“You gotta try this weed, dude,” said my roommate, swaggering into my room in just a tank top and his underwear.
“I need to study,” I said, trying not to stare. he was a big muscle jock, always getting high with his friends and pumping iron when he wasn’t playing videogames.
“Just try,” he teased, his eyelids heavy as he leaned his face down next to me. I tried to look away, to fixate on the book I was trying to read. “Just try it. Just once.” I could smell the pot on his breath.
“No man,” I said. “Please just let me study.”
He took a long drag on the joint in his hand, then leaned back down in my face, holding his breath and smiling like an idiot.
“Just go awa–” I started, and then he coughed in my face, and all the smoke billowed around me. I gasped, inhaling a bunch of it, and suddenly I couldn’t remember what we were saying.
“What was that?” he said.
“Just… uh … lemme try it,” I slurred, feeling dumb and giddy. I put the joint in my mouth, inhaled, and felt so gooooood.
“Why you wearin’ clothes, man?” my roommate asked. I looked down. Why was I? I couldn’t remember what good clothes were. What’s the point? I pulled my pants down, and my roommate helped me yank off my shirt.
Naked, I leaned back on my bed, rubbing my long hair in relaxed bliss. My roommate crouched down at the bottom of the bed, grinning at me.
“Whaddya doin’?” I laughed.
He just took my foot in his mouth and started sucking. Mmmm, nice. I wiggled my toes for him, then noticed the plate of pot brownies he’d brought in and set near the bed. I grabbed one and took a bite – wow, so good. My head swam, my mind sunk, and by the time I finished the first brownie I couldn’t even tell you my name.
Read more tales of sexy gay transformation by Douglas Benjamin: http://bit.ly/DBGPlus
I don’t know. I don’t think you like being smart as much as you say you do. I mean, otherwise you wouldn’t be sending me this message. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be saying how hot you think they are, how hard your dick gets whenever you watch them prance around, asses jiggling, giggling vapidly, proving just how empty their heads are after being infected by the virus.
I think, if you really wanted to keep your intelligence, your cock wouldn’t twitch in your pants when I tell you how good it would feel to not have to deal with all of those thoughts in your head. I know your type. I’m like you, after all. Heads whizzing with thoughts and ideas. Not a moment of silence in that stuffed-full skull of yours.
And, anyway, what makes you think that you haven’t contracted the Bubble Boy virus yet? If all of your friends have it, statistically speaking, you should have it, too. I mean, if you can still understand it. Did you really think that any of your friends noticed that they were slowly becoming Bubble Boys? It was easy enough for you to see because it wasn’t your thoughts slowing down. It wasn’t your intelligence getting sapped away by a virus that you could do nothing about.
Besides, I think, if you really wanted to keep your smarts, you wouldn’t be sitting on my couch in just your underwear and a tank top. Much less that tank top peeled back to expose the abs that you could have sworn you didn’t have a week ago, your index finger caught between your front teeth, and a hand down the front of your briefs, rubbing that hard cock between your legs.
Oh. That’s it. You’re starting to realize the truth, aren’t you? Yeah, all those times you had to do any math the past week. You thought you were correct. You thought your answers were fine. But really, they were just getting worse and worse. See, here’s the thing, the loss of intelligence to the Bubble Boy virus? It’s an insidious thing. If you have no one to compare to, you would never know.
And, as you said, all your friends have been infected. All your friends are well on their way to becoming bubble boys. Like a frog dropped in cold water that is gradually brought to a boil, you never even noticed the way that your thoughts got slower and slower, little by little. I’m sure you still have some intelligence in there, but I don’t think you’ll be keeping that for very long, boy.
It started, at first, with occasionally forgetting a period, a comma, an exclamation point, a question mark, in your texts to your friends. It was innocuous enough. It passed under your radar. Besides, your new friends never texted with proper punctuation, anyway. Then, apostrophes went. Then, you started confusing words you never had any trouble with before. To and too. Lose and loose. Your, you’re, and yore. Their, there, and they’re.
