Wrestling is My Favorite Subjeck

Keaton Subjeck stares dead eyed into the distance, cock throbbing in his tight Lycra suit. The hairy, hunky college wrestler is still in there… somewhere. But right now, he’s not in control.

Who is, you ask? Well, that’s up to you. You always said you wanted to be a wrestling jock. You spent all of high school on the bleachers, watching those big sweaty guys tackle each other to the ground, the outline of their dicks so clear that you could practically make out the veins on their shafts. You marveled at the way those wrestling suits perfectly framed their asses, and you seethed with envy every time you walked into the locker room to hear them fucking in the showers after a match.

I can make all of your dreams come true. Keaton’s body is standing there, waiting for you to inhabit. All you have to do is close your eyes and breathe… breathe…

Yes, your body feels different now, doesn’t it? Everything slightly bigger, slightly bulkier. You itch your chest, running your fingers through a forest of sweaty brown chest hair that wasn’t there before. Your nostrils fill with the sweet musk wafting off your used wrestling singlet.

Open your eyes. Keaton’s body is yours now.

The roar of the crowd fills your ears as you lift your arms in a mighty flex. The applause gives you a rush. It makes you cocky, and makes your cock jump. Will they notice if I pop a boner? Who cares! Half of them are here for the view, so why not give them a show?

You saunter into the ring and stare down your opponent. Another kid, fresh out of high school, knock-kneed and dripping with nervous sweat. He’s no match for your impossible strength, lightning speed, and deadly vice grip—and he knows it.

You run through all the moves in your head, imagining all the ways you’ll take him down. Your mind might still be yours, but you’ve inherited Keaton’s skill for wrestling. Not to mention his skills in bed; you’re already planning all the ways your going to fuck him in the locker room afterwards…

The bell DINGS and you lunge. Within seconds, your opponent is on the ground, your ripe boner pressed up against his head.

With your arms gripping him tight, you feel his body tremble. Not with fear… but with arousal. He’s already imagining you pinning him down, buck naked in the showers, dominating his ass and cumming deep inside of him.

You grunt as pre begins to leak from your cock and seep into your singlet. With your thick, bear-claw hands, you grab his perky ass and hoist him up over your head. In your real body, this would have been impossible, but with Keaton’s strength, he’s light as a feather.

Now you can see that you’re not the only one sporting a hard-on; your opponent’s dick is tenting his singlet hardcore, twitching a little and your grip on him tightens.

He’s on the verge of cumming. Right there, in his Lycra, in front of the crowd.

All you have to do is slip one finger under his singlet and into his needy hole, and he’ll melt in your hands. It’s just a tease of what’s to come, but it’s enough to send him over the edge. You grip his taint, your opponent cums, and the bell rings.

You’ve won. Obviously. Better get used to that feeling, because winning is Keaton’s favorite Subjeck(t).

His Brother's Jacket (ASK)

You better say goodbye to your friend, cus once I transform you into his brother’s biker jacket, you’ll never wanna come back. You think that body looks good from a distance? Just wait until you’re wrapped around him every day, his rock solid muscles filling your being while the wind whisks across your leathery facade.

If you close your eyes, you can already start to feel him. You can already feel his bare skin on your fingertips. It’s cool to the touch, but that won’t last for long.

Go, grab him. Grip those muscles and feel them spill out of your hungry hands. Grope those pecs and memorize the movement of his abs.

With your tongue, taste the sweat dripping off his lats. Kiss every inch of his broad, tattooed back, until your lips grow stretched and tired.

Like leather.

You shouldn’t be able to feel your feet by now. Why? Because they don’t exist. Not anymore. All of you is wrapped around his body, writhing and stroking him like a pet. You’ll start to feel his hands now, caressing your skin… your black, shiny skin…

Try as you might to open your eyes, you can’t see if you don’t have a head. Instead, every fiber of you tingles like the sensitive head of a cock. You’ve become an object of pure pleasure, trapped in an infinite yearning that explodes into eternal orgasm every time he puts you on.

He pulls his bodybuilder arms through your sleeves, completing your metamorphosis into your friend’s brother’s leather jacket. Although from now on, you’ll only know him as “master.” He’s your owner. Your best friend. Your everything.

