The CVN link

by BRK

Mike is applying for a new job. Everything’s going great, his potential new boss is a dreamboat, he’s perfect for the position. There’s just one hitch: they need his CVNs. His confusion turns to shock when he finds out from a friend just what the “N” stands for…

3 parts 9,837 words Added Jun 2020 12k views 4.8 stars (12 votes)

Part 1 Mike is applying for a new job. Everything’s going great, his potential new boss is a dreamboat, he’s perfect for the position. There’s just one hitch: they need his CVNs. His confusion turns to shock when he finds out from a friend just what the “N” stands for… (added: 13 Jun 2020)
Part 2
Part 3
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Part 1

“Welp,” the young executive said, looking up from one last flip through Mike’s résumé on his tablet and tossing him a movie-star smile, “everything looks great on my end. Top notch.”

Mike let out a breath and smiled back automatically. The interview had been going smoothly—too smoothly, he’d almost convinced himself. The VP he was meeting with, Bryson—was that a first name or a last name?—had been genial, charming, and distractingly good-looking, from the almost glowing highlights in his surprisingly long and wavy golden hair to the glint in his burnished gray-green eyes to the way his gossamer-thin off-white dress shirt was very nearly taut around his well-built upper arms and shoulders and across his round, gently protruding pecs. And their conversation had been more like two seasoned accounting consultants talking shop at a sports bar, swapping stories of discovering millions-saving tariff loopholes (as Mike had managed to do in his finest hour at his current firm, KirkManus LLP) and shifting corporate tax rates, than a high-level boss at a world-class firm grilling a prospective underling. Behind Bryson wide windows looked out on the city sprawled before them, as if attesting to the heights Mike very soon would be invited into.

Bryson set the tablet on the round, elbow-high oak table they were standing next to—there seemed to be no desks, office chairs, or cubicles at Alaston Solutions, just simple couches here and there and standing-height tables like this one—and met Mike’s gaze. “So,” he said, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his dark slacks, “I just need your CVN link, and I think we’re good to go.”

Mike’s smile dipped. “My—what?” he asked.

“Your CVN link,” Bryson repeated. He nodded to the tablet he’d just set down. “You can shoot it to me now, if you want.” He looked at Mike expectantly.

Mike blinked at him. Whatever this “CVN link” was, Mike didn’t have one, and now after twenty minutes of smooth sailing he was suddenly and unceremoniously sunk. He feverishly remembered having actually seen the box to provide one of these things on the e-application he’d filled in and he’d skipped it, blithely assuming it was some kind of also-ran LinkedIn or similar business-oriented social media service that he didn’t happen to have.

So here it was. It had been going too smoothly. The imp that would stop him escaping the bloated cattle-pens of a vast middlebrow corporate accounting colossus like KirkManus for the greener pastures of a top-drawer boutique multinational like Alaston had finally reared its head and pissed all over his shoes, laughing maniacally the whole time in a high, squeaky voice.

When Mike didn’t immediately respond, Bryson shrugged slightly. “It’s been policy since July—all employees and new hires on CVN,” he said, almost apologetically. The shrug had had the momentary effect of drawing Mike’s eyes back to the curves of his traps and delts, honed as if with an artist’s chisel, and Mike guiltily returned his eyes to Bryson’s as the man went on extolling the virtues of whatever this CVN thing was. “It’s revolutionized our corporate culture,” he continued avidly, his gray-green eyes shining. “Fifteen percent of Fortune 200s are in now, I read this morning. And they were doing it in Amsterdam and Oslo three months ahead of the rest of us.”

Mike nodded, pretending to follow. “Ri-ight,” he said. “So I just need to get you a CVN link, and we’re… good?”

“As soon as you can,” Bryson said briskly, sticking out his hand. Mike took it mechanically, and Bryson gave him a firm shake. “You’re A-plus,” he said as he disengaged, a small but winning smile making him look almost heart-breakingly handsome. “But I do have to act, and there are candidates behind you that are already squared away.”

Mike nodded again. That was a “we’re done now, possibly forever” handshake, he thought unhappily. “I’m on it,” he told the other man firmly, though what precisely he was “on” he still had no idea. “You’ll hear from me in no time.”

Bryson’s smile was warm and oddly intimate—but it was also brief. “Looking forward to it,” he said, before picking up his tablet again. He noodled on it for a moment, and this seemed to have the effect of throwing part of what he was looking at onto the vast plasma screen that was set up on the wall perpendicular to the windows. Mike snatched the opportunity, possibly his last, and let his eyes slide town the man’s perfect, obviously gym-sculpted physique, taking especial note of the long, firm-looking legs and exquisitely round muscle butt before turning abruptly and walking self-consciously out of Bryson’s glass-walled office and back in the general direction of his once and future mediocre life.

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“Hey, Mikey! How’d it go?” Cliff asked eagerly as soon as he was at the counter.

“Extra-large mocha chip javaslurry,” Mike answered grimly. “And don’t stint on the whipped cream.”

The freckly, redheaded barista sucked in a breath as he keyed in the beverage. “That bad, huh?” he asked.

Mike tapped his debit card to pay and shook his head. “I don’t even know. It’s… confusing.”

Cliff pursed his lips. “Okay, you need special customer attention. Vinnie!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m on break!”

“Whatever,” grumped the tall, very well-coiffed Italian dude who was starting Mike’s drink.

“You don’t—” Mike started to demur, but Cliff held up a hand.

“Take a seat,” Cliff instructed, gesturing grandly toward the red-vinyl booths in the back of the seating area, which were mostly empty art this time of day.

