I always wanted to be a frat rat

by Cris Kane

Jacob invents a world-changing raygun. His roommate has some fun with it.

I noticed them the second they entered the lobby. We didn’t get a lot of walk-ins at the bank any more. Mostly retirees who’ve never figured out how to bank online and find ATMs too confusing. The kind of people who still write checks.

These three guys looked so out of place, my first impulse was to trigger the alarm under my desk to alert the cops that we might be getting robbed. My panic subsided when I realized none of them was carrying a gun. A firearm, I mean. All three were definitely flashing their guns, their sleeveless tops showing off incredibly jacked biceps. They seemed to be competing for who could wear the tightest, shortest shorts. They may not have been armed, but they were definitely packing.

They looked like they’d all stepped out of magazine ads for rival sportswear companies. The runt, oddly enough, appeared to be the leader of the pack, barely five feet but a swaggering mass of muscle, hair and confidence, like a steroid-junkie hobbit. He was outfitted entirely in Nike wear—lime green top, red compression shorts, silver sneakers and white terrycloth wristbands. Don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like I was fixated on what he was wearing out of any personal interest. All of us at the bank were trained to be attentive to such things, in case we ever got robbed and needed to describe the suspects in detail.

His taller buddies followed him, side-by-side, taking awkward stutter steps with their long legs so that they wouldn’t overtake their stumpier companion. The guy on the left was of average height, but his body was pumped to the proportions of a superhero—UnderArmour Man, if one were to judge from the logo at the center of his broad pecs. His mouth hung slack and his eyes appeared glassy. He was obviously not the brains of this particular operation. Towering beside him was a dazed and distracted giant in a Gold’s Gym stringer which ended where his abs began and knee-length camo-patterned tights that couldn’t camouflage the enormous erection which clung to his inner thigh like he was smuggling a can of Pringles. I try not to get all “in my day”, because it makes me seem like even more of an old fart than I already am, but even though I knew modern life had gotten more and more casual since I was these guys’ age back in the last century, I’d never seen anyone—let alone three guys—strut into a professional establishment dressed as if they were in a locker room after a long, sweaty workout.

I noticed the guy in front pointing toward me and muttering to the tall dude, “Zat him?”

The tall guy looked my way and lit up with an unnervingly excited grin. Something about his face seemed oddly familiar. I wondered if I knew his father.

Shorty approached my desk and plopped down opposite me without a handshake or an introduction, spreading his legs wide as if he wanted me to notice the bulge in his shorts, which I guess I did without even realizing it. His partners stood behind him like his own private security guards, crossing their beefy arms as best as possible across their protruding chests. He stroked a stubby-fingered hand through the unruly brown hair that hung past his eyebrows and said, in a thick rumble, “My bro Chad tells me you can help us get the house we want.”

Now I realized where I’d seen the tall kid’s face before. He looked like Chad Bennett, a local realtor I’d dealt with on several transactions. But I’d never heard Chad talk about having any kids, and he was only in his mid-thirties, way too young to have a son who looked to be in his early twenties. “Is there a particular house you have in mind?” I asked, trying to act as professionally as I would with any other customer.

With that, the tall kid with Chad’s face grunted out an address that I knew was located near campus. Probably one of the old mansions which had been converted into fraternities and sororities over the years. I typed it into my computer and found the listing, and tried to keep my eyebrows from leaping when I noticed the asking price. I asked politely, “So, I’m assuming you’re interested in getting a loan?”

“Nah,” said the ringleader, stretching a stumpy arm behind him as if he desperately needed to scratch the hair on his lower back. “We’d just like to buy it outright.”

“Okay,” I said, dubious that these guys had enough cash between them to buy a six-pack, let alone a house. “Do you have an account with us?”

