Hyphyphurray - Tumblr Posts

Throw two alpha males into the same gym, and they’ll either become best friends or enemies.

Maybe if Derek wasn’t such an asshole, we’d have been best bros. But one time I was just finishing up my entire workout and I told him he couldn’t switch in, and he got all pissed about it. It was my last two sets, and then I had to run, he didn’t have to act like such a little bitch about it.

But now every time we’re in the gym at the same time, he’s gotta pull some kind of shit. He even has a couple admirers that do his fucking bidding- I saw some nerdy type trying to steal something from my gym bag, and when caught in the act, he just ran behind Derek like some kind of cowering puppy. Pathetic.

Not that I don’t have a couple of non-muscle types on my side. I’d been helping this kinda guy Shawn for a month by giving him some pointers, and he’d seen some small gains, and now he practically worships me. And honestly, I was proud of him- it’s the incentive to keep going to the gym and work- whatever genetics gave you- that mattered to me. Sure, he’d never weigh more than a buck fifty, but he wasn’t some asshole like Derek.

It was after Derek “tripped” one day and spilled my protein shake that I just got super pissed and ranted about him to Shawn.

“I can’t stand that asshole!” I growled, glowering from across the gym. “He thinks the whole fucking world revolves around him.”

Shawn tried to calm me down.

“Listen, Mark,” he said, helping me clean up my shake. “You’re a good guy, and you’ve been super nice to me. Maybe I could do something to help you out with Derek…”

“Like what?” I asked.

Shawn blushed.

“Well, uh… I’m kind of a hypnotist, and…” he cleared his throat. “I could maybe make this audio file that makes him listen to you…. follow your orders…”

“Are you for real?” I said. “That shit actually work?”

Shawn nodded and then continued.

“I could pretend to ask him for lifting help, act like we had a falling out, and then tell him that I had this great file that would help him out with his workouts….”

Holy shit. That sounded amazing.

“Shawn,” I said, clapping him on the back. “You’re fucking awesome, bro!”

And the rest of the week at the gym, it all went to plan. Shawn started following Derek around, praising his muscles and asking for help. Derek seemed only too happy to steal away an admirer of mine, and actually started parading Shawn in front of me, trying to piss me off.

But then I’d see him post workout, earbuds in, listening to something. Shawn saw me taking note and winked.

My phone buzzed. A text from Shawn.

“His trigger phrase is Muscle Slave,” it read.

I grinned. I couldn’t wait for just the right moment.

It came the next week. In the locker room, I saw Derek’s scrawny hero-worshipper kneeled over my gym bag, mumbling something. Derek probably sent him over to throw it in one of the showers or some juvenile prank like that.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you little twerp?” I bellowed, and the little pipsqueak jumped into the air and took off. I looked in my bag. Nothing missing. I pulled out my muscle tank and a clean jock from the bag and threw them on with some shorts. This shit was gonna end today.

I made my way across the locker room to Derek, who had just finished working out.

“Your little dork was trying to get into my stuff again,” I growled.

Derek looked up from the bench he sat on.

“Christ, you’re an asshole,” he sneered. “Just ‘cause you’ve got some muscle, you think you’re in charge. Take that away and you’d be a nobody.”

“And you think everyone should just bend over at your every word. Can’t imagine a world that doesn’t revolve around you,” I spat back.

Strangely, he grinned.

“I can’t help it if little guys love me,” he flexed in his tight black undershirt. “If you were one, I bet you’d be all over this too. Or should I say, when you are one…”

I froze. What the fuck was this asshole talking about?

“I can’t believe it,” he continued. “That ‘little dork’ you were talking about actually did it.”

“Did what?” I cleared my throat. Something felt weird. I glared down at Derek. My hand went to my throat. “What the…?”

Derek’s eyes blazed as he actually started to laugh.

“Shit, you haven’t noticed? You’ve gotta be 30 pounds lighter by now!”

I looked down. My previously tight muscle tank was hanging off of me. My pecs! Gone! My biceps- gone! All of my hard earned gains at the gym were melting away!

I stared in horror at Derek. Fuck, was I getting shorter? He was sitting- I should be towering over him.

“That ‘little dork’ friend of mine does some magic in his spare time,” Derek chortled. “And he agreed with me that you should get taken down a peg or two.”

My shorts felt loose as I lost another inch. Two.

“You bastard!” I yelled, and my voice cracked.

“So now you’re going to know what it feels like to be a scrawny little nerd, obsessed with big muscle guys.”

Oh god, even my dick was shrinking. I could feel the jock loosen around my balls. I should have been pissed, but… I just saw this behemoth in front of me, his thighs bulging in his dark green shorts. My now tinier dick was hard and getting harder. Fuck! I was getting horny looking at Derek!

“Oh fuck,” I moaned, sounding like some little bitch.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror to the side. I must be barely 5'4’’ now! I’d be lucky if I weighed 120!