You got hornier. And sluttier. But you never noticed. You were too busy convincing yourself that it was just because you found your bubble boy friends so hot. But really, it was your body telling you that it was changing. I wonder how many times you were jerking off in your usual way, either lying in your bed or sitting at your computer, only for you to end up on all fours, fingers fucking in and out of your pucker while you half-heartedly pumped your increasingly more meaningless boy nub?
Oh, and let’s not even get started with the dildo that you told yourself you bought to help out your roommate with the increased appetite of his new ass. You could have volunteered your own hefty cock, but you didn’t. Because you didn’t think of it as a cock anymore. Not really. More like an oversized clit. And, inevitably, you ended up using the dildo on yourself, forgetting all about stroking your nub until one day you had an earth-shattering orgasm just riding the thick dildo that you kept telling yourself you were going to give to your roommate… after you used it one more time. And then one more time after that. And then one more time after that.
You weren’t at all getting addicted to riding thick cock. No. At least, that’s not what you told yourself. You told yourself that you were just spicing up your single life with a little bit of variety. How could you possibly be contracting the virus when you were still every bit as smart as you were before? Only, it didn’t cross your mind that two days before, despite your degree in chemistry, you had panicked over a post on the internet that told you how much dihydrogen monoxide was in your tap water. Nor did it occur to you that that morning you had completely forgotten what T.V. even meant.
Although I guess none of this matters now. Those lidded eyes of yours, that sultry look, the way that you’re wiggling your butt. I bet that all this shocking knowledge has triggered the last steps of the transformation. Oh, don’t mind the big words that I’m using, darling. I’m just talking to myself. A dumb little slut like you doesn’t need to worry about such things.
That’s it, boy. It feels good, doesn’t it? Yeah, fuck that boypussy with your fingers. It’s so sad that you don’t have your dildo here, isn’t it? Well, don’t you worry. There are more than a few real men who work here who would be more than willing to help you with that itch deep inside of you.
I would be, too, but unlike you, I know that I’m coming down with a case of the bubbles. I’m early on in the process, of course. I’m nowhere near as stupid as you are, at this point. Nor am I as much of a pussyboy slut, yet. But I guess there isn’t a better time than now to start, is there?
I might still have some of my intelligence, but I bet those men wouldn’t care if I put on my best impression of your face, entirely devoid of any smarts, nothing in your head but cock and the feeling of cock sinking between those round, meaty cheeks of yours. Oh, yeah, I’m going to enjoy watching you slip even deeper for as long as I can.
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
Cliff thought it was pretty stupid. An urban legend passed around from camboy to camboy because that’s just how things survived. Everyone was terrified of even making the finger-guns on-stream because they were afraid it was going to happen to them. The chats usually offered a lot of money for the camboys to go through with it, though.
Cliff had just finished talking to his chat about it. He’d gone off on a long tangent about stupid people and letting their stupid superstitions cheat them out of their money. A couple of people in the chat were pretty vocal about the urban legend being real, but for the most part Cliff ignored them. At least until they started offering larger and larger tips for him to do it.
So that was how he ended up with a finger-gun to his forehead. If he was being entirely truthful, there was a small part of him that was afraid something was going to happen. There was a small part of him that advised him not to do it on the off-chance that it might work. But he had just gotten an offer of $5000 to do it, and he wasn’t about to waste the chance to get $5000 when all he had to do was prove a stupid superstition false.
“Pew,” he said, making a shooting motion with his fingers. A chill traveled down his spine as he felt something sharp and cold lance through his head. His eyes widened and he looked at his fingers in surprise. He moved to type something to chat, but as he looked at the keyboard, he could only tilt his head. He knew that he should know how to type, but for some reason he couldn’t figure it out.
Cliff looked at the chat and then realized that the words and letters were blurring together. For the first time in his life, his mind was quiet. “Uuugh…” He groaned, feeling his cock growing hard in his pants as he futilely tried to grab at the few stray thoughts making their way through his largely empty brain now.
Maybe he should have listened to his friends. Oh well, too late now. He’s the lucky winner of the himbo roulette, and as his eyes glassed over, and he slipped his underwear down to his ankles to shake his butt at the camera, the chat realized what had happened and cheered. Not that he’ll ever know that, now. And the $5000 he had been offered? He was never going to get it.
