and dug through their bags, finding a lighter and pack of cigars. Now that the sun was going down, it was cool enough to enjoy being outside. He lit it up and took a hefty puff, his huge, hirsute body taking it in like a champ. Any thoughts about his old spring break, his old life, had been dragged through the mud and stamped out. All he wanted to do now was relax, listen to the sounds of the crickets, and spend time with his bros.