Mike gave him a half-smile and did as instructed, setting his bag beside him. A few moments later Cliff appeared with his sugary, whip-topped coffee confection, placing it with due solemnity directly in front of him before dropping down into the seat opposite. Mike frowned as he watched his friend settle himself. He must really need to get laid, because even Cliff looked kind of eye-grabbingly sexy today, though in a more waifish, extra-flexible way than Bryson’s All-American jock-perfection look. His eggplant-purple uniform polo seemed to fit him in exactly the right way to make you want to pull it right off him, and he had a look in his eye that seemed to portend all sorts of wicked pleasures ahead for whoever turned out to be the right guy. Mike’s cock stirred in his boxer-briefs, its interest piqued for the first time around Cliff. Mike shifted uncomfortably in his seat, embarrassed and nonplussed. “So what happened?” Cliff asked, oblivious to Mike’s perusal.

“I-I dunno,” Mike admitted. He took a long sip of his drink to steady himself, swallowed, then continued, “It was going great, and then the guy asked me for my ‘CVN link’, whatever that—”

“Oh wow, they’re doing that?” Cliff broke in excitedly, leaning forward. “That’s so cool! I’m waiting for them to get on board with it here. I got mine done just in case!”

Mike stared at him. “Okay, but what is it?”

Cliff leaned toward him even more, eyes alight. “CV nudes,” he explained, as if it were the best idea ever. “Nudes for your CV. They want your CV nudes, Mikey!”

Mike recoiled. “My what?!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly. He glanced toward the rest of the seating area, but there was no one around or looking their way. Cliff was grinning wide, as if Mike’s reaction only added to how awesome the whole concept was. “Why—wha—why the hell would they do that?” Mike sputtered.

“C’mon, it’s the next big thing!” Cliff insisted. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard about it! It’s all over the place. They say it’s all about ‘work harmony’, breaking down barriers between team members and all that, but—you know my brother? The paralegal?”

“Yeah…?” Mike responded cautiously.

“They rolled it out at his firm six weeks ago,” Cliff went on, “and he says he’s never gotten this much ass in his life!”

Mike’s brows drew together at the apparent non sequitur. “Wait—your brother Rick?” he asked. “He’s gay?” Mike could have sworn he remembered Cliff talking about Rick mooning over some girl named Shonda or Saundra or something like that.

Cliff grinned. “As a three-dollar bill, baby! And, I’m telling you. Something about doing the CV nudes, it relaxes you. Frees your inner hottie. Not just at work, but your whole life! Look at Rick. Everything’s better at his office, he just got a pay bump, and now he’s waist-deep in cock whenever he hits the bars. It’s crazy!”

“And you said you…?” Mike said, still not sure they could really be talking about what it sounded like they were talking about.

“Absolutely,” Cliff said proudly, sitting up straight with a grin and positioning his thumb and index finger under his chin like a k-pop idol. “What do you think, did it work? Do you wanna do me?” he asked brightly, batting his long lashes.

Mike felt a little bubble of hysteria rise up in him. He looked Cliff over as he posed cheerily for him and giggled. “A little bit!” he agreed. He hardly believed they were even having this conversation.

“See!” Cliff said, spreading his hands. “You totally need to do it, even without this job. And you should do it for that anyway, because you need do get out of that cubicle hellhole you’re at now.”

Mike bit his lip. “I don’t know, Cliff. I don’t think anyone needs to see me… like that,” he said. The whole idea made him a little queasy. He was skinny, but not in that intriguingly tight, defined way that might get him labeled a twink at the bars if he were a little shorter and a shade younger and a bit less, well, jaded. His height was average, his body was average, and his life was average. He didn’t measure up to Cliff, that was for sure—not the Cliff he was encountering today, at any rate, who seemed to have somehow released both an inner and an outer hottie. And definitely not his potential future boss. He was just blah. Even his dishwater-blond hair was less interesting than Cliff’s blazing ginger scruff, or Bryson’s sun-god locks.

Cliff rolled his eyes as if he were listening in on Mike’s inner self-deprecating litany. “Trust me, you’re fine,” Cliff said firmly. “It’s all about the attitude. You just need to let it open—”

He kept talking, but just then an idea struck Mike so hard he was momentarily stunned, and he tuned Cliff out for a second. Alaston, supposedly, was and had been doing these CV nudes companywide. Bryson worked at Alaston. Therefore—

No. This couldn’t all be about what he was thinking it was about. It had to mean something else. Some other definition of the word “nudes” that he was previously unaware of.

“Clifford!” roared a voice from around the corner where the drinks bar was, cutting into whatever Cliff had been telling him. Cliff, used to being summoned in this fashion, instantly popped up out of his seat, but he was pulling out his phone as he did so.

“I’ll text you an invite link to mine,” he said with a wink. “You’ll love it. You’ll love the whole thing.” And then he was gone, leaving Mike confused and dismayed with his drink-of-solace. Feeling slightly dazed he leaned forward and took a long suck on his straw, and as the cold, quiescent beverage struck his palate he almost hoped for an ice cream headache so severe it would completely wipe his brain of everything he didn’t understand from this afternoon’s perplexing conversations.

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Mike was still struggling to get his head around it all as he made his way home. He was on foot, the coffee shop being the one situated next to the subway stop closest to his apartment building, and as he wove through the late-afternoon crowds he tried imagining all of them being a part of this “CV nudes” thing. Bald hipster guy? Paul Bunyan guy? Mousy guy? Mob muscle guy? Mike wanted to laugh. “Hey, Mr. Employer! Here’s my job history, my education credentials, some really stellar references, and oh, by the way, here’s what I look like in the altogether!”