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
You don’t remember why you ended up here, only how. You came home with the guy. He was cute. He was hot. Incredibly, even. You would say far above your batting range, but he had taken some interest in you. Not to mention, he’d been so charismatic, so charming, so earnest, that you just couldn’t bear to say no to his cute face.
As you followed him through the pristine halls of his home, you felt lighter, happier, better than you had felt in years. If there had been mirrors around, you would have noticed yourself getting younger, settling down at around what you looked like at 20 years of age. It wasn’t saying much. You were pretty bad at the age of 20, having not a care in the world, not really paying much attention to how you looked or how you dressed, but you were changing.
What fat you had was melting off you, and what you lacked in muscles were beginning to grow in. Your shirt was tight as you started growing, the seams straining as you filled out, as you turned into the idealized version of you at 20. You felt your shirt loosen, but not that much, just enough to accentuate the new muscles that adorned your body. You would have freaked out and run, but you were feeling too good to give up the sensation.
As you walked, you also felt your face shifting around, changing. If you could have seen, you would have noticed the hair on the top of your head changing, growing thicker, healthier. If you had any gray hairs at all, they returned to your natural color. And your face, the asymmetries and the acne and all the pits and scars that had bothered you from your teenage years disappeared, leaving you fresh-faced and clean-shaven.
Your mind also began to regress, losing all your years of wisdom, all the knowledge that you had accumulated. Maybe you try to hang on to some of it, but it all invariably slips through your fingers. It’s at this point that you begin to worry, but you can’t figure out why. Your thoughts flit at the edges of your consciousness, teasingly darting in within reach and then out as you try to grasp them.
You feel slow, you feel dumb, but you also feel warm, light, happy, and fuzzy. It feels good. You’re stupid now, but it feels good. You let him lead you around the house, going around and around in circles, never suspecting, until he seems satisfied with your progress. At that point, he pushes past two large double doors revealing a room with a tiled floor and a large marble tub in the middle filled with foam.
You see wisps of steam rising from the placid surface, and you let go of his hand. You stop. You watch as he descends into the pool, wrapping himself in the foam. You can smell salt in the air, like the sea, and you notice that the pool is actually the lower half of an enormous clam.
You look at the man that had slipped into the tub. He speaks no words. Just looks at you. Watches you as you sway, no thoughts in your head, your cock getting hard. You hadn’t even realized that you were naked. Your cock rises between your legs, but you feel it shrink away, become irrelevant, little more than a nub. Your ass fills out, you feel your hole twitch. His eyes burn into yours with an intensity that makes your knees feel weak.
From the foam, you see his cock rise, breaking the surface of the water, like a delectable pillar of flesh that draws your attention and makes your feet bring you, unbidden, to the edge of the pool. You stop, apprehensive. Somehow, you know that once you bathe in the water, all of this would be permanent. You would be forever in the thrall of the being before you.
But your dulled mind can see nothing wrong with that and you take your first step into the warm water. Your cock spews between your legs, the pleasure overwhelming you, shattering what little is left. You dip your other foot in. You keep shooting as you walk toward the man, your mouth loose and open, drool dribbling from the tip of the tongue that’s hanging out of your mouth.
When you stand in front of him, you sink to your knees in worship and kiss his cock. “Good boy,” he says, rubbing your head. “Good boy.” And you lower your head and envelop his length. It is the most intense sensation you have ever felt. Who could have known worship at the feet of a god, one risen from the foam, could feel so good?
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
Rob had worked hard on his body. Fifteen years of training and strict diet had given him a body to die for. Huge arms and legs. An abdomen of steel. It only sucked that he had to make do with a stupid desk job. He was good at it. It paid well. It wasn’t mind-numbingly boring. But it wasn’t what he thought he’d be doing at this age.
He was working when it happened. He had been feeling a bit ill-at-ease even before coming to work. Especially after the gym. He’d seen quite a few of the bubble boys on the treadmills, and they had all looked at him as though they knew something he didn’t.