Thor's Day

Derek Theler has big shoes to fill. Literally. The second he found out that he’d be playing Thor, he hit the gym hard. He had to work out seven days a week, twice a day, if he was ever going to achieve the physique of the god of thunder.

It was the Thursday day before the shoot, and Derek was sweating bullets. It was ab day, and he’d been holding the same plank for over five minutes.

“GAAAAAGH!” Derek growled, and dropped to the floor. Panting, he picked himself up and headed inside to rinse off. He grabbed a towel from the rack in the bathroom, and looked at himself in the mirror.

By all standards, Derek had the body of a god. The kind of body that could sell underwear. The kind of body you dreamed being on top of you every night.

But it wasn’t Thor’s body. His muscles weren’t big enough. His biceps not thick enough. Hell, he didn’t even have enough of a beard to play Thor.

He dropped his shorts and looked at his cock. Again, not a bad dick for a guy of his size. 7 inches, pretty girth-y. He wasn’t even going to have to show his dick on screen, and he was STILL insecure about it.

Thor doesn’t have a 7-inch dick, Derek thought to himself. Thor probably packs a 10-inch, uncut monster. A dick worthy of a Norse god. But there was nothing Derek could do about that.

He hoped in the shower. With the scorching water on his back, Derek tried to put himself in the mindset of the iconic hero.

He imagined the water being poured from a golden bucket. Instead of his hands, he imagined the hands of a dozen Asgardian women, scrubbing and washing his naked body. He imagined that he wasn’t in his house, but rather in the glorious halls of Valhalla, lounging in palaces of pleasure for all eternity.

The doorbell rang. Derek looked down. He was hard as a rock. “Damnit,” he cursed to himself as he turned the shower off and scrambled for a fresh towel. He tried to fill his mind with boring thoughts to get his erection down, to no avail.

It rang again. “COMING!” Derek shouted, stumbling out of the bathroom, his dick tenting the wet towel around his waist.

“Who is it?” Derek called out to the door, praying that it wasn’t someone important. But there was no reply; the ringing had ceased.

Cautious, Derek approached the door and swung it open. As expected, there was no one there. Only a large package sitting on the porch below his feet.

Right, he remembered. The production had mentioned that they were sending him something today. He took a huge sigh of relief, and brought the box inside.

Derek tore open the cardboard flaps. Inside where what appeared to be a suit of armor, a large beard, and a hammer. It was his Thor costume. On top of the pile of chores was a note:

Try this on, big guy.

• The Changing Room

Assuming the production just called their costume department “The Changing Room,” Derek shrugged and began to put on the outfit.

The armor was real metal. He shivered as he fitted the plate over his naked chest. Instead of pants, the armor had a leather skirt, each tendril adorned with golden studs. It sent a breeze across his wet, exposed nether regions as he pulled it up and began to fasten the straps on his boots.

I guess Thor doesn’t wear a whole lot, Derek thought to himself as he stared down at the box. All he had left was the wig and the hammer, and he felt underdressed. And yet, it was exhilarating. Primal. Why should the god of thunder wear peasant clothes?

Derek pulled the shaggy blond wig over his short copper hair, and fastened the fake beard around his chin. He looked in the mirror.

NOW he looked like Thor. Just the sight of the burly beard on Derek’s face sent him into a frenzy. His dick shot up, poking out from in between the leather skirt.

With one hand, he stroked. With the other, he rubbed his glistening muscles. It almost felt as if they were getting bigger under his touch, slowly swelling until the golden armor was practically bursting with his thick mounds.

He reached down and picked up the hammer—HIS hammer. Mjolnir. The second his hand touched the ancient Asgardian metal, he felt a rush of something powerful and electric, like lighting pulsing through his veins.

He felt another breeze. But this time, it was cool. The breeze became a gale, which became a hurricane, and before Derek knew it, he was in the air. He was flying.

The apartment around him disappeared into a mirage of lights and colors. A rainbow bridge, stretching across a thousand galaxies. Derek felt himself soar through the very fabric of space and time, and as he did, his body continued to change.

His frame stretched from 6’5’’ to a colossal 6’9’’, and his muscles expanded to match. Suddenly, the small leather straps that held the metal plate onto his body were straining against the force of his growing chest. Each individual ab grew to the size of a large rock, and every time Derek flexed, he could feel them bending the chest plate with unimaginable force.

The straps on his boots snapped and fluttered into the rainbow abyss, as his feet were so huge now, human footwear was out of the question. The growth shot up his legs, his calves turning from baseballs to footballs, his thighs from turkey legs to Christmas hams. His ass got so thick, the extra weight sent him wobbling on the rainbow bridge, forcing him to grip the hammer even tighter.

As he did, his arms—which were quite impressive to begin with—practically exploded with muscle, an unstoppable stream of growth that shot from his forearms, to his biceps, to his shoulders, and split off towards his back and chest. Within seconds, Derek had put on enough muscle weight to make a bodybuilder jealous. Through the rushing wind, he brought his arm up and gave it a hearty flex.

The feeling of his bicep, thick and curled and glistening with sweat, triggered a new wave of changes in Derek. This time starting at his dick, which instantly sprung up and shot a powerful load, growing a full inch with every pump of raw, god juice until it stood a full 10-inches. The sudden orgasm rocked his body like a bolt of lighting. There were “snaps” all over as he out-grew every piece of clothing on him, from the chest plate to the leather shirt.

Now fully nude, Derek could feel the wind caress every inch of his body. Actual lighting began to shoot out of his pores like sweat, and he let out a primal howl that rung through the universe like rolling thunder.

His face prickled. Not because the static that he was emitting, but because of the fake wig and beard, which were now fusing themselves to his face. It was his beard. This was his hair. He wasn’t playing Thor… he was Thor.

And with that, his final change begun. As the man perviously known as Derek Theler hurtled towards the gates of Valhalla, he forgot about all his petty time on earth. As an actor, as a model. As a human. Because now, he was more. He was Thor, the god of thunder. He’d watched over the nine realms for a millennia. He’d fought in countless battles against ancient enemies and triumphed over every one. He’d slept with thousands of men and women, all kneeling in worship at the sight of his legendary physique, and 10-inch uncut monster.

There was a loud BANG, and everything went black.

Thor awoke with a start.

He’d just had the strangest dream. He dreamt that he has been trapped on earth for 32 years. Forced to live the life of an… actor. What was his name? He couldn’t remember. It was, after all, just a strange dream. A long, strange dream.

He rose up out of his bed, taking in his surroundings. Around him were luscious halls of gold, arches that seemed to stretch deep into the sky. He was in Asgard. He was home.

Drenched in his own sweat, Thor walked over to the water basin by the balcony overlooking his father’s city. Walking now felt so foreign. His body lumbered awkwardly, as if his muscles were a brand new suit of armor. But this was foley; Thor had always been this beautiful… right?

As he washed off the sweat of a long, restless night, Thor was sure to stop and admire every one of his godly muscles. It was like he was feeling them for the very first time, like this body was his reward for making it through such an elaborate and troublesome dream.

He didn’t even notice his cock was hard. He reached down to stroke it, but stopped. There was no need to masterbate in Asgard. He had a line of men and women who could enter his bedchamber and please him with the snap of his fingers. He never had to please himself again.

Thor smirked, fancying the notion of staying in today. He’d given his hammer a workout last week when he’d fended off legions of monsters to protect the nine realms. Now, it was time to give his OTHER hammer some much needed attention.

Besides, he’d earned it. The universe could go one day without thunder.

Night at the Museum

It’s 3 A.M.

The only sound you can hear is your own footsteps, echoing through the tall, marble halls. Cold, stone faces stare down at you from all angles, illuminated by the soft exhibit lights hanging from the ceiling, and the hard glare of the torch in your hand.

This is the night shift: the sun goes down, the people leave, and for 8 hours, you’re locked inside the museum with nothing but ancient relics to keep you company.

Some company, you think, scoffing to yourself. If only the statues could step down from their pedestals and actually speak. Imagine the stories they might have, the things they’ve seen over the centuries. Instead, they stand, perfectly still, while you patrol the dark, empty rooms. Not a soul in sight.

The loneliness eats away at you like a disease. Sometimes, you wish someone would break-in, if only to give you somebody to talk to. Sleep is out of the question; every time you close your eyes, you get the sickly feeling that someone—that something is watching you…

A CRACK. You spin around. “Who’s there?” you cry, waving your flashlight into the darkness. Nothing. Only the hollow echo of your own voice.

Probably a rat, you think as you turn around. But just as your fear begins to subside, another CRACK. It’s coming from the end of the hall, where an impossibility white marble statue of a Roman Soldier stands, watching guard.

You tiptoe forward, careening your light around the statue, searching for the source of the noise. “I’m armed!” You call out. You’re not, and your hands are shaking with anxiety.

Now just feet away from the statue, you can make out all its perfect details: the deep-cut lines on the soldier’s abs, the impeccably carved patch of pubic hair above his flaccid penis, the curvature of his arms as they tightly grip a centurion’s sword and shield. The image of male perfection, and behind him… nothing.

There’s nobody there. But the cracking persists. Louder, and more frequent.

Then you realize: it’s coming FROM the statue.

You stumble back and watch as the centurion’s alabaster muscles begin to ripple and flex, creaking and cracking as they come to vivid life.

Impossible. It must be the light playing tricks on you, your lonely mind hallucinating in the endless silence. But then the statue fills with color, the cool white marble turning sandy and warm as the soldier’s chest heaves up and down, cracking with every breath. The expression on his face changes from strong determination, to shocked surprise, as he begins to move his arms and legs for the first time in centuries.

You watch in terror as the statue you saw just moments ago steps down from his pedestal, now a man of flesh and blood. Except that every perfect detail carved into the marble has stayed the same: his abs are still carved deep into his skin, his biceps still flare and flex as they grip the sword and shield. The only thing that’s changed is his dick, now standing straight up in a massive, throbbing erection.

“You there!” the soldier says, pointing his sword at you. You back away, tripping over your feet in the process. As you tumble on your back, the centurion swaggers forward, sword pointed directly at your neck.

“I am Marcus Acuitus,” he says in a booming voice that shakes the very ground you lay on, “Leader of the ninth legion, champion of Rome. Tell me, what is this strange dwelling in which I’ve found myself?”

“The… the museum of ancient history…” you stammer.

“And you,” the soldier continues, “are you the centurion of this museum?”

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod your head. “Very good,” Marcus says, and with that, he stabs his sword into the ground, shattering the tile, and drops his shield. “I feel as if I’ve been asleep for very long,” he says as he stretches and flexes, showing off the body of an adonis, “tell me, where is your nearest brothel?”

“Nearest… what?”

The soldier laughs. “I could use a glass of wine and a warm body. The women at this museum, are they as beautiful as some of these statues?” He waves to the other exhibits.

You shake your head. “There are no women,” you say. “This is the night shift. It’s only me.”

Marcus’ face contorts with disappointment. And then, he begins to eye you, staring down your blue security outfit, drenched in your sweat and clinging tight to your body.

“You… you could wait until the morning!” You say, thinking of some way to distract him, “there are tons of… brothels around town. Maybe they’d be open then!”

But Marcus simply stares down at his dick, which is so hard now that it might actually still be marble. “Tell me,” he says, quieter, “have you ever felt the touch of another man?”

Your throat turns dry. You shake your head, and the centurion chuckles. “Back in my legion, when we were out on the battlefield with no women to keep us warm at night, I would call the biggest, strongest, most fearsome man into my tent.” He removes his helmet, letting his long, shaggy brown hair fall to his shoulders. “Do you know what I would do with him?”

Again, you just shake your head. But you already know the answer.

“I can show you, if you’d like,” Marcus looks down towards his throbbing meat, “I sure know I would.”

You have never fucked another man before. You’ve dreamt of it, many times. Of being taken by a tall, muscular beast, used until your asshole leaks with his warm seed. You long to be touched, to feel another man’s body pressed up against yours like hot coals, breathing heavy into your ear as he mounts your willing hole.

“I… I would. Like it.”

And with that, he takes you. Right there on the cool museum floor. In seconds, you feel his strong, trained hands tearing open your blue, button down shirt, and exploring the hot, sweaty skin on your chest.

He kisses you, and you taste the burning sands of ancient Rome on his lips. You close your eyes, and feel him tear the pants straight from your body. He grabs your legs and hoists you into the air. You straddle his wide chest, and feel his hard cock bobbing up against your needy hole.

He takes you to a leather couch sitting in the middle of the exhibit hall. His body presses against yours, and while he cradles your head with one hand, he begins to finger your ass with the other.

“Slow,” you manage to squeak out. Even just two fingers is enough to send you reeling. You’ve never had anything larger than that up there before.

Marcus grins. “I wasn’t just known for my skills in battle,” he says, placing both of his hands in yours and guiding your arms above your head, “I’ve been told I’m a wonder in bed.” With both hands up, he runs his fingers down the length of your arms, down your pits, and over your chest. As he does, he lowers himself down, kissing every inch of your stomach. His hands, now at the base of your hips, take your legs and spread them wide, exposing your leaking dick. He kisses the base, sure to savor every molecule before grabbing your cock and swallowing it whole.

The museum ceiling fills with stars as your vision blurs. Endorphins rush through your bloodstream, and you writhe uncontrollably as Marcus’ trained lips work the head of your penis. With one arm, he presses down on your chest, holding you and steadying you. He’s so strong, you think, looking down to watch him bob up and down, milking you to the very brink.

You hear a loud “pop” and the cool air of the exhibit hall graze your wet dick. Suddenly, he is straddling you, and you’re staring up at all 10 inches of Roman meat.

“Swallow,” he commands. And you do. His cock might be as hard as marble, but it bears the salty taste of flesh. Sweat trickles from his chest onto your face as you suck the centurion’s dick. He reaches around and continues fingering your taint, this time squeezing three thick fingers into your ever expanding hole.

Marcus’ cocky smile bears down at you from above his pecs. “I think you’re ready,” he says.

For what? You think, but you don’t have time to ask. He’s throwing you around like a rag doll, laying you facedown and kicking your legs apart. Exposing your hole.

You hear him spit on his fingers, and feel him massage it into your ass. “Are you ready?” he asks.

But it doesn’t matter if you’re ready or not; you NEED him inside of you. You nod, and feel a splitting pain as he guides his cock inside of your hole, and your hole swallows it up.

You cry out, in pain, in pleasure. But no one can hear you. The halls of the museum reverberate with the sounds of your moans, his grunts, and the wet slap of his body as he pile-drives your hungry cunt. This is how the Romans fucked; like animals, wherever they could, with whoever they could find.

The wet leather of the couch sticks to your chest as he holds your back, riding you like a prized horse until the cum spills from your cock and onto the tiled floor. He literally fucked the cum out of you.

But he’s still going. By now, your hole is loose and worn. He picks up the pace, his thrusts fast as machine gun fire, and before you know it, you’re cumming again. Orgasmic waves blur your vision until the museum becomes a wash of colors. Time begins to speed up, and you begin to wonder…

How long have you been fucking?

You start to lose feeling in your body, numb from being used over and over and over again. Marcus’ cock moves so fast, you can’t even feel his thrusts. Only and endless stream of orgasms, cum flowing from your cock in an eternal stream. Like a fountain that never ceases.

You watch as the world rushes past you at an unimaginable speed. Thousands of faces staring at you in wonder. In disgust. In pleasure. But you don’t care. Nothing matters but the feeling of Marcus inside of you, pleasuring you, using you for all eternity.

“And here we have a… controversial piece. It depicts the famous Roman Centurion Marcus Acuitus and an unknown guard sharing an intimate moment before a battle.”

“It’s very graphic. Where did you say the museum had it on loan from?”

“We believe it was a gift. It just… appeared one night. We suspect it was a generous donation.”

“That wouldn’t happen to be the same night that security guard stole that statue would it? Could they be related?”

“I doubt it. Although, the statue WAS of the same Roman general…”

“Marcus Acuitus, yes. Did you ever recover that? Or ever find the security guard?”

“No. He was never seen again. Shameful, running off with such a priceless piece of art. I hope he’s satisfied with himself.”

Yes… yes he is…