Derek grinned at me.

“You want this, don’t you?” he said, and flexed his massive arms.

Fuck. I did. My shorts, now too baggy for my shrunken frame, fell down around my ankles. God, even my feet had shrunk! My size 13 sneakers made me feel like I was wearing clown shoes.

I stared at Derek, impossibly horny. God, I wanted him to fuck me. To pin me down with his massive bulk. He stood over me, a giant, seemingly impossibly tall after once being just an inch shorter than me. He pushed me to my new, skinny knees.

“Not giving orders anymore, are you, you horny little twink?” he laughed.

And then I saw the earbuds still in.

“Shut up, Muscle Slave,” I snapped.

Derek blinked. His jaw started to go slack.

“What…?” he trailed off. He looked wobbly.

“Sit down, Muscle Slave,” I said.

He did.

Fuck. I was horny. And now this massive muscle god was sitting in front of me, awaiting orders.

I wrapped my new smaller hand around my tiny, hard cock. My other hand moved its way to my ass. God, fuck, I was so small, and horny.

I needed to get fucked.

“You’re right,” I purred, tracing my hand down Derek’s massive shoulder. “I’m just a horny little twink boy.”

His eyes seemed glazed.

“And now you’re gonna fuck me like I’m the center of your reality.”

I saw his dick twitch in his green shorts.

“Fuck me, Muscle Slave,” I whispered.

He picked me up right out of my now massive shoes with one arm, and slid off the now comically large jockstrap down my now-hairless legs. He turned me around, and I felt his massive cock push against my ass.

“Yes, master,” he said.

I started to grind my perky little ass against his raging boner. I felt the sinew of his muscles gripping me, enveloping me. I wanted to worship every one of them.

Fuck.

I was a horny little muscle-obssed fuckboi.

I moaned in my higher voice.

And this muscle god was going to fuck me until I forgave him.

My boyfriend Jeremy showed up grinning.

“What’s with you today?” I asked. I frowned. Something seemed off. Usually he felt shorter when I hugged him.

“Are you wearing tall boots or something?”

That same mischievous grin flashed again.

“Nope. But I did get something new.”

“Lemme guess. The Basement?”

He nodded, eyes twinkling.

Oh Lord. He was always going to that same thrift shop, digging through piles of boxes, looking for some secondhand score. Jeremy went so frequently that the owner would even hold new donations for him to paw through, before they went on sale.

He held out something keychain-sized at me. It looked like a voice memo recorder.

“Taking notes?” I asked.

“Just watch,” he said, raising it to his mouth and pushing a button. “Taller, more muscular, tattoos, beard.”

Then, he pointed it at his chest and hit a second button.

My jaw dropped as my formerly 5′8′‘ boyfriend shot up in size, chest broadening, a beard bursting from his chin. In mere seconds, he was even taller than me- 6′2′‘? 6′3′‘?! His shirt tore in half with a loud rip.

“Ooops,” he said, in a voice suddenly rich with bass tones. “Should have taken that off first.”

The now-giant yanked what was left of his t-shirt over his head and threw it to the ground. Tattoos curled around his now muscular arms and side.

“HOLY FUCK!” I yelled. “Jeremy-?!”

The smile on his face! I was in shock.

“But now for some real fun,” he said, raising the keychain to his mouth again. “Shorter, skinny, hairless, smaller cock, submissive.”

And then, smiling, he pointed it at me.

“Going down,” he said, and pressed the second button.

Gay yard sales are one of my favorite things. You never know what you’ll find- some campy tchotchkes, or old Tom of Finland drawings, costume jewelry…

Well, this last month, I happened on this big old Victorian house having an estate sale, and it was clear that it had been some old queen. Vintage clothes, black and white photos of two men in rather scandalous poses, some really great furniture, all kinds of good queer stuff.

But I saw this book, and flipping through it, it just stuck with me. It was new, but had pictures of various men in different locations and different times. Patrick, Dublin, 1997. Omar, NYC, 2006. Haruto, Tokyo, 1978. None of them professional models per se, but sexy, confident… *real.* The book had no publisher listed and was probably just some private vanity project.

It was ten bucks, and I thought it would make the perfect coffee table book, so I slapped down two fives and went on my way. That night when horny, instead of visiting my typical sites, I flipped casually through the book. I happened upon this gorgeous Czech man in Prague, from 1985, Bovza- dark features, intense eyes, hairy chest. I started stroking myself, unable to tear my eyes from the page, and soon, I was shooting all over my chest.

I grabbed a towel next to my bed to wipe off and then, rubbing, I was shocked to see hair on my normally smooth chest.

“What the-?” I said, and then stopped. My voice seemed deeper, and had some kind of European accent. My skin was darker, my hands rough… I ran to a mirror and stared in shock as the intense gaze of Bovza stared back. I ran back to the book- I was a dead ringer for the sexy Czech man, from head to toe.

After a healthy amount of self-exploration, I spent the rest of the day as Bovza, barely fitting into my old clothes. It was strange- I was still myself, with all of my old memories, but some parts of Bovza’s personality kept seeping through. He was quieter, more intense. And at the bar that night, I found myself skipping my normal rum and coke for a Pilsner.

The next morning, I woke up in my bed, back in my old body. Flipping through the book, I saw a new page that hadn’t been there before- Joey, Boston, 2017. And there I was, wearing the same thing I’d been wearing the day before when I first found the book!

I’ve spent the last month figuring out the rules of the book and as far as I can tell, when I jerk off to a picture of one of the guys, I find myself in their body until I next go to sleep. Sometimes their personalities are a bit stronger than others- one guy was bi, and I even found myself fucking a woman for the first time in 15 years! It’s been a non-stop string of adventures since- Vlad, Moscow, 1954. Alfredo, Rome, 1967. Billy, Houston, 2012.

But today, as you can see, is Jose. I grinned as I felt his bushy mustache grow above my lip and hair dusted my legs as my frame grew slimmer, toned. Christ, I’d kill for a cigarette right now, I thought, even though I didn’t smoke.

Maybe some day, I’ll have to give up the book to someone else, let it continue its journey. And then, someone else may be taking my body out for a night.

But that’s the future. And for me- Jose- today’s adventure is just getting underway.

Are You Sure?

The best part about my boy is the part of him that peeks out, whatever I change him into. He’s always just so eager to play, to learn the rules of whatever role I’ve just shifted him into.

It’s almost a challenge for me at this point, to see if there’s some kind of guy that I can turn him into, where I would actually have a hard time finding him within.

I was astonished how much he just went with it when I first changed him.

“How would you describe yourself, Matt?” I asked him, lying in bed as he poked through out closet, picking out a shirt.

“Um…” he said, not really turning. “To who?”

“What kind of vibe do you give off, if someone were to see you on the street,” I said, staring at his back.

He gave a light laugh and slight shrug.

“I dunno, probably your average Brooklyn hipster, early 30’s, tall, skinny, boy next door in flannel,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I said, and he stopped. “Are you sure they wouldn’t see you as some scruffy jock on his way to the gym?”

And suddenly, he stood all the way up, his arms swelling, his floofy hair shrinking down into a buzzcut. A short beard crept along his face as his chest broadened, stretching out a Nike tee across his meaty pecs. He shrank down a few inches, his loss of height offset by his sudden broadness.

He turned to me. I froze, waiting to see his reaction.

And then, without missing a beat, he popped his arms behind his head and flashed me a grin.

“I can’t help it if people stare at my guns,” he said in his now lower voice, flexing his biceps, and taking a step toward me. He looked down at himself, and then back at me.

“Like what you see, babe?” he said.

I did.

He took a step closer.

“Want a whiff of these pits before I hit the gym then?”

I did.

I kept him as a jockboy for a week. And then, one morning, as he was pulling out a pair of gym shorts, I asked him, “How would you describe yourself?”

He gave a low, gruff chuckle.

“Probably some dumb, scruffy jock,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I asked, and he froze. “Are you sure people wouldn’t see you as some just turned 19, smooth faced skater boy?”

He looked at me the whole time he shrank, as his frame got leaner and leaner. Years melted off him as his beard and body hair disappeared, and a golden glow ran over his face and skinnier body. His lips got puffier, his eyes softer. I caught a glimpse of his slightly longer, spiky hair as a blue skater cap appeared on his head. The former gym rat, now 5'7’’, maybe 130 pound skater seemed less cocky, more boyish.

“I mean, the skateboard kinda gives it away,” he laughed, light and bubbly, still not breaking eye contact.

I stood up. He came up to my chest now. I wrapped my arms around his now lithe frame and kissed him. He melted into my embrace, leaning into my grip.

Our kiss finally broke and I looked down at him. And there he was, eyes alight. My same boy.

And so it went, for weeks. We would never talk about the change. I never asked him if he liked being one man over another. He had the same eager grin, no matter the man, no matter the role. An older dom daddy: my boy. A twinky porn star go-go dancer: my boy. A chubby chain smoking bear: my boy. A clean cut sailor on leave: my boy.

It’s Friday night. He’s about to cook us dinner when I call out,

“How do you think people see you?”

“I’m sure the glasses and patched elbows on my blazer give away that I’m some kind of academic,” he says, gently.

“Are you sure?” I grin. “Are you sure you’re not a kinky, gear addict slut?”

He adjusts the harness as it wraps around his chest and stares at me, on the bed.

“Dinner can wait, boy,” he growls.

And as he steps toward me, massive dildo in hand, I see it flash in his face.

My boy. I’m sure of it.