Mike smiled as he turned down the quiet, leafy side-street his building was on. He’d always liked that expression, “the altogether”. It’d make a great name for a trendy clothing store. He pictured walking by one at the mall, with a big “The Altogether” in white light-up letters over the entrance… and inside all the shelves and racks were completely empty, no clothes at all. Or—maybe they sold accessories only? Belts… scarves… feather boas…

Mike snickered. He paused a moment and looked up at the deep blue early-autumn sky overhead, and the parallel ranks of tall, verdant trees planted along the sidewalks, reds and yellows just starting to sneak in among the green. An airplane glided silently past high above, leaving two faint white lines in its wake like a distant, double-headed whipped-cream dispenser.

Everything seemed normal. This looks like my planet, he thought wryly. Had he missed something? He must have missed the signs. Maybe the heavens had turned crimson red for an hour or two one night while he was guiltily engrossed in binge-watching ¿Quién es Quién? and didn’t notice… or, maybe that weird, really dark tunnel in the park that got you from the south end arbor to the duck pond really was the interdimensional portal it appeared to be…

Grinning at his own silliness, Mike trotted up the steps and into his building.

Upstairs, he checked around for his roommate, Percy, but his fellow accounting consultant was still at work, laboring in the trenches at KirkManus and ungifted with an afternoon off for some secret job hunting. He’d be home soon, though, and he’d definitely want to know all about the interview at Alaston. Mike needed to find out exactly what was going on.

He pulled off his messenger bag and retrieved his laptop from the inner sleeve. Setting the bag aside he sat at his desk, opened the computer, and launched the search engine. He forced himself to type the ridiculous expression into the search box: “cv nudes”.

Instantly the results returned, led by the official site but followed by a torrent of news articles, how-to sites, trend reports, and more, all attesting a growing business world phenomenon. He scrolled down the page slightly dazed. Evidently this really was a thing—and apparently he was the only one who thought it was weird. There were a few stories about some old-fashioned, frowny-faced company CEOs who gruffly vowed to keep their organizations “CVN-free”, but Mike didn’t see any sign of moral denunciations or right-wing boycotts anywhere. He’d expected to see the word “turpitude” at least once, but it seemed as new business paradigms went CV nudes was spreading straight into corporate core practices all through the more up-to-date regions of the corporate world like Bootstrap or 3D printing or predatory lending.

“Huh,” Mike said to himself. He scrolled back up to the official site. Man, whatever their monetization scheme is, they must be making a mint. He clicked on the link.

The clean, well-designed splash page featured basically nothing but a whole lot of head shots of attractive, smiling men and women against random backgrounds, all with bared shoulders just above where the pictures cut off, floating lazily across each other at various relative depths against a calming, gently shifting background of dark corporate blue. Of course they’d harvested the best images for the site’s front page, Mike thought, but as he let himself be mildly entranced by the moving display he found that there wasn’t a single one of these guys he wouldn’t mind turning around and seeing sitting on the edge of his bed, smiling and completely nude, waiting for him to get off the damned computer.

His dick stirred again in his shorts, and reminded he wasn’t here for prurience he tore his eyes away from the beautiful people and examined the simple menu stripe along the top of the page. At the left was the logo, which was just a sort of generic “picture not found” male silhouette in a rounded square and the wordmark “CV Nudes” in a nice medium-weight sans serif, all in a pleasant dark teal. Only… was there something about the shape of the shoulders in that silhouette that suggested it was nude? No, he was totally reading into it.

He looked over to the other end of the top stripe. There was an “EN” for English—how worldwide was this?—followed by the usual stuff. “About”. “Log in”. “Create your profile”. That one called out to him. It was where he would need to click if he was really going to do this—and Bryson had made it clear that he wasn’t going to be considered if his application was incomplete in this regard. He wasn’t there yet, though. He remembered his revelation at the coffee ship and clicked on the link next to it, a search-function magnifying glass, and typed in “Alaston Solutions”.

The page came up and Mike let out a breath. A mosaic of square, bare-shoulders-and-up head shots of male and female management-level employees formed itself down the page with the name and title inset in each, a few pixels of white space between to give them each independence. It wasn’t a huge firm, not compared to KirkManus, but the array of top executives looked to Mike like a mock-up of a top ad agency’s website meant to come up on screen in some CW-drama universe. They were all… very nice to look at. The first tile was the CEO, one Gordon McShane Jr., a silver fox with commanding baby-blue eyes, a compelling smile, and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper goatee. Mike started to get a little hard just looking at him, and it wasn’t because of any daddy overtones: Gordon McShane was simply a very hot guy he’d be as into making out with, and that just for starters, as the man he’d interviewed with.

Speaking of which… rolling down a few rows he found his quarry, full name Bryson Jones, Senior Vice President. There he was, tanned and golden haired and with those burnished gray-green eyes and all. Behind him was an indistinct soft-focus blur that looked like the cityscape view from his own office window, a cool-tones contrast to his warm-hues hair and skin and his warm smile. Mike stared at it a moment, thinking the picture almost did him justice.

He was seriously chubbed now, as he’d had to force himself not to be during the interview. He couldn’t help but be aware of what was cropped off below those elegantly carved shoulders. Or—wait. Maybe it was just shoulders-up shots. Was that what they meant by “nude”, after all? The cascade of heads and bare shoulders on the page in front of him suddenly reminded Mike of those head-and-chest busts of Roman statesmen he’d seen that made it look like all those stodgy senators and generals spent all their time at the Capitoline Gym in between debates on ominous omens or Pontus-et-Bithynia. But then, there’d been a few full-length statues of some of those Romans, too, and not all of them had been wearing togas or cuirasses.

