An office worker, the largely sedentary sort, you had little to brag about in the way of physicality. You often became overly lax on your visits to the gym, and when sweets were at hand, you often forgot which foods best fit into your diet. You committed the everyday sins against your physique that every common man does, yet you took this simple transgression against an unachievable, self-imposed goal as your failure to acquire the standard of fitness. In feeling like you should be able to compete with the masculine individuals starring on male clothing advertisements and in testosterone-filled action movies, you caused a seed of self-loathing to take hold in your psyche, so by the time you arrived at my desk at the front doors of the Foundation for Transformation you were a man obsessed with only one phrase to offer as for your reason to be there.
“Bigger and better.”
A short time later I was dialing in the numbers of a locker in one of the Foundation’s numerous gyms’ locker rooms. You asked several times why we were here, despite my consistent flirtatiously pointed silence in response, and each time you seemed a little more nervous. You’d been a little on edge since we had entered the gym, having found yourself surrounded by towering masculine men with muscles each larger than the size of your head. You saw no unfriendly faces among them, but it was extremely intimidating for you to be in gym full of men that all dwarfed you in size and strength. It was as if the men you coveted from before had all come together to wordlessly taunt you with their mere presence, and it only grew worse once you entered the locker room.
Gigantic men, each no shorter than seven feet tall and with rippling muscles, filled the room. All of them cockily paraded about the place, their bare feet pounding against the tiled floor. You could almost swear that the strength behind their steps caused the room to shake. The pungent, musky scent of their labors made manifest in sweat soured the air and filled your nose, yet there was a rustic sensibility to the smell that you couldn’t help but appreciate. What was most jaring though was how the men so openly displayed their gorgeous, hairy forms. You’d never seen a locker room were so little credence to modesty. The men would talk with each other, openly examine each other’s physique, and even touch various parts of each other’s anatomy while entirely nude. It made you feel extremely awkward, and you strove to avoid eye-contact and stare at your feet. You were about to ask what we were doing here again when you heard the click of the locker opening.
I reached into the compartment and offered you a clothing article in each hand. In my left was a blue tank top, clearly intended for fitness and several sizes too large for you. In my right was an unsightly jockstrap, clearly pre-owned and in dire need of a wash. You were hesitant to accept the clothes, refusing to take them at first, but after insinuating that I might need to give them to a bigger, better man instead, you practically yanked them out of my hands. Flustered by my manipulations and the disquieting environment you found yourself in, you stomped your legs through the proper holes of the jockstrap in a minor fit of rage before wildly thrashing your arms into the tank top and sliding it on. When done, you glared at me expectantly with a face flushed beet red from embarrassment. I chuckled to see your frustration, and I think you might’ve struck me at that time if you had not begun to feel it.
It started as a dull heat originating from the pouch of your jockstrap. You looked down at the underwear as the warmth engulfed your loins. It felt as if someone had smeared a thick dollop of a muscle rub onto your genitals, yet there was no discomfort. In fact, you saw a bulge slowly start to form in the front of your new loincloth, an erection coming to fruition from the strangely pleasurable warmth. Your body responded in kind to the heat by beginning to produce a thin sheen of sweat over your skin. Your hair quickly became drenched from the salty excretion, and a faint wave itchiness grew over your body. You unconsciously began to scratch the irritations here and there, and in lifting your arm scratch underneath, a new ripe smell leaped forth from your armpit to join the locker room’s. You coughed at the foul odor, being so pungent and concentrated, but just as you found with the room’s scent, there was something undeniably likable about the smell. As you quickly grew accustomed to it, you even brought your nose to your pit to partake more deeply of the ripe odor.
You were several snorting sniffs into the experience of enjoying your new pit stench when a sensation beneath your continuing scratching fingers came to your attention. Your hands registered, instead of your bare skin, a texture more akin to an animal’s pelt. In looking down at your body you saw that a heavy, fur-like coat of body hair had grown out all over your body. Beneath the blue tank top was now sprouting an unruly nest of dark, curly hair fighting for exposure. Your legs were no longer the smooth things that you had walked in on. Now each was coated in hair from the ankle all the way up to wait little was hidden by the jockstrap. Even your usually relatively bare ass was now covered in a flurry of fur.
What was even stranger, though, was that each part of your body that was covered in hair also no longer seemed to be quite the same shape. You were used to looking down at your body and seeing a fair-sized belly stretching out your shirt. Your butt tended to test the seat of whatever pants you chose to wear. Your legs and arms often consisted more of flab than anything else. As you looked at your body now though, you began to realize that this was no longer the case. Your physique still bulged and curved, but every swell of your body was now hewn with hardened, tough muscle. You shirt, previously too large, now barely contained your awesome pectorals. Your arms bore the muscle mass off a bodybuilder, and your legs looked as if you’d somehow stole them from an olympic athlete. You were clearly in peak physical condition and now even towered over me, added height being one of your many sudden changes.
You thanked me profusely, your massive grasp engulfing mine in an exuberant handshake, but I told you that you had yet to pay the price. You were ecstatic, promising anything in return. You were caught off guard when I informed you that you were already paying the cost of this metamorphosis. No transformation at the Foundation was ever truly free, I told you, as the mode of change often represented a setback. In the case of this gym, every one of the men there had worn the jockstrap that was now around your waist. At one time or another, each of them had experienced the exact effect you had just undergone. You looked around to see all of the men nearby eying you with a look that was a strange combination of pity and sexual hunger.
I explained that each of the men knew that the jockstrap was magical but cursed. You grew to amazing sizes and developed phenomenal strength, but at a cost. The jockstrap fed off of your sexual desire, or your libido, that being the reason why you were so obviously aroused at the time, but because the underwear needed your energy to further solidify the transformation, you’d need to be careful not to remove it from its source of power. Whoever wore the jockstrap would also need to rely on alternative sources of pleasure to ensure that your libido didn’t go unfulfilled during the process. You still seemed confused, so I explained it to you bluntly: you wouldn’t be able to remove the jockstrap from your junk for at least a year, and you’d need to get fucked to ensure that you stayed horny.
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