Shaking his head, he revealed a weird-looking plastic gun which he must have had tucked in the waistband of his shorts. At first I thought it was a squirt gun, until I noticed that it was emitting a faint hum. I did as I was trained in case I was ever on the wrong end of a weapon—any weapon: I began raising both hands slowly while casually moving my knee toward the alarm button.

“Put yer hands down, bro,” the hairy gent commanded gently. “We don’t wanna cause a commotion here.”

I did as I was told, lowering my hands, laying them flat on my desk, palm-side down. “So let me get this straight. You’re trying to rob us…in order to buy a specific house? Won’t that make it rather obvious where the police should come looking for you?”

“Ain’t gonna be no cops,” interjected the Nike fan, his voice somehow even deeper than his friends’.

“And how’s that going to work?” I asked, genuinely curious what kind of scheme this brain trust had concocted.

Across the desk, the ringleader squinted, his eyes disappearing between the thicket of his eyebrows and the upper reaches of his massive beard. He squeezed the trigger on his gizmo and I was instantly frozen in place, wrapped inside a glowing pink membrane of energy.

“Yer gonna pay for it with yer own money,” he informed me. “Chad here says you got loads of dough saved up and you don’t even do nothin’ with it.”

What did he mean “Chad here”? Realizing that my eyes weren’t immobilized by the raygun, I glanced toward the hulking brute with the familiar face. My lips could move just enough to allow me to ask softly, “Chad?” He shrugged at me apologetically and I realized instantly that he was indeed the Chad I knew, trapped in the body of a tall, young, brutish simpleton. I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly at the moment, but it seemed a pretty safe bet that the force field which was holding me in suspension must have been involved in his transformation too.

“I didn’t think you were gonna use that in fronta everybody,” the Nike kid asked, his eyes shooting toward the gals working at the teller windows.

“Chill, Jake. Nobody thinks nothin’ strange is happening,” the guy with the gun said, and sure enough, our little scene wasn’t attracting any attention. I wanted to scream out for help, but I found it impossible to raise my voice above a whisper. My tormentor glanced at the name plate on my desk and cringed. “Martin Kline? That’s not a very cool name, bro. Ya mind if I call ya ‘Marty’?”

I’d always hated that nickname, but suddenly, hearing it emerge from deep within his beard, I felt like I’d happily been letting people call me that my whole life. “Sure thing!” I squeaked out.

“Awesome. See, the thing is, with this little sucker, I can make you DO whatever I say. I can make you be whatever I want. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it, so you might as well stop strugglin’ and just roll with it, buddy.”

I felt the tension ebb from my body. His words had given me a sense of serenity…and inevitability. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s the spirit, Marty.” His eyes roamed over my body, sizing me up and clearly finding me lacking. “Whattaya think, bros? Ya think he’s worthy of joinin’ our frat?”

What the hell was he talking about? I wasn’t exactly fratboy material. I was 52 years old. Divorced. No kids. Settled into a steady and unexciting job where I could probably coast to retirement. I may have been fat, bald and miserable, but I’d gotten used to it.

“I tole ya, we need him,” young dumb Chad said with a tinge of annoyance. “We gotta have somebody who can, like, pay for shit and stuff.”

“You mean like a frat treasurer?” The kid with the gun scratched at his beard. “Yeah, I s’pose we do need somebody brainy around to take care of all the boring crap. Beer ain’t gonna buy itself.”

Jake seemed worried, his face contorted as he labored to form words. “But, like, how’ll we know he’s not rippin’ us off? Or that he’s not gonna just run out and tell the cops all about, ya know, the G-U-N?” I could see Chad struggling to figure out what those three letters spelled.

“Simple,” declared the gunman, leaning forward and speaking distinctly, as if giving me a command. “Marty, yer brain’s gonna keep all the stuff you know about money and math and how to keep us outta trouble. But yer gonna be one of us now. Yer a frat rat, just like us, and nothin’s more important than that. Yer loyalty is to us and the frat above all else. The frat is more important than you. The frat is you, and you are the frat. You got that?”