Fuck, now he wasn’t sure what he wanted. It sure would be easier for him to do this if the nudity was only clavicle and above, and that was certainly all he’d actually seen so far on the site. And yet… he really wanted to see more of that picture of Bryson Jones. His dick squeezed, almost all the way hard now down the leg of his work trousers. Before he’d realized what he was doing he moved his mouse over the picture, and when the cursor turned to a hand, indicating there was a link to take him deeper into the world of Bryson Jones, he clicked.

Instead of Bryson’s full profile page in all its imagined glory, however, a dialog box popped up. “Please enter your invite code, or log in for within-company employee access.” There was a blank box to enter said code, but Mike didn’t have one, so he clicked cancel and sat back.

“There is more of you to see, isn’t there?” he asked the photo in a mutter. “I just can’t see it yet.”

His phone beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw he’d missed a text from Cliff. “As promised,” it said, followed by some laughing and flexing arm emojis. The text contained a link, which Mike shared to his laptop so he could open it up there. He plugged his phone into the charger and then returned his attention to his laptop browser.

The link took him to what had to be the full access page for Cliff Calloway, occupation: barista, current employer: Prescott Coffee. There was nothing much on the page apart from a large image and a few thumbnails next to it, but the big image was… arresting. Cliff was leaning against the counter at his coffee shop on the customer side, elbows on the polished surface behind him, completely nude. His pale white skin looked creamy and caressable from head to toe. His body was tight and defined, with about ten percent more muscle heft than Mike would have guessed, and, as he’d sensed at the coffee shop, there was a definite latent impression in his languid pose and lanky proportions of Cliff being limber as fuck. His legs were long and smooth, like they were ready to propped up your shoulders or behind his own, and between them was a piece of meat that Mike thought had to be at least twice the size of any soft cock he had ever seen, his own included.

Was this really the same corny, ebullient man he’d befriended at his local coffee emporium on a stormy Sunday nearly two years previous? Mike could hardly believe it. He barely noticed his dick springing the rest of the way to achingly hard in his pants as he dragged his eyes up from Cliff’s big, heavy, uncut cock and fire-red bush, past his faintly defined six-pack and thin but nicely shaped pecs, dusted with a bit of red between, all the way up to a cute-handsome face with a small smile that seemed to say, “You want to suck me off right now, don’t you?”

Fuck yeah, he did.

The image was so real and high-definition he almost expected it to move, like it might jump if he poked it. His mouse slid over the face in the image and he clicked on the cheek, but instead of the image reacting a little red heart appeared with a bit of tiny confetti. A little window popped up. “You just sent some love to Cliff Calloway!” Under this was “Unknown User” followed by a string of eight numbers, presumably Mike in his current un-logged-in state. A moment later, as Mike stared at the fading heart on Cliff’s virtual cheek, a text came in with another beep. “Hey, thanks for the kiss! I’ll return it to you later irl, lol”, it said, followed by more emojis in various states of extreme hilarity. This time there was an eggplant too. Fuck—did Cliff know he was thinking about how amazing that dick would be to suck? But then, what cock-loving man wouldn’t be thinking that after looking at this pic?

“Whatcha lookin’ at?” said a teasing voice in his ear.

Jesus!!” Mike shrieked, flailing in his chair as his heart sped instantly up to supersonic speeds.

Behind him he heard his roommate, Percy, chuckling quietly, even as he pressed strong hands onto Mike’s shoulders to calm him. “Relax, Mika, it’s just me,” Percy said, voice still low and close.

“Jesus,” Mike said, his heart still pounding at his chest like a battering ram. He hadn’t realized he’d been that sucked into the website—Percy was generally pretty quiet, but this time he must have come home without Mike hearing him at all. He was embarrassed by his current state of arousal, not that Percy could really see his hard-on the way he was currently sitting in the half-darkened room, and it also made him very aware of Percy’s warm, strong grip on his shoulders, and the fact that he did not want it to go away.

Remembering Percy’s question Mike explained about the interview and the request for a CVN link. “Oh yeah, I’ve heard about that,” Percy mused. He let his thumbs rub up and down along either side of Mike’s spine, and his rigid cock flexed in response. “Yeah, you should have set that up before the interview. So who’s this, your new boss?”

“What? No, it’s Cliff from the coffee shop. You know Cliff.”

“Oh, right. I guess I wasn’t looking at the face.”

Mike craned his head around to stare up at Percy. His roommate was a fair-skinned, very German-looking type, more athletic than Mike, with spiky platinum blond hair and, at the moment, a lascivious leer. He met Mike’s eyes and waggled his pale eyebrows.

“You’re such a dog,” Mike said.

“I know, right?” Percy said with a grin. He squeezed Mike’s shoulders one more time and pulled away, and Mike almost told him not to stop. Instead he watched Percy as he headed back out of Mike’s room. He paused at the door and said, “Hey Mika, when you have your profile up, be sure to send me the invite link, okay?” Then he winked before very pointedly shutting the door behind him.

Mike gaped after him a moment. Percy was a total dog, but… now the man had planted the idea of actually jacking off to these pictures, which Mike hadn’t quite made it to before. And which now pretty much had to happen.

He stared at the picture of the lolling, impressively hung Cliff. Hell, he could get off just from this one image alone. It would be a little weird since he knew the guy, but he could live with it. Heck, Cliff’s texts seemed to be practically pushing him to see him that way, so, really, it was what a good friend would do.

Okay. Okay, he coached himself. You’re being ridiculous. Work before play. This… then that.

He moved his mouse up to the top stripe and hovered over “Create your profile”. His heart, which had only just started calming from the scare Percy had given him, started to kick up again. At this point, though, Mike felt strangely committed. He clicked, and the screen went blank.


Part 2

Name. That one was easy. Michael James Yarrow.

Current employer. Mike gritted his teeth and typed KirkManus LLC.

