You look around the rest area…what are you doing here again? You were on a trip, or something, and…and what were you driving? Where were you going? Huh…that’s an odd thing to forget, you suppose. Still, it’ll come back to you…right?

You head into the restroom to take a piss–damn your ass hurts. You must have just had something a bit too spicy at that Flying J, when you were last on the road with…with someone, right? But with who? You shake your head and finish pissing, figuring it isn’t important. Right now you just have to go wait…yeah, wait for someone. You take a look at yourself in the bathroom mirror. When was the last time you shaved? Or had a shower? You take a sniff of your pits and recoil a bit. Fuck you stink–is that piss? You notice your shirt is damp…but you don’t remember why. Too bad there isn’t a shower here. Oh well, best to just go wait.

You sit down at a picnic bench by the trucks parked at the rest area, waiting. It’s a bit cold, and the hi-viz vest you’re wearing doesn’t do much to fend it off. You don’t know why you’re wearing it–only that it’s important. If he didn’t have it on, the man he’s waiting for won’t be able to find him. You hope whoever you’re waiting for comes by soon. There’s a trucker approaching–a bit cautiously–and as he comes closer he asks, “Need a lift?”

“Need a lift”–the words resonate in your head, unlocking all sorts of doors. “Sure thing, daddy,” you say–the sex rolling off your tongue. “I’ll go anywhere you’re going.”

“Get in the cab, bitch.”

You rush to obey, climbing up into his cab behind him. You have his dick down your throat as fast as you can, hungry for him, for your daddy. You love your daddy so much. He fucks you then, calling you a dirty filthy whore and you thank him for his cum. When he finishes, the two of you drive for a bit, you suck his cock whenever he has a load for you, and drink his piss for good measure as well, because you want to be the best trucker whore out there. This daddy is a nice one–he buys you a meal like he’s required to, but even lets you shower when you stop, and then he says the words, the words you hate–“I’m finished, fuck off whore.”

You forget again, you always forget. Wandering off, your ass tender, you look around for your car. How long has it been like this? You don’t remember. Still, you wait. Wait for the next guy to give you a lift. Wait for your next trucker daddy to come along and whisk you away down the road.

“Alright, I have more cookies for you!” your friend said from the kitchen.

“What? More? But I can’t…” you say, but he’s already out in the living room and setting the tray piled high with snickerdoodles down next to you, and they smell so divine. You have one in your mouth before you can stop yourself. 

“I’ll get you some more milk too, just a second,” he says, and disappears back into the kitchen. Ten cookies are gone before he comes back with a tall pitcher–you just can’t stop yourself. This has been going on for a few hours now–him baking these amazing cookies, you eating them with an apparently bottomless supply of milk. He leaves, and alone again, you notice something in the TV playing some Christmas movie–a strange reflection in the screen. You reach for the remote and turn it off–and get a better look in the black screen.

“Ho Ho Holy shit!” You exclaim. That isn’t you there on the couch, that’s some fat old man with a giant white beard.

Your friend runs back in from the kitchen, “You weren’t supposed to notice yet!”

“What in the hell did you do to me?” you shout, looking down at your clothing stretched tight across your fat frame, but your friend has already grabbed something from a side table–a pipe, ready packed with tobacco, and he shoves it in your mouth and lights it. You inhale, the cinnamon and clove laced tobacco making your face numb…and you feel…really good, all of a sudden.

“Here, let’s get you out of those clothes–they’re too tight.”

You let your friend undress you, and you stare down in disbelief at your new body. The tobacco is going right to your head, and it feels so good to smoke your pipe and rub your hairy belly with your hands…

“Now go sit down, finish your cookies and milk, and smoke your pipe, Santa.”

“Ho Ho Hokay…” you say, and plop back down on the couch. 

Your friend works in the kitchen for a bit and comes out to find the pile gone, the pitcher empty, and your pipe finished. He cleans, refills and lights it for you, then gives you a deep kiss, and you wrap your flabby arms around him and pull him into your lap.

“So tell me, have you been a good boy this year?” you say with a lecherous grin.

“Oh yes Santa, I’ve been very good all year, just for you.”

“Well in that case, Santa has a special sack for you. Why don’t you suck on it for a bit?”

Your friend gets down between your legs, and sucks on your big balls, your dick pressed against his face, smearing precum across his forehead. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fucking tonight, you think, and ram your candy cane down his throat.

A week–Matt had never been gone this long. He and Cal, well, they’d had their fights, usually about Matt’s wandering eye, and he’d storm off, spend the night with some dude and come back the next morning, and Cal was such a sucker, he’d take him back every time. But a week? Cal knew he shouldn’t bother looking for him, that he was a lout, and a shitty boyfriend, but god help him, he couldn’t help caring for the asshole. He at least wanted to make sure he was alright. So here was, at the seedy leather bar where Matt always hung out. He walked up to the bartender and asked if he’d seen Matt lately.

He didn’t look like he wanted to talk about it. After some weasling, Cal finally got a bit of information out of the guy, who told him to go find a guy named Lug. Lug–what the hell kind of name was that? Still, Cal did find him–a filthy guy dressed in ripped jeans and a leather vest, tattoos and a big beard. Cal, nervous, sidled up and asked, “Hey…uh, are you Lug?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Look, the bartender…he said, he said you might have seen my boyfriend–Matt. He went out a week ago, and hasn’t come home.”

Lug grinned, nodded, got up and walked off, looking back to see if Cal was following–he was. In a secluded corner, Lug turned around, dropped his pants, and revealed some of the nastiest briefs Cal had ever laid eyes on. “Sure–here he is,” Lug said, cupping his balls through the nasty underwear.

“W-What?” Cal asked, disgusted.

“Dude was pissing me off, so I turned him into my new briefs. Ain’t so new anymore, but he’s grown to like it.”

“That…what? I don’t–”

“Still, I didn’t know he was hitched. You’d better have him back, I suppose. Here, put ‘em on.”

Cal did as he was ordered and stripped down, fighting the compulsion the whole way, and Lug took them off, handed them to Matt, who pulled the damp, yet stiff briefs up around his waist…and he heard, or felt, or knew it was Matt. Or, sort of Matt. Cal groaned and leaned against the wall as the briefs contracted around his cock, milking him for his cum. Hungry–it was so hungry, even Cal could sense the need.

“Yeah, he’s a needy fuck, I’ll give him that. Good luck keepin’ him satisfied on your own,” Lug said, pulled up his pants, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Cal moaning until he came, the briefs absorbing his entire load. Piss, he heard the word, and unable to stop, he pissed right into the briefs, some of it dribbling down his legs but most going into the hungry fabric. Cal tried to take the briefs off but they wouldn’t budge an inch–they were definitely still Matt, and Cal realized that Matt was still going to control his life, even if he was just his underwear.

“So? How was my famous ‘Beefcake’? You enjoy it? Sure looks like it–there ain’t none left!” the chubby chef of the small roadside diner said, taking away Robbie’s plate.

“Don’ know…Feel…real strange. Is–Is I bigger?”

“Sounds like those ‘dumb-dumb shrimp’ ya had fer an appetizer are workin’ hard too!” the chef said. Now just hold on, dessert’s on its way, boy.“

Robbie looked around, his eyes dull. He hadn’t seen anyone else come into the dinner since he stopped…was that weird? He felt his body, the firm muscle covered with a thick layer of fat. He barely fit in the booth anymore…or had he never fit in it? And what was with this singlet? There were so many strange things going on, but his brain…it felt so empty now. He flexed his arms, watching his biceps and deltoids bulge out in the mirror behind the counter, and laughed loudly. He was big, like, big-big. And hairy–he could see the pelt on his chest and arms growing in thicker every moment, a thick bush underneath each armpit, and the shadow of a beard darkening across his face. He shouldn’t look like this…but why did he think that? Why did he think anything? It was easier–better, not to think at all, he remembered, and went back to just flexing.

"Here you go boy, my favorite dessert, my Homo’shake’sual!” the cook said, putting the milkshake down in front of Robbie. “Well? Go on, suck it all down like good little beefcake.”

Robbie expected the cook to return to the kitchen, but he just stood there, waiting and watching. Robbie wrapped his lips around the straw and sucked, the shake oddly salty, but still good. As he sucked it down, he found his eyes drawn up to the cook looming over him, his big belly covered with his soiled apron, his fat greasy face leering down at him. If Robbie had been smarter, he would have felt scared, but he was just feeling warm…and horny. He sucked down the last of the shake suddenly, surprised how fast he’d gone through it, and licked his lips. He was still thirsty, but for what?

The cook had taken off his apron, revealing clothes that looked like he hadn’t changed them in several days, if not longer, unzipped the fly of his jeans and pulled out a thick, smelly cock. “Well go on, my dumb-dumb beefcake homosexual. Give me a good blow job, and I’ll jack you off in that tight singlet of yours.”

Robbie let out a guffaw, and without a thought, inhaled the cook’s cock, flexing his muscles as he sucked him off. He was a dumb-dumb beekcake homosexual, wasn’t he? Guess he should have been more careful when the cook had warned him that he was what he ate.

July 11th 2012

The hormone supplements have produced stunning results in farmhand A in a single month, the most noticeable being the rapid muscle growth all over his body, and the bony protrusions on his temples, which I believe to be the beginning of horns. Unfortunately, there have been a number of personality changes as well, particularly increased aggression and libido. While his penis size has remained constant, his testicles have grown both in size and production, and he appears to have taken a liking to mating with the cows. Any attempts to stop the copulation are met with fierce resistance–this leads me to conclude that, regardless of the amazing physical results this test has yielded, the personality shift has rendered this particular blend unworkable. For the next month, I plan on using a slightly different formula, introducing some female hormones to promote docility and submissiveness without diminishing the physical growth.


August 13th 2012

I must conclude that this new mixture has been a success, even if some of the side effects are extreme and potentially untenable. The aggression previously exhibited has been greatly reduced, and is replaced by a obedience and submission which exceeded my expectations. However, the farmhand’s libido has not reduced, though he now appears to emit a pheromone attractive to bulls, leading the stud to mate him regularly in the field.

As strange as this might be, it is the new physical changes brought on by extended exposure which are more troubling. The farmhand has grown a fine pelt of fur, and the bony protrusions on his temples have extended into short horns. The addition of the feminine hormones have caused some fatty weight gain, though the farmhand’s musculature appears unaffected. Strangest of all are the farmhand’s genitals. He appears to have been rendered impotent–however, his testicles have grown even larger, each to the size of grapefruits, and they produce copious amounts of fluid, his penis functioning like a udder. Without a daily milking the farmhand appears to suffer great distress and pain. The fluid appears to be a mixture of milk and semen–and though hardly scientific, I tasted it, and found it to be quite delicious, high in protein, and naturally low in fat. 

Regardless, I feel that further experimentation with farmhand A will yield little progress–it is, I believe, time to put him out to pasture. Since he has long since lost most of his human cognitive capacity, euthanasia would be simplest, but I’m ashamed to admit that I have grown fond of my daily protein shake, so I think I will keep him alive for now. In fact, I think I’ll go indulge right from the source right now. I always feel so pumped up after a good, long drink…though my temples are starting to itch. I’m sure it’s nothing though. Still, I’ll have to acquire a new farmhand for further testing when I go into town tomorrow. A breakthrough is close at hand, I can almost taste it.

You meet some of the craziest guys at the public golf courses–You’d rather play at the private clubs, but you can’t afford the membership fees–so you’re stuck playing a round with a fucking redneck. He comes over to you, smoking a cigar, well over 300 pounds, dressed in a sleeveless shirt and khaki shorts, and all you can do is make the best of it. 

He suggests upping the stakes, and letting the winner of each hole take something from the loser. You don’t really know what he means, but you accept, knowing you’ll be able to outplay this fat redneck any day of the week.

Well, you thought you could. He birdies the first hole to your double bogey, and you ask what you owe him, pulling out your wallet, but he just grins. “I don’t want your money–yet,” he said, “First things first, I want that slim figure of yours, pretty boy.”

Great, a real nutter, you think, but something is glowing–an amulet he’s wearing, and a second later, you feel different. Looking down, you’re stunned to find that you’ve somehow gained close to two hundred pounds–all of the weight the fat redneck just dropped off his body. 

“Come on, fatty–we got seventeen more holes to play.”

Unaccustomed to your fat body, you lose round after round to this crazy redneck, who starts dismantling your life. By the end of the front nine, you’ve lost your expensive clothes, your house, your car, your marriage, four inches off your cock, your college education, and six inches of your height. 

There’s no hope left for you, really. On the back nine he strips you of your ambition, your heterosexuality, your dominance, your full head of hair, fifty points off your IQ, your virility, and your job. With two holes left, you’re little more than a fat, dithering idiot, hacking at the ball as best you can–and that’s when he starts mocking you, barely hitting the ball further than you on purpose. To your surprise, he lets you win, but when he asks you want you want…you’re stumped. You’re so dull witted now that you can’t even remember what he took, and then he starts talking about his cigar, about how nice it is being a smoker, how he’d hate to give that up more than anything, you bite, and steal away his nicotine addiction.

Before the eighteenth hole the two of you nip off to the woods for a moment–you’re ravenous for a cock. In return, he lets you win the final hole as well. He suggests you take his skill at golf, but in that thick head of yours, a dim bulb still glows.

“Nuh-uh,” you slur, “Gimme yer amulet–that’s wha I want.”

Surprised, but not really minding, he hands it over to you and walks off without another word. Sure, you don’t know how to use it, but maybe you can figure it out, and steal someone else’s life before too long.

The hypnosis files had seemed like a funny and harmless gag at the time. Each of the fraternity initiates had their own file to listen to that would be active throughout the week–files where the frat members could make them act like chickens or fall asleep in class–but a file which made him act out whatever he was wearing at the time? Terry didn’t see how that could be bad at all.

Well, really bad, if you’re rushing a wild and crazy frat like Phi Sigma Eta. No one had told him that he wouldn’t be able to put on or take off clothes by himself, and so he was helpless as the brothers dressed him up in a diaper and a leather collar, making him their personal slave and incapable of keeping in his piss or his shit. He’d worn that nasty diaper for the entire week, and licked every one of his brother’s feet in the meantime, but the worst punishment was when they put a pig mask on him, forcing him to crawl around on all fours, grunting and squealing like an animal the whole night long.

Of course, the frat had promised that the effects would wear off at the end of the week, but for Terry, he wasn’t so lucky. Sure, he wasn’t affected by any new clothing, and he was free to dress himself, everything he’d worn that week had left effects which were impossible to reverse. He was forced to wear diapers out of necessity now, and couldn’t disobey a direct order by one of his brothers–causing quite a few of them to call in sexual favors when their girlfriends were angry or on the rag. Worse, there were times, especially when he got drunk, when he couldn’t stop acting like a real pig. Hell, a few times in class he’d started crawling around and squealing, unable to help himself. 

The frat told him they were sorry, and hired the best hypnotist they could find to fix his problem, but in reality, they had an entirely different goal. They watched the hypnotist put Terry under, and then start ingraining his new habits deeper into his psyche. When Terry woke up, he knew something was wrong when he found himself unable to stand, or even speak. Worse, he felt himself drawn to the hypnotist, and as he nuzzled the older man’s crotch, he pulled out his cock, allowing Terry to suck him off much to the glee of the rest of the frat.

Now, he was little more than a mascot, often kept outside in a small pen, diapered, collared and masked, grunting and helplessly begging for his masters’ cocks up his ass or down his throat. Even worse, he loved it–he really did. In his new mind, he could imagine nothing better than his new life as an incontinent, pig slave.

“So, Superboy, what do you think of your new look? Our focus groups have told us that this will definitely make you very popular with the 21-45 age bracket.”

“Fuck…I feel like I god hit by a god damn steamroller…Is my head shaved? What the fuck did you do–why am I cussing?”

“Just some marketing adjustments Superboy. Corporate doesn’t think your image is edgy enough.”

“Corporate…what are you taking about?”

“Why, LEXCORP, of course–your employer. Now, we have a few details to sort out postprogramming. I’m supposed to brief you on missions, payments for your heroic services, and certain corporate functions we’ll need you to make appearances at, but that can come later–I want to talk to you about your public image…See, our focus groups feel that Lana Lang is just not the kind of person you should be pursuing at the moment.”


“See, with your new submissive status in our corporation, we feel you need a new persona. The focus groups also tend to like you more if you belong to a minority group. Since white and male are pretty difficult to change, we’ve made alterations to your sexual orientation–”

“No, this can’t be…this is all so wrong, I have to get out of here–what have you done to me?”

“Sit, Superboy. Good, that’s a very good Superboy. Now listen. You’re our bitch now–there’s nothing you can do about it. LEXCORP’s interests are your interests, and from now on, if someone wants to be rescued by you, they’re going to have to pay for it. Not that you’re going to be doing much of that–the US government is far more interested in your capacity as a weapon, but we’ll have plenty of time to discuss this later. Lex said that after all my hard work re-engineering that little brain of yours, that I could be the first one to test your ass.”

“I’m not…I’m not going to do that, I won’t. You can’t make me.”

“Now don’t try to cover it up, I can see that hard on in your new shiny suit. It’s turning you on, thinking about serving me? Pleasing me? You’re just a lacky now, Superboy, you’re our lackey, and pleasing us makes you feel very, very good–trust me. Now get over here and suck my cock. Get it good and hard so I can pop that Kryptonian cherry of yours…Yeah, that’s right. See? You already know how to serve us well…Alright, now bend over the couch and pull down your pants. I want to see if this krypton lube is strong enough to pierce that hole of yours without making you sick. I doubt I got the balance right–so I have a feeling we’re going to be doing a lot of testing in the future.

Matt pulled into the rest area needing two things–a cigarette and a piss. Unfortunately, he’d smoked his last one fifty miles back, and he was desperate for another one. Still, he could at least take a piss before worrying about that.

The only other guy in the restroom was a huge, imposing redneck at a urinal. He had to be close to seven feet tall, and thickly muscled. Matt felt rather inadequate standing next to him, especially when he caught a peek of his huge cock. He stared for a few seconds before the man asked, “Like what ya see?”

Matt blushed and shook his head no, the redneck chuckling as though he were used to that reaction, before leaving the bathroom. Completely embarrassed, Matt finished up and left as well, but soon found that the parking lot was completely empty, aside from the redneck’s truck. He couldn’t really ask him, not after that, but god he needed a cigarette.

“Hey, do…do you have a cigarette?”

“So ya are interested then. Ya can suck me off in the woods if ya want.”

“No…No, really. I’m sorry, I just need a cigarette.”

“Oh…suit yerself then. All I got is chaw.” He pulled a metal tin from his back pocket, opened it up and presented it to Matt, “Go on, it ain’t gonna bite ya, bro. You’ll like it.”

Mike gave the man a glance of suspicion, but took a wad of the tobacco. He felt a near immediate rush of nicotene when he stuffed it in his lip…but also something else. Looking down, he could see his small gut start to shrink back into his stomach, as hair grew in all over his body. Unsteady on his feet, he felt almost as if he were being stretched, and was overcome with vertigo as he passed six and a half feet and kept climbing. He tried to get away and spit out the tobacco, but it tasted so good he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

His clothes shifted into a western style denim vest and jeans, size eighteen cowboy boots, and his crotch began to bulge out obscenely. As the onrush of horniness overwhelmed his mind, he dropped to near idiot IQ. His last thought was a realization that he now looked identical to the redneck next to him. “Fuck man, that’s hell of a rush,” he said with a drawl thick enough to match his new friend’s voice.

“Nah bro, that’s nothin’ compared tah this,” the redneck said, leaned in and started kissing his twin, swapping tobacco spit as sexy memories flooded Matt’s head about his twin brother Jack.

“Damn Jake, ya sure know how tah get me goin’. How’s about we finish this in the woods?” Matt said, groping his ten inch cock.

“Sound’s good tah me bro, soun’ds damn good tah me. But yer suckin’, I’m horny as fuck.”

You wake up, and are momentarily hopeful. Please tell me I didn’t do it last night, please… but the cold, wet mattress tells a different story. You wet the bed again. Just like you have for the last two weeks. Every night, you tell yourself you won’t, but nothing helps. Resigned, you get up and go over to the mirror and see what else has changed in the night.

Ever since you started wetting the bed, your body has been changing as well, packing on weight especially, and a few days ago the last of your hair, beard and body hair fell out, leaving you perfectly smooth. Even worse, your cock has been slowly shrinking down to nothing, but no one else has noticed, like this is how you’ve always been.

You still have to go to work though, so you pull on some khakis and a massive shirt which have kept pace with your growth, but the pants are actually a bit roomy in the ass. You don’t think much of it and head for the door, when you find a box on your doorstep.

Wondering if it might be connected to your strange changes, you bring it inside, open it up, and find it packed full of puffy fabric, and a note–“Thought you might start needing these today, little boy,” You separate out one of the garments, and discover, to your disgust, that it’s a diaper.

Who in the hell sent me this, you wonder, and toss the garment back into the box. Suddenly, you feel a rumble in your stomach, and a second later the back of your khakis fills up with a huge load of shit. Your bladder releases as well, wetting the front of your pants with a dark stain. Your cheeks flush red at your complete lack of control, your eyes start to well up, and before you can stop, you’re crying uncontrollably, and the only thing you can think to do is pop your thumb in your mouth and start sucking on it.

Sucking helps calm you down enough to stop your sobbing, waddle into the bathroom, strip, clean yourself off, throw away your clothes, and then return to the living room. With trepidation, you take a diaper and pull it up around your groin, and arousal overcomes you. With your thumb back in your mouth, you rub your tiny cock through the fabric until you shoot a massive wad of cum into the absorbent pad.

When you try to change out of the now soiled diaper, you can’t figure out how to take it off–and being an hour late for work, you just pull on a new pair of slacks and leave, thumb still in your mouth. You worry that if you piss or shit yourself, you might be carrying it around for the whole day, but who knows? Maybe tomorrow will be better–but probably not.