Just like that, I was overwhelmed with love for the three guys across the desk from me. I’d do anything for them. “You know it, bro.” I felt terrible for thinking the guys looked dumb and sloppy when they first walked in. I might have more, like, book smarts than them, but that didn’t make me any better than them. Matter of fact, compared to them, I was just a puny, pathetic old nothing.

The boss shot me a friendly grin. “Okay, boys, what are we missin’ in the frat?”

“How ‘bout a nice twink?” Chad suggested, giving me a wink.

“Fuck that,” Jake chimed in. “He’s already a poindexter. We don’t need him to be a sissy too.”

“Jake’s right. We don’t want someone who’s not gonna fit in with the rest of us.” The leader thought, then offered a compromise. “Let’s make him a twunk.”

I’d never heard the word. Through my clenched teeth, I inquired, “What’s a twunk?”

Gripping the trigger tightly, the leader leaned forward. “You’re a super-cute muscle boy, five foot…” He gave it careful thought. “Five foot seven, with the rock-hard body of an Olympic gymnast and a platinum blond buzz cut and pale blue eyes that almost look silver.”

As soon as he said it, I felt a warm rippling sensation radiating through my body, starting at my core and flowing outward. My soft and flabby middle-aged body reverberated like Jell-O and I could feel my suit sagging around me, getting loose around my torso and waist but tightening around my shoulders and thighs. I became aware of he skin of my face tightening against my skull, and I desperately wanted to scratch the thousands of tiny irritations spreading across my previously hairless scalp. It was true, he was making me be whatever he said I was. The realization that my blobby flesh was reforming into firm young muscle beneath my clothes gave me an instant erection like I hadn’t had in years.

“Lookit that perfect fuckin’ smile,” the boss said. “I think our boy’s gettin’ his first boner. I bet it’s long and thin, like ten inches hard.”

I wanted to laugh, but I was quickly distracted by the sensation of my cock head squirming out of my boxers and brushing against the soft wool of the inside of my trousers. Glancing down, I could see the lump inside my slacks inching southward as my pulse sped up. If only this had happened fifteen years ago, my ex-wife might not be my ex-wife.

“Why you wastin’ good cock on a bottom boy?” Chad wondered sourly.

“Maybe some of us like a little variety.” Fixing his focus on me again, the boss said, “You’re versatile, just as happy to bury your cock in a hot, tight ass as to get railed by a hung motherfucker like Chad here.”

“But…,” I began, intending to say that I wasn’t gay, but realizing I didn’t have to pretend any more. I was gay and always had been. I felt liberated, and my eyes scanned the three studs across from me, trying to decide who I wanted to fuck first. I fixated on that bulge in Chad’s camos, but worried it might be too big. The boss’s masses of hair turned me on, but he was a little short for me. But Jake…oooh, Jake. Not too big, not too small. He was just right. I could easily see myself taking it from him or giving it to him. I couldn’t wait to be released from suspended animation so I could get my hands on his body. “Are we done yet?”

The boss scoffed. “Ha! I haven’t even started. Let’s get rid of those old man threads and see what we got here.”

I felt the tingle of the pink glow against my bare skin as my coat, pants, necktie and shirt were absorbed by the energy field around me, leaving me in just my Calvin Klein boxers, the mushroom head of my cock poking out and resting atop my right quad, a puddle of pre-cum oozing onto my lightly hairy skin. Although I had felt myself changing, it was a revelation to see the perfectly toned athletic body I now inhabited. Glancing down, my view was no longer dominated by sagging man boobs and a stretched-out gut. Instead, I saw the inflated heft of my pumped chest and felt my abs sucking themselves in. My forearms looked as big and firm as bowling pins, and I could just see the outward curves of my solid veiny biceps.

“Niiiice,” Jake said in a low tone that triggered a spasm in my cock and resulted in a small squirt of cum. He seemed unaware that his tongue was dangling from his open mouth as he ogled me.

The boss kept a firm grip on the gun as he rose from his seat to check out my bulge. “Hmmm, I see you’re wearing Calvin Klein. Is he related to you, Marty?”

I attempted to shake my head, but the force field wouldn’t let me. Through my clenched jaw, I was able to squeak out, “Spelled… different.”

He looked at my nameplate and smirked. “Not any more. From now on, you’re Marty K-L-E-I-N, just like your… let’s say, great-uncle. As a joke, your bros at the frat call you ‘Calvin’ or just ‘Cal’, cuz all you ever wear is Calvin Klein, on account of you get tons of free stuff from Uncle Calvin. You always share it with all your frat brothers when they need to look extra good. But day to day, you love to show off your bod as much as you can. Like right now, yer just wearin’ swim briefs and flip-flops.”

I peeked down and saw my boxers shifting and changing colors, turning into a red swimsuit that snugly cupped my big hard dick. It looked obscenely huge trapped in such a small, skin-tight package. I could feel leather straps growing in the gaps next to my big toes as sandals formed around my feet. I looked up and saw the president of the frat holding my name placard as the letters morphed to turn my last name from “KLINE” to “KLEIN”. At the same time, my frat bros’ workout duds were being altered into identical tailored black suits, complete with crisp white shirts with the top few buttons open. My bros might not be the smartest, but they knew you had to look professional when you came into a bank. They didn’t dress up often but, when they did, damn they looked fine. I’d have to drop a “thank you” email to Uncle Calvin. Must be about time for the new fall line to come out.

“I think that about covers everything,” the leader said, beginning to lower his gun.

“Wait,” Chad said, “you fergot the whole reason we came.” He snatched the gun away and pointing it at me. The pink force field flickered, releasing me from its grip for a moment, but quickly enveloped me again as Chad blurted out, “You will use the money in your account to pay for the frat house, and you’ll make all of your frat bros co-owners.”

I paused, waiting to be freed again, but Chad was continuing to press the trigger. I managed to say, “I can’t do it ‘til you release me.”

“Oh. Right.” He let go of the trigger and bonked his fist against his forehead. “I’m so fuckin’ dumb.”

Finally out of my electronic cocoon, all I wanted to do was check myself out and flex my killer bod, but something compelled me to begin arranging the paperwork for the purchase of the house. The guys watched me intently for about five minutes, until they realized that watching a banker do banking shit isn’t that fascinating, even if he’s in top shape and wearing a teeny red swimsuit that wraps around the curves of his perfect twunk ass.

“Screw this,” said our leader. “Let’s just go to the frat house and fuck. You can do the paperwork tomorrow.”

I leapt to my feet, elated that I would be leaving for the day so early. I only came here to earn a little spending money for beer and shit, since I was at school on a full gymnastics scholarship. One nice thing about my arrangement with the bank was that I could come and go whenever I wanted for gymnastics practice or frat events or whatever, not to mention wear whatever I pleased around the office. I crossed from behind my desk and joined my posse of sharp-dressed men. As we headed toward the door, I called back to the tellers, “Bye-bye, girls. See you tomorrow…maybe.” For a second, I was surprised to hear how high and fluttery my voice sounded, but I shouldn’ta been. People were always surprised to hear such a sissy voice coming out of my studly body.

The girls behind the counter smiled and waved at the four of us. It’s gotta be torture for them to be around me all day, every day, showin’ off my perfect physique and knowin’ they could never have me. Sorry, ladies, that’s life.

Nothin’ comes between me and my fratbros.

Mark and Jake sat in matching camp chairs on the balcony of their frat house, a tapped keg positioned between them, watching as the crowds began to filter toward the stadium for this afternoon’s football game. Jake slathered his smooth hairless physique to maintain his golden tan, while Mark’s profuse body hair filtered out most of the rays before they could reach his skin. Jake wore nothing but red UnderArmour compression shorts, while Mark’s thick cock was stuffed into his skimpy yellow Nike running shorts. Mark unleashed a beer-fueled belch which they could hear ricochet off the other buildings on Fraternity Row. Jake laughed uncontrollably and drained his Solo cup of its contents, gulping in air in hopes of working up a burp that would top Mark’s.

Until recently, football, beer, tanning, and belching had not been priorities for Mark and Jake. In fact, three weeks ago, Mark and Jake had been Marcus and Jacob, two nerdy social misfits whose lives were forever altered by the unthreatening little pink gun currently resting in the cup holder near Mark’s right hand. Jacob had invented a device with extraordinary potential to remake the world in any way they wished, but after their first two experiments had turned the dweebs into dimwitted dudebros, neither Mark nor Jake seemed capable of utilizing the gizmo for anything but creating more gay muscleheads.

“Yo, check it out,” Mark said, pointing one of his stubby fingers toward the sidewalk where a preppy-looking guy in a V-necked pullover, khaki shorts and deck shoes was strolling, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. He had the angular features and trim athleticism of an Abercrombie model, his wavy blond hair swept back from his forehead. “Whatta ya think?”

Jake pulled out a pair of binoculars to scrutinize the stranger more closely. He scrunched up his face, uncertain. “I think I know that guy from one of my classes. Pretty sure his name’s Adam. He always seemed like kind of an egotistical asshole.”

Mark grinned as he unholstered the pink gun from its circular holster. “He don’t hafta be.”

Jake boned up inside his skin-tight shorts. Although he and Mark and the rest of their frat brothers spent nearly as much time fucking as they did hoisting brews or lifting weights, Jake and Mark found the process of bending a stranger to their whims to be even more arousing than any blow job. “He is pretty cute. But he could definitely be… improved.”

Mark leaned forward in his chair and drew a bead on the unsuspecting victim. Mark had become an expert marksman with the little gun, but he had never tried to trap anyone at such a distance. He clicked the trigger and waited for the beam to strike its target. Through the binoculars, Jake watched as the young man froze in place, freaking out as he became caught in a pink force field which held him in suspended animation.

“Nailed him!” Mark exclaimed. “Hey there, cutie,” he said in a quiet voice, knowing that his quarry would be able to hear him clearly, even at a distance of twenty yards. “Just relax. Nobody else is noticing you.” And, sure enough, the people in the crowd were walking past him, oblivious to the strange sight of someone caught mid-step inside a glowing pink membrane.

“You’ve been selected to join the coolest frat on campus. Doesn’t that sound awesome? Of course, we do have some special requirements for anyone who wants to be part of our frat. First, you have to be gay. I can’t be sure, but from the looks of you, I’m thinkin’ you might be gay already. Tell you what, raise your hand if you don’t wanna be gay.” He paused for a few moments, knowing that his prey couldn’t possibly raise any part of his body in objection. “Okay, I’ll take that as a no. Just to be absolutely sure,” Mark said, shifting into the commanding tone he adopted whenever making a reality-changing pronouncement, “you are now a 100% gay himbo who’s more interested in sex and partying than studying.”

Through the binoculars, Jake focused his attention on the preppy’s face, as his eyes widened in dismay, only to relax as the pink glow carried out Mark’s command. The young man’s agitation gave way to a grin of satisfaction and acceptance.

“He looks kinda scrawny, don’tcha think?” Mark asked.

“Lemme guess, you’re gonna give him fifty pounds o’ muscle, just like every other guy in the frat.” The raygun had zapped varying degrees of muscle onto Calvin, Brody, Beef, Ox and Chad, all of whom had continued to gain as they pushed to outdo each other in the frat’s basement gym.

“I ain’t heard you complain before,” Mark countered.

“I’m not sayin’ don’t give him any muscles. But not everybody’s gotta look like a bodybuilder.”

Mark thought it over and agreed to take the modest approach, knowing that he could always use the gun to bulk up Adam some more later on. Mark focused and said, “You will gain twenty pounds of muscle, evenly distributed across your body.”

Even from a distance, it was obvious that the pink glow was expanding to make room for the additional muscle. Mark snatched the binoculars away from Jake so he could get a better look. Beneath his v-neck, Adam’s chest and arms were swelling and his neck thickened, pulling up the hem of his sweater to reveal the bottom of a clearly etched six-pack. The cuffs of his shorts tightened around his growing thighs, and sharply-defined calf muscles emerged.

Jake couldn’t help but notice Mark’s cock throbbing its approval, tenting his shorts. “Tole ya. He looks like he oughta be a surfer now.”

Mark was well aware of Jake’s kink for airheaded surfers, but Mark had a fetish of his own that he was itching to satisfy. “I think he’d be even better as a tatted-up skater boy.”

Jake reached over to extract the gun from Mark’s hand. Although Mark was the unchallenged leader of the frat, Jake still felt he should have some say in how the gun was used, no longer aware that he was actually the one who had created the gun in the first place. Jake gripped the gun by the barrel, while Mark attempted to pull it away from him. As the two bros wrestled over control of the gun, Jake said “Surfer!” at the same moment Mark shouted “Skater!”

A pink flash burst on the sidewalk below, more intense than anything Mark and Jake had seen during their previous transformations. They shielded their eyes from the glare, but each peered cautiously through their fingers and gasped as the intense pink glow split into two separate entities.

As the intensity faded, they could see two figures on the sidewalk, still trapped inside a pink energy field, both looking puzzled. They were the same height with the same toned physiques and identical facial features, but that was where the resemblance ended.

On the left stood a shirtless surfer, sun-bleached hair dangling past his broad shoulders, sporting a sparse blond goatee. Teal blue board shorts were cinched around his slender waist, and sandals had formed around his feet.

Beside him, his twin had a short spiky haircut with pure white frosted tips. His left eyebrow was punctuated with three silver hoops, and gauges emerged in each of his earlobes. A pale blue ripped tank top clung to his torso, and ripped and baggy jeans hung loose around his hips, displaying the waistband of his Fruit Of The Looms. Tattoos were rising to the surface of his exposed arms and around his neck. Scuffed and dirty checkered Vans completed the look.

Jake and Mark sat on the balcony, slackjawed by their achievement.

“Shit, dude,” Jake said. “We’re, like, geniuses or somethin’! We split the Adam!”

“Fuckin’ A,” Mark said. “You got your surfer and I got my skater!” He raised his hand, which Jake slapped in an exuberant high-five.

They gazed back down at the sidewalk where their creations were still trapped in the glow, unable to move. Jake and Mark felt like proud parents. “What should we call ‘em?” Jake asked.

Mark aimed the gun at the skater, squeezed the trigger and intoned, “You will now be called Ad-Rock.”

He then handed the gun to Jake, who pointed to the surfer and declared, “Your name is now Adonis.” He released the trigger, and the two newly minted studs were freed from their electric cocoons. They looked down to inspect their unfamiliar new bodies and clothes, then noticed each other. As they took in the sight of each other, they grew instantly horny and moved toward each other.

“Shit, I tole ya he was self-centered,” Jake said. “He wants to fuck himself.”

Mark snatched the gun away from Jake and fired it toward the sidewalk. The two new Adams were close enough to each other that the ray encompassed them both. “You will be horny for all of your frat brothers but you will not be attracted to your twin.”

Jake reached over and took the gun from Mark, continuing to hold down the trigger. “Unless Jake or Mark tells you otherwise.” He turned to Mark and explained, “I dunno. Watchin’ twins makin’ out can be kinda hot.”

Mark had to agree. He regained control of the raygun and said, “C’mon inside, Ad-Rock and Adonis. It’s time to meet your bros.”

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