The script thought for half a second and replied That employer is not a CVN subscriber. Continue? Of course they’re not, Mike thought. They barely subscribe to the human race. He clicked OK.

Position. His hard-on wanted him to type “versatile”, but he forced himself to be boring and dutifully entered the corpspeak on his business cards, Associate International Accounting Consultant. Tariff Guy would be clearer, but hey, why be clear?

Base image background. The radio-button options below that were Your current desk (cubicle) and Other, but Other was grayed out and there was a small link next to it that saids Upgrade for more options. Mike snorted. What was he saying about monetization? The desk/cubicle thing niggled at him—how did it know?—but he guessed that the website code had figured out that anyone working at KirkManus with his title would be parked in a cube, and it wasn’t wrong. At least he got a medium-sized one and all to himself. The analysts had those horrible conjoined ones where you got to hear, and smell, everything about your soon-to-be-hated cubemate. Your current desk (cubicle) was preselected, so he scrolled on.

General body type, base category. He expected to see something like endomorph, ectomorph, and mesomorph under a heading like that, but instead the options were Runner, Swimmer, Surfer, Gymnast, Basketballer, Offensive Tackle, Tank, Twink, Twunk, Otter, Bear, Lumberjack, Fitness Model, Aesthetic Bodybuilder, Heavyweight Bodybuilder. He blinked at the screen. Were those really the only options? Oh, but there was that grayed-out Other and the upgrade link again. That was a weird list, though. Even if they were only listing hotter kinds of dudes, there were plenty missing. He’d’ve at least expected to see “Dadbod” in there somewhere.

He looked down at himself. Well, Scrawny wasn’t one of the options, so he clicked on what seemed like the closest analogue out of what was offered, Runner. That felt a little like a cheat, as his legs weren’t any more toned or endurance-trained than the rest of him, but he started to scroll on anyway… then he stopped and went back. If he was cheating anyway, he might as well click on Gymnast. That was the kind of body he’d always wanted, so, hey.

He smirked a little to himself. It was a CV, after all. A little fudging was to be expected. He felt a little guilty, but he scrolled on. That was part of the fudging, after all.

Proportions, base category. The options here were Compact, Normal, Lanky, Extra-Lanky. He smiled. The extra-lanky sounded like it would have been what Cliff’s choice was, based on the picture he’d just seen. He must’ve jumped at the chance to click on that one. Mike clicked Normal… then changed it to Lanky, because why not.

Stand by while foundation image is prepared. One of those ouroboros tail-chasing wait circles appeared and cycled for a couple seconds. Mike held his breath, oddly nervous. What kind of “image” could it be preparing? It hadn’t taken any pictures of him—Mike had a bit of electrical tape over his built-in webcam thanks to a bout of scam paranoia a few years back, so there wasn’t even a way for it to see him, anyway. Was it just preparing a fake, approximated cubicle background, or was it building rough mock-ups of what his final pic might look like once a real snap of him was in the system, or—?

The screen cleared, and an image loaded onto the screen in place of the questions. Mike sat back stunned as it swiftly swam into high definition.

It was him. Naked. Butt propped on the edge of his always tidy cubicle desk, monitors arrayed behind him, hands gripping the edge loosely on either side. Pale but muscled to a point of ripped, like Paul Hamm or Jake Dalton—he half-expected to see a residue of gymnast’s chalk on the palms of his hands. Smiling unselfconsciously, despite lounging about at his cube butt-naked with someone else’s muscles—and someone else’s cock, apparently. Or, no, the thick, flaccid, circumcised phallus in the picture was definitely his cock; it just looked like it had been bumped at least a size or two up from the one he was currently trying to restrain himself from stroking through his trousers. He gaped at it, his churning balls feeling as thick as they looked in the pic, trying to understand what he was seeing and not be incredibly turned on but it. Maybe everyone got a dick upgrade? he mused in wonder. Had Cliff already been big down there, or had his picture ended up earning an extra bonus or two somehow?

He shook his head, staring at the picture in admiring disbelief. He looked limber, like he could raise one of those legs to point straight up at the ceiling if asked. Handsome. Inviting. Kissable. Hell, even his short, neatly trimmed brownish-blond hair looked inexplicably interesting on the other side of this weird looking-glass, kind of lustrous for a change and like it might be fun to slowly run your fingers through it while your gaze focused more and more on those lips, and the space between you started to fall away…

Wait. Wait! Mike forced himself to focus, because something was very wrong here. How was this even happening? He glanced sharply up at his laptop webcam above to screen, but the electrical tape was still there. How the hell had this website formed (and then modified) an exact image of him, at his desk, and completely naked? What the hell? Was this aliens, or was it some kind of deep state universal surveillance thing where the government had a image database of every working-age man and woman in the country, or the world?

Or—was CVN the government? Or aliens? Or an alien government? What the hell was going on?

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few short, deep breaths.

No rabbit holes, Mike. Organize what’s in front of you. That’s how you get ahead. Deal with what’s in front of you, in its simplicity and its totality.

When he opened his eyes again he noticed a button below the bottom right of the image that read Save Profile. He considered it warily for a long moment, weighing his options. This was what he had come here to do, after all. He just needed to create this profile and share it with his sun-god future boss. Just click on the save button, send it off, and then you can take care of that throbbing rod in your pants that’s trying to do your thinking for you and that you won’t be able to ignore much longer.

His eyes drifted up the picture, and his arousal intensified. Fuck, he was turning himself on. Something about the way he looked in this picture drew his gaze and his attention and his libido all at once. Even without the inexplicable body upgrades he looked… good. Like someone you could look forward to sharing your work and your time with in order to get things done and make real progress. And maybe like someone you could make out with a little once the day was over and you could find a quiet nook in a cozy bar or something to enjoy each other’s company a little more.

