A Taste of His Own Medicine

As always, The Craftsman Cafe was packed. Why wouldn’t it be? Who wouldn’t want the chance to turn into the man of their dreams with a simple sip?

These were the thoughts running through the mind of The Craftsman himself as he marched inside, proudly admiring his handiwork. This week, the Unicorn Frappuccino had hit the menu, only instead of giving the drinker a sugar rush, it was turning everyone into himbo twinks.

He was met with a horde of giggles and lusty stares as he walked up to the counter, where the barista, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Chris Hemsworth, was serving drinks.

He smiled at The Craftsman as he approached, his scruffy beard curling around his grin. “G’morning Mr. Craftsman,” he said with a hot arise accent, “what can I get for you on this very special day.” He gave a wink.

The Craftsman blushed. “Just my usual today,” he said, “and no funny business, alright?”

“You got it boss,” the barista said with a laugh. His “usual” was a Mocha Frappuccino. Just straight coffee, with no extra add ons. The Craftsman wasn’t in the business of trying his own special transformation drinks, at least not in the middle of the day with customers around.

But today wasn’t just another day. It was The Craftsman’s birthday, and the staff of the cafe had something very special in store…

“Here you go boss!” The Hemsworth barista re-appeared moments later with his steaming drink. The Craftsman took notice of his shaking hand as he laid it down on his table, and the nervous yet impatient smile on his face as he walked back over to the bar.

That’s strange, The Craftsman thought as he lifted the drink to his lips. The smell was overpowering: the warmth of the coffee, the slight sweetness of the cream. The frappuccino never smelled this amazing, but The Craftsman was to thirsty, he didn’t even think to ask if it was a frappuccino at all…

He took a sip. Then another. Then another. What did he put in this? he thought to himself, when the realization hit him like a wrecking ball. He HAD tasted this drink before. This wasn’t a Mocca Frappuccino; this was the Celebuccino, and he had drunk almost all of it.

The glass fell too the floor with a crash, drawing the attention of every twink, daddy, and A-list celebrity in the shop. They all stared on in wonder as The Craftsman began to craft himself before their very eyes.

First, he felt himself get taller. He felt the table push out from underneath him as his stature increased and the bones in his back cracked and creaked into a much larger frame. And then came the muscle. The Craftsman had been through this process before (they needed to test the drink on someone), but never to this extent. The barista, or whoever else was in on this prank, had packed the drink with as many special supplements as possible. So when the muscle growth came, it was instantaneous and extreme.

“AGGGGH,” he groaned, as he heard the buttons of his shirt pop open one by one. He looked down at his biceps to find they were becoming thick and bulbous, his chest, in particular his pecs, were hardening with solid muscle, developed from years of training at the gym for big budget blockbuster movies. He felt them with his hands, now rough and large, and admired their expansive size. Closing his eyes, he glided his hands along the developing body, down to his thighs, which were ginormous and round, his calves, hard and large as apples, and his ass…

Is that my ass? The Craftsman thought. It couldn’t be, but who’s was it? He was completely at the mercy of the drink’s powers, transforming, changing, craftinghim into whoever the maker saw fit.

Next came his face. He itched and scratched at his jaw until he noticed that there was hair sprouting along the edges. His 5 o’clock shadow was coming in, abet a little early, and he could feel his hair grow thick and short, styling itself into something instantly attractive.

All around him, The Craftsman could see the twinks starting to get hard, shifting their asses as the thought of being dominated by this hot new specimen sent them into a horny rage. The daddys, the coaches, the bears; they were smirking, probably thinking of taking his hard muscle body and wrapping it in their big hairy arms.

“What are y’all staring at?” The Craftsman said. He clasped his mouth, It couldn’t be his voice. It was so much deeper, hotter, infused with an accent he found unfamiliar. And just as he began to put all the pieces together, he felt the button on his new jeans pop open.

The Craftsman, or shall I say Mr. Scott Eastwood, groaned loudly and pleasurably as his famed, 9 inch penis flopped out onto the table with a loud THUD, spilling a little pre and eliciting an audible gasp from the inhabitants of the shop. They stared in awe as he brought his hand down to stroke, laughing a little as he gave that irresistible smile and asked to the crowd.”

“So, who wants to go first?”