Halfway through typing up an email, he felt like his clothes were unnecessarily restrictive. He ignored the sensation. It was okay for a while, at least until it felt like his clothes were strangling him. He tore off his shirt, first, not noticing that his broad chest had shrunk, that the sleeves were hanging loosely around his smaller-by-far biceps.
Rob’s pants were the next to go. Then his boxer-briefs. He nearly screamed when he saw himself in the mirror, all the muscles he’d worked on for years gone all of a sudden. All of his body hair had disappeared, too. He nearly panicked, but then a new sensation, a new overwhelming drive took over.
He fell to the floor with a loud thump, unable to help it as his hand travelled down his slender side to cup his ass. He felt like there was a fire inside him. And his throat was parched. He knew what he needed, but there was none of it nearby. He moaned, loudly, like a wanton whore, while he fingered himself. It would have to do for now.
Sudden-onset Bubble Boy Syndrome, it was called, the responding paramedic explained to Rob’s boss, and to Rob himself, while Rob was suckling on his cock and his colleague was ramming the new bubble boy hard. Old Rob would have understood what it all meant, but he was too busy thinking about cock and cum.
He would always be too busy to have another smart thought. For the rest of his life.
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What’s a pool party without bubble boys to fool around with? Ever since the virus struck and spread throughout the population, things have been somewhat different. Looking into the virus, its causes, possible cures, and methods of prevention stopped a long time ago when it became pretty clear that asking too many questions about the virus got you infected with it.
There was talk of quarantine, of course, even after the first few proponents of it ended up brainless sexed-up sluts. But by then, so many were infected and undergoing the change that it was a logistical nightmare that no one wanted to deal with, so it was left alone. The bubble boy virus became just another fact of life, but its pervasiveness brought with it a tide of cultural change.
One of the more dangerous new fads are bubble boy pool parties. Although they started out innocently enough, pretty much as an excuse for the immune to have a bit of fun with bubble boys in the summer. Not that bubble boys needed much of an excuse to have a little bit of sexual fun in any season, but the idea of pool parties seemed to appeal to them in the extreme.
It wasn’t until the uninfected started getting in on the fun that the real trouble started. No one knows how the first uninfected bubble boy pool party started, people think it was men who were jealous that the immune could so freely have fun with bubble boys, or maybe it was someone who just desperately wanted to play with bubble boys, but the end result was the same.
Bubble boy pool parties became a huge fad, especially among groups of the uninfected that had a dumbing down kink that wanted to contract the virus. These days, those parties are a veritable Russian Roulette, and it usually took a few weeks before anyone realized who had gotten infected.
These guys managed to get four bubble boys to attend their pool party, although they couldn’t quite wait for their friends to get there before getting the fun started.
I wonder if they’ll get infected. Oh well, guess we’ll find out soon enough. 😉
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
Ian was a red-blooded man. He knew it. He just knew it. He had fire in his veins and that couldn’t have made him anything more than an Alpha male. It’s why he had chosen to work out on one of the platforms in the gym. Show off for the bubble boys that were busily trying to lift their pansy weights while really just wanting to do squats over the much-contested dildo-poles that made up a large portion of the gym floor.
Near everyone was naked, but that wasn’t much of a surprise anymore. There were still a few holdovers from the old world, pitiful, repressed, conservative men who thought that everyone should wear clothes. Public nudity laws had been pretty much repealed because they became unenforceable. What were the cops to do? Round up all the bubble boys who loved to strut practically or actually naked in the streets? Nah. There were too many, now.
Ian was one of the first generation of men that had never known women. He knew that his father had been an omega, but that didn’t matter. His father had been a surrogate. He had been raised by two Alphas that had, against all odds, fallen in love with one another. He had drank in their masculinity and he definitely had the body to show it. He wasn’t no bubble boy and he made sure the gym-goers knew it.
And he knew that the bubble boys loved men in gear, so he wore some whenever he decided to work out. He had every intention of taking home one of the bitches, bedding them, and showing them how a real man’s cock could make them squeal. But little did he know that there was another man, an actual Alpha watching his displays of superiority from the shadows, snickering.
Mark had amused himself long enough watching Ian pretend to be a real man. He was a carrier for the virus, and anyone who didn’t have the Alpha gene immunity would succumb as soon as he bred them. By the end of the day he was sure that he would have Ian bent over the platform, making the bubble boys envious as he pummeled that sure-to-be tight hole with his large, leaking, superior alpha cock.
When Mark was done with Ian, Ian would realize that muscles didn’t make him an Alpha when there was a dripping boycunt between his ass cheeks. And he was going to enjoy fucking the brains out of Ian a lot. The pretender had liked to boast about his intellectual prowess, lording his superiority over the bubble boys. But not for long. Mark was going to fuck Ian so hard, Ian’s brain was going to turn to mush.
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
He had once been a promising athlete. A quarterback, even. His biggest asset was his height, and his bulk. Even in high school, he’d been a pretty big guy, easily the most intimidating person on the field. In college, he was the stuff of other players’ nightmares. His own team’s wet dreams, yes, but he was an utter terror to the others.
All that has changed, now. He had been a pretty homophobic dick, and he had shown no humility with regard to his near-perfect GPA even when he was investing a lot of time and effort into his football career. He’d taken every opportunity to loudly and boisterously boast. He tooted his own horn almost aggressively. No one in their right mind spoke up against him, though. No one wanted to get snapped in half over his knee.
But with the advent of the bubble boy virus, the world quickly changed around him. With football players succumbing left and right, people started looking at him as though he’d be the next. He got angrier and colder. He even beat someone up calling them a fag at one point, which got him suspended. Eventually, the rumors came true, and he lost everything that he once prided himself on. He remained tall, but his muscles melted away, leaving him mostly gangly. It was like all the meat went to his ass.
His brain melted, practically dripping out of his ears in the middle of class. He had to be tutored. Then, he had to take remedial classes. They weren’t very effective. He listened through one ear, but it went out the other. There was nothing to catch the words in between anymore, after all. Most tutoring sessions ended like this, him naked, bent over something, begging quietly with his eyes and a bit lower lip to get fucked up his new favorite toy—his ass.
And if you want to follow my captions, shenanigans and such on the journey to becoming the dumbfuck himbo pup I was meant to be, then follow me at @DumPupEcho
I’m going to break something down really quickly, because even though this may seem minor, it’s a pattern that I’ve been noticing develop for some time that’s worrying.
People who run these blogs are not your slaves.
I love and appreciate every single follower, friend, anonymous requester, or even someone who checks out my blog and may not even like it in the end. Why? Because you are spending your time checking out and possibly enjoying something that I’ve made. Time is extremely important and by investing time into my blog, I want you know that it is greatly appreciated.
However, what also costs time, is making these stories to begin with. Collecting images, coming up with new ideas, writing them out and posing them can take anywhere from an hour or two to days. Some stories are planned weeks beforehand.
The people who spend so much time invested in making sure you enjoy what they create are just that, people. People with obligations and responsibilities outside of this, which is just a hobby for a lot of us. An enjoyable one we appreciate, but just a hobby. It’s nothing compared to our job, our studies, or whatever else is involved in our life.
Stepping away from a blog only to come back doesn’t warrant any kind of message like this. We are not here solely for you as much as we appreciate you. We do this partly because we enjoy it and sending messages demanding we do a request and insulting us if we don’t or berating a blogger for stepping away for some time, isn’t right. You’re free to criticise our work, in fact I personally welcome it. But don’t stoop down to something that’s just disingenuous.
That being said, most of you are amazing and don’t treat bloggers like this, and so for the majority of you, thank you!
This is super real. I totally love all of you guys, but don’t treat your fap artists like this. I get it: it’s frustrating to be denied things when you’re in a sexual high. I get frustrated too. Just try your best to be conscientious of how empathetic or apathetic you’re being or how you would be normally. I can also say that a majority of stories take a very long time to write, and photo gathering is a God-damned quest on its own. It’s actually unexpectedly arduous and why I really don’t do that sort of thing anymore.
In short, just be conscientious. We like you guys. We’d rather save charged words to describe the juicy cocks we serve up in our writing.
I wish I could post daily. But I can’t, in fact this semester has a lot going on. I don’t know if I’ve personally seen messages like these but it’s not right for anyone. This hobby can’t become a source of anxiety.
Rick was exactly the worst type of model you could find, cocky, sexy, and always wanting to show off his body whenever he could. It got to the point where his own agents could barely stand him as they watched him pose for the photographer, making sure to accentuate his lean body the best he could.
“Alright are we done here?” whined Rick. “I got some girls who liked my pictures from last month and they really want to meet.” The photographer rolled his eyes.
“Just a few more shots, keep posing,” declared the photographer as he ignored Rick’s scowl and got back to snapping pictures. By the time they were finished it was only because Rick refused to pose any longer, instead deciding to almost tell the photographer to go fuck himself underneath his breath as he started putting on his clothes. “Well thank you very much, Mr. Wellick. It’s been such a…pleasure working with you. I wanted you to have this.” The photographer mumbled, trying to make sure any vitriol in his voice as he took out an odd book that he had kept in his bag for later, but he felt that now it was needed.
Rick took the book, looking at the title.
“Very funny, but I don’t need this caveman shi- sh-” Rick stopped as he saw the photographer beginning to leave the building, looking down as he wondered why it was suddenly so hard to speak as an odd thumping like a heartbeat began in his own two hands.
“Enjoy, Mr. Wellick,” said the photographer as Rick looked down at his own hands, watching as they started to grow larger, the knuckles cracking and the fingers almost becoming too big for his own palm, to the point where it almost weighed him down. Even still, he couldn’t let go of the book as something else began thumping with the same throbbing and hot sensation, only being cooled down by an odd feeling of something wet and leaking as he looked between his legs.
His own skinny jeans were being stretched to their limit as hair began to grow on the back of his hand, so much it almost felt like it was fur. But no, Rick saw that it was clearly brown human hair and he couldn’t help but mumble and moan at the mounting pleasure of his throbbing cock but the fear of his changing hands.
“W-What the fuck is happening to me?” Rick cried as he quickly tried to go over towards the door, trying to pull it, but it didn’t budge. Was it locked? Rick tried to again and again only to feel as if he was growing too dumb, lacking intelligence that was being sapped away by the throbbing length as he started to feel dumber and dumber, so much so he couldn’t even open the door. “G-Gotta do something, this fucking book might help.”
Rick moaned and fell back as the first tears began to show, his own ass started to swell to the point where it was sagging him down with his great round cheeks that just begged to be filled.
But I’m not gay…don’t…don’t need a…need a…cock…fuck
Rick grasped his head with one hand and the book with another as he fell back and spread his legs apart to allow his thick shaft enough room to leak a puddle of pre-cum between his growing thighs.
The skinny jeans ripped and teared easily after his own ass swelled out of his underwear and pants. Hair continued to sprout along his fine legs, giving him a more animalistic and unkempt look as his own thicker thighs swelled with muscle and a bit of fat.
“Oh no! No! Not my abs!” Rick grunted in his newly deep voice as he felt his own torso beginning to change slightly, as hair began growing on his own clean shaven chest, he watched that he lost his lean muscle in favour of just a skinny body. “Fuck no! This can’t be happening…must…stop!” His cock continued to sway back and forth almost hypnotically as Rick began trying to read the words, to his shock and horror the book was composed of “spells” and on the page his thick fingers managed to comb through he found a page for “caveman” and another word he couldn’t understand.
“Found it!” Rick moaned as he started to read the reverse spell, even as his once rich brown hair grew darker and shaggier, as his face changed to be more prominent and hairy and his cock continued to bounce and distract him. “Iter-Itermum e-ev-e-OH GOD!”
Rick moaned as cum blasted out of his cock and sprayed all over the book making it unreadable both literally and mentally as the last of Rick’s intelligence sapped away as he clung onto the wet and dribbling book. He looked confusedly at everything around him and his more hairy body, deciding to grunt.
Rick may have been a sexy guy, but he was far too dumb to remember any of that as he sat there and played with his long thick cock.
Muscle Tf Lover 