He was warm and prickly all over. He needed to get out of these clothes. He needed to pull himself off, soon, immediately, whether making out with himself was involved or not. His eyes dropped to the Save Profile button. He should just click on it. This picture wasn’t him, and it wasn’t technically honest, but if the website saw him this way, who was he to argue?

Or—maybe it was a test? Perhaps even now Bryson was sitting back on one of those couches with a smirk, waiting to see if he’d fall for the bait and expose himself as an immoral resume cheater…

Uncertain what to do, Mike looked over to the other side of the space under the picture and saw a series of tags there: KirkManus—employee, Alaston Solutions—prospect (huh? had Bryson already flagged him in the system? that was proactive of him), tariff consultant (hey, the code on this website really was smarter than his bosses at KirkManus), gymnast body type, lanky. Next to the tags for what he’d entered so far was a link that said Explore other categories and groupings. Not ready yet to commit to saving the profile he’d created, Mike procrastinated and clicked on the link, curious what other kinds of combinations of male hotness he might browse through while he made up his mind.

A new page came up titled Explore Categories, organized in loose topics like Hair color and Height. The first one was Skin tone, with tags ranging from Alabaster to Midnight blue-black. Mike’s gaze hit on one toward the middle that read Dusky tan and clicked. A page of images came up—and unlike the Alaston management page of shoulders-up heads hots these were all large, full-body pics like his own and Cliff’s.

Fuck. Every single one one of them made him want to jump into the picture and start languidly stroking abs, chests, and asses with his hands and lips and tongue.

Okay. He couldn’t hold back anymore. He’d just… he’d get himself off, then finish the profile. It didn’t really matter which order he did them in, right? Before he could second-guess himself again he jumped to his feet and stripped off his tie, shirt, belt, shoes, socks, and pants, tossing them successively onto his bed in a flurry of impatience. He dropped back in his chair, bare-ass naked (appropriate, he thought) and completely, utterly, rigidly hard. With his left hand he pulled his lube out of his desk drawer and slicked himself up. His right hand was already busy scrolling.

These guys… they were amazing. There was a mix of ages and body types, from college-age guys a few years younger than him to wrinkle-free silver-haired hotties, all looking very fine with head-to-toe dusky tan skin. There even seemed to be a mix of races: not just tanned Caucasian guys but other guys with the same approximate coloring, whether helped by the kiss of the sun or born that way. As he scrolled a tall, extremely handsome mixed-race-looking part-east-Asian guy came into view, built with an absolutely perfect Adonis body and a long, heavy uncut cock, and Mike started stroking himself in earnest, getting a rush just from how rock-hard and turned on he was.

He stared at the part-Asian Adonis guy for a while, drinking him in, marveling at how much this guy did it for him. He clicked on the image, hoping it would open up a profile page with more pictures, but instead the little red heart appeared on his cheek complete with the tiny animated streamers, just like it had on Cliff’s page, and a small window popped up exclaiming “You just sent some love to Calvin Park!” with “Mike Yarrow” underneath. Mike huffed a laugh. Well, this guy definitely deserved his virtual love and kisses. And his real ones, for that matter. That would be hot as fuck.

Deciding he would definitely need to come back to this page, Mike scanned the outlying links and icons around the image results and noticed the outline of a bookmark icon pinned to the top of the page. He clicked it and it filled in, bookmark saved. Excellent. Mike admired the Asian hottie a few more moments, stroking fast and hard, then went back to the categories page, eager to keep exploring.

Some of the ranges in each grouping were broader than he would have expected, at times reaching into the esoteric. Under Height was a range from Extra-short all the way up to Tall, Very tall, Extra-tall, and (Mike’s pulse skipped a beat) Ducks under doorways. Okay, he had to click on that one. Sure enough, every guy on the page looked like he was at least 6’7” or taller, again spread across full range of ages, body types and skin colors. Mike panted as he scrolled through the naked images, feeling himself shocked at just how turned on he was. Some of them were even posing next to doors, as if to prove they really were that tall compared to the mundane world around them, but most of the smiling super-tall hunks were leaning on or standing next to their usual workspaces—grocery checkout counters, cubicle desks, actual real-office executive desks, modeling studio backdrops, pizza ovens, sports lockers, factory assembly lines, parcel delivery trucks, fire engines, you name it. Mike stroked harder. He’d known he’d been into tall guys, but he hadn’t quite realized what a real hot-button extra-tall-and-hunky was for him. He bookmarked the page and went back, now in a fever to see what else he could discover.

Next to the height option was a smaller grouping titled Abs, and under this was Short, Medium, Long, and Extra-long. Fuck, for real? He clicked on extra-long. Geez! He’d had no idea this was a thing. The degree of cutness varied widely from guy to guy, from faint outlines of the ab-muscles like he’d seen on Cliff’s pic to deep-carved bricks, and the hairiness varied from none to furry, though most seemed to have at least a little bit of a trail—but what they all had in common was that every one of the guys on this page had looong abdominals that, on the ones you could count them, were at least ten-packs, or more. Holy Hannah, just seeing these guys pushed him most of the rest of the way toward the edge. He could cum anytime, just looking at all these abs and imagining himself stroking them, nuzzling them, licking them…

He bookmarked the page before he spit hot jizz all over himself and returned to the main categories page, anxious and expectant. If they were doing this stuff, and giving upgrades to all the foundation images, there had to be… his heart skittered. There it was, just sitting there three-quarters of the way down the page next to Hair—lushness like it was perfectly normal for there to be a category here that said Cock length. Next to it was Cock girth, but he’d get to that. No. He’d do that first. His face hot, Mike clicked on the bottom option, Extra-extra thick.

Okay, this was—no, he couldn’t even scroll through. These pictures—these cocks—they were so beautifully thick in all their various incarnations. His mouth watered, wanting to taste each and every one of them, and—nope. He’d cum buckets all over himself if he stayed on this page even a minute longer, and he had to see the other one before he blew his load. He hurriedly bookmarked the page—he had to try twice to click on the icon because he missed the first time, he was so rattled with arousal—and went back.

He found the other category and let it fill his vision. He barely saw the list of options except for the last few entries. Mid-thigh. Three-quarters thigh. Then: Knee.

Mike’s breathing failed him for a second. He clicked without even a conscious thought.

There weren’t many images on the page, not surprisingly, but there were enough. The first guy was a boyishly handsome, curly-haired brunet jock with a swimmer’s build leaning against the side of an overnight package delivery truck, arms folded over his impressive chest. His warm-coral-toned body was muscled but not rigorously cut, like he was one of those guy who was just naturally built and didn’t try for obsessive levels of definition. And there, between his long, sculpted legs, was a thick hose of an uncut cock that seemed to want to kiss his left knee. Mike almost wanted to see him in pants, just to watch that endless bulk shifting around in the guy’s pant leg as he walked around and went about his business.

This was insane, but Mike’s mind was gone. Panting now and stroking feverishly, he turned his avid gaze to the next one. A cop, if the patrol car his butt was parked against was any indication: pale and stocky though reasonably narrow-waisted, head shaved, looking out from under dark eyebrows with mesmerizing blue eyes, and with a cock twice as thick as the delivery guy’s and almost longer than knee-length.

Mike could barely hold himself back, but there was one more thing he wanted to see. These cocks were a fantasy, but they were too long for another, competing fantasy—namely, they were too big for these guys to be able to suck themselves once they got hard. He wanted that idea to be what took him over the edge. He went back to the category page and clicked on Three-quarters thigh.

Yes. Yes. His mind was a blur. He was so close. He just saw the cocks. Thick, thin, extra-thick, cut and uncut, smooth and veiny. All past half-way down the thigh. All, in Mike’s vivid imagination, the perfect length once erect to slide into those luscious, inviting mouths… He found the bookmark icon and clicked it hard, then dropped back in his chair and gave himself over to fantasizing over these extra-long beautiful cocks getting crazy hard and thick and ready to go right into their owners’ eager, cum-loving mouths.

Before Mike knew it he was cumming hard, spitting huge quantities of spank all over his face and chest like he hadn’t blown a load in months. The jizz just kept coming, too, load after load spraying him with hot release. Mike was gasping with utter euphoria, soaring with an unparalleled climax.

He squinted at the screen on his laptop. There was some kind of dialog box, and Mike realized dimly that he’d automatically quit the browser again when he’d started cumming, like he’d trained himself to do as a teenager; only this time he hadn’t been able to completely close out. His mind in a haze, he read, Save profile before quitting? with OK and Cancel under it. He clicked OK reflexively. Of course, save, whatever. The box cleared, to be briefly replaced with another that just said All marked tags saved to profile and below that Profile saved, then the browser closed at last and his screen showed only the desktop.

Brainlessly, still riding the buzz of his orgasm, Mike shoved the clothes and shoes off his bed that he’d just tossed there a little while before and climbed bonelessly in. He should clean up and… there was other stuff. Other stuff he had to do.

Nap first. Just a little nap, and then he’d be ablznf… His tenuous thoughts unraveled, and Mike sank into a deep, comforting abyss.


Part 3

The bed was too small.

That was weird.

No, he’d just slid down it somehow in the night, for some reason, and now his legs were off the bed and his feet were on the floor. Like he’d sat on the end of the bed and then… fallen back. And… gone to sleep that way? Maybe he had. He didn’t quite remember actually going to bed. Fuck, that was one hell of an orgasm. Shit, his chest and abs were still… sticky… and his face… why did he feel weird?

A sharp rapping came on the door, followed by Percy sticking his spiky blond head in. “Hey, Giant, you going to get up at all?” he asked. “We gotta head in to work soon.” He was already dressed, his tie loose around his neck, ready to tighten once they got to the KirkManus corporate salt mines.

Mike blinked, trying to get his brain in gear. Giant? It wasn’t nice to tease someone so early in the morning. “Uh, sorry, Perce,” he said groggily. “Forgot to set my alarm.”

Percy hmphed, scanning him up and down. “I keep telling you, they make beds for people your size,” he said, frowning. “They might be pricy but you’ll sleep better, I promise.” Mike squinted at him, and he shrugged. “Maybe with your first paycheck at the new place. ‘Course, you’ll need a second one just for that dick of yours…” Chuckling at his own joke, Percy turned and left, closing the door behind him again.

The hell? What was that all about? Well, if Percy was already dressed, he needed to get going now. He went to sit up—and stabbed himself hard in the eye with the damp, blunt end of his morning wood. It was like someone jamming the butt of a baseball bat in his eye, and Mike gasped with the pain. Ooooowwwwwww!

Mike opened what was, for the moment, his good eye—and stared. Right in his face and trying to fill his vision was the huge, fat, damp-slitted cockhead of a cock so towering and colossal it actually put baseball bats to shame. His warm breath gusted over it and he shivered with the pleasure. His other eye opened and he struggled to focus on what he was seeing.

Suddenly he was acutely aware of his hot, practiced, greedy mouth, so close to this vision before him… and of exactly how well cocks and mouths went together. Except, his wonderfully in-your-face mega-boner looked girthier than he was used to, and might pose a bit of a challenge. Not that he wasn’t up for challenges like that.

Shouldn’t have bookmarked Extra-thick to your profile, then, came a stray thought from one of the more awake recesses of his analytical mind.

Mike froze. That was what had happened. Right?

He reached behind the impossibly huge erection that seemed to threaten world domination any moment and drew his fingers across… a thick, muscular chest, sporting the kind of impressive, luscious, and immensely powerful pecs of a top-level gymnast. Dried jizz stuck to his sparse chest hair, and he scratched idly before skuttering his fingertips down to check what lay below the pectoral mounds. His touch found tight, cut abs—a lot of them. Row upon row.

Beyond the cock filling his vision he could see his legs. They were long, tanned, sleekly muscled, and also very, very long.

Fuck. A rush of heat flooded through him, and his mighty dick squeezed hard, a fat pearl of precum emerging from the slit. Inches from his yearning lips.

“Giant!” Percy shouted from the kitchen area. “You coming or what?”

“Not yet,” Mike called back without thinking. His eyes were still fixed on that drop of pre. He kind of needed to taste it, on top of everything else his mouth and cock wanted and needed in that moment.

“I walked into that one,” Percy said, and Mike could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “But c’mon! We’re going to be late!”

Mike sighed, and the whoosh of breath over his sensitive cockhead and upper shaft almost made him lose focus again. He glanced over at the desk and saw his phone, plugged into its charger, and the laptop, the source of his current… situation, sitting there looking innocent and benign. He unplugged his phone and picked it up.

Huh. A text from Bryson Jones. Good news. I got your profile link last night and it looks good. You’re all set! Report to work on Monday and I’ll introduce you around. I’ve even ordered an extra-tall standing desk for you—should be in by the time you show up. Looking forward to working with you!—Bry.

Mike grinned. Quickly he got up—careful to be aware of exactly where his cockhead was, this time—and, stepping over last night’s clothes where he’d uncharacteristically tossed them on the floor he hurried across the dresser, meaning to pull on the sweats he kept folded on top for quick denakeding. Of course, they weren’t going to fit him now that he was… the way he was, except, huh, they did fit him now. Okay. Whatever. He hauled on a random (and really ridiculously long-looking) tee from the top drawer, thinking to put his neck-high boner inside it and at least try to be considerate of his roommate; but the skyscraper erection he now possessed pushed out the tee in a really ludicrous way, like he was trying to shoplift a fencepost he’d stuck in his pants. So he rucked the shirt all the way up again and dropped it behind his cock. Well, Percy had obviously already seen it often enough to make jokes about it. He went out of his bedroom, remembering only just in time to duck under the doorway, and headed for the kitchen.

“I don’t think I’m going in today, Perce,” he said, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs. He was handing in his resignation, and in his field, with all the trade secrets, there was no notice to give—if he went in he’d just be escorted out again anyway. Might as well do it by email and spend the morning… acclimating to his new reality. If it was a reality. He might be a brain in a jar at this point and all of this impossibility was just a computation matrix. Right now Mike was pretty much fine with that.

Percy paused in the act of smearing peanut butter on a slice of thick white bread—he hated spending money on lunch and usually brought in PBJs and apples for his midday repast—and looked over at him. His eyes narrowed, but his lips curled in an affectionate smile, and he shook his head a little. “That thing is very distracting,” he said, adjusting his own crotch as he very deliberately turned back to his task. “I really don’t know how you get anything done.”

Mike decided to tease back. “You could help if you asked nicely,” he said with a smirk.

Percy grabbed his crotch again. “Ugh, so mean,” he said with mock bitterness. “I don’t think your boyfriend would appreciate that.”

Huh? Boyfriend? Before Mike could ask about that, though, Percy turned bask to him. “Wait, are you not going in because—?” He lifted his eyebrows.

Mike grinned. “I got the job!”

Percy’s face bloomed with genuine excitement. He held his arms out, and Mike instantly jumped up and let himself get bear-hugged. “Yay! Mike, that’s so awesome, dude,” Percy said, squeezing him hard. “So happy for you. And jealous.”

Mike squeezed back. “Thanks, Perce.” He tried not to be aware of the fact that he now had a good eight or nine inches on the well-built and handsome Teutonic roomie currently in his arms, which, apart from unexpectedly pressing some buttons he didn’t know he had, very firmly, just happened to position Percy’s face against the business end of his new impossible cock.

Percy stepped back, grinning, then wiped at his face in a show of pretend disgust. “Geez, now I’ve got Giant-prespunk all over my face.”

“Oh, sorry,” Mike said, bending down a little. “Here, let me lick that off for you.”

“Sto-o-op,” said Percy, returning the affectionate banter like he was used to it. He leaned back out of reach of Mike’s probably extra-large tongue and grabbed a dish towel. As he rubbed his face he said, “Instead of that you can put in a good word at Alaston.”


Percy peeked out from the towel. “You mean it?”

Mike sat down again. He wondered if he ate more than before. Probably, judging by the industrial-size boxes of Cheerios perched atop the fridge. “Absolutely.” He grinned. “You’ll have to get your CVNs,” he sing-songed.

Percy tossed the towel aside and started packing up his lunch in a large oblong Tupperware box. “Already taken care of,” he said, stuffing the container in his bag on the seat opposite Mike. “They’re not as impressive as yours, of course,” he went on, “but I think they turned out pretty well.” He straightened up and exhibited himself to Mike with a smile, palms out, as if to say, “See? I’m not the only hottie in this apartment.”

Mike looked him over and had to admit he had a point. His roomie was very handsome, very fit, and the half-hard-on he’d evidently given him made for a serious bulge in his dark navy work trousers. He looked the way he’d always looked, Mike thought, but now he was sure this was the new and improved CVNed Percy. