Moscow Mule (ASK)

At first, it doesn’t look like anything to you. Just a normal bottle of vodka sitting on the shelf at the grocery store. But something is drawing you to it, an almost other-worldly attraction. Like the liquid inside is made of crystal.

That night, you pour yourself a glass. You mix it together with some beer, some lime. What do they call it? A Moscow Mule. You take a sip, feeling the prickling cool of the vodka. It sets your throat ablaze, and you breath in deep and your senses become alert.

Another sip. Then another. It isn’t long before you’re staring at the bottom of an empty tin cup. You bypass making yourself another drink; you simply grab the bottle, putting it you your lips and downing it in a few gulps. Never did you drink like this, not even in your college years.

But it’s unlike anything you’ve ever tasted. Gone is the prickling feeling; you might as well be drinking water. It’s as if your throat has adapted to the taste. Like you’ve been doing this for years.

CRASH. The empty bottle falls to the floor, smashing into thousands of shards. You can see your hand is shaking. Violently. The veins underneath are popping and rushing as the vodka rages through your system like gasoline.

You rush to the bathroom, and stick your hand under some cold water. But it does nothing. Your skin is impervious to the cold. You watch as the color starts to dissipate, the small brown hairs on your arm turning to a darker shade of black.

Then suddenly, heat. Everywhere, all around. In every pore, in every muscle. You crumple to the floor in agony as your body contorts and writhes. You scream in a voice that is several octaves lower, and you look down at your body, half expecting it to be falling apart.

But you couldn’t be more wrong. Instead, your body seems to be growing. Rapidly. Your arms, bulking out with pure, hard muscle. Your pecs swell like two large cushions, a light dusting of black hair settling in the cleavage. Through it you can see your abs crunch together, hardening like six solid stones implanted beneath your pale skin.

You jeans tear apart as two massive tree-trunk legs burst through the fabric. Your shoes are defenseless too, as a pair of enormous feet erupt through the rubber and velcro.

“Chto so mnoy proiskhodit?” You ask yourself in a language you do not recognize. And that’s when it hits you; the vodka, the pale skin, the rugged muscle. You’re becoming the ideal Russian man, loosing all sense of your normal identity as you slowly surrender to the feeling of power pulsing through your veins. Thoughts of work and school are replaced with thoughts of marching through the snow and downing vodka with your comrades.

As you start to think, your face starts to shift. You look hardened now, a perpetual frown frozen on your face, along with a buzzed head and a peppering of black facial hair.

Your transformation is almost complete. As your body solidifies in it’s new form, the heat runs down to your dick. You reach down and feel it expand in your compression shorts. You feel as it grows into a big fat Russian cock, worthy of your adonis body.

When you stand, you’ll find a new man facing you in the mirror. Your name is Alexei, and you’re 6 feet and 5 inches of pure, Russian muscle and walking, talking sex. You pop a smirk as you think of joining your friends out on the frozen planes, of showing off your worked out bod and shoving your gargantuan dick down their eager throats. You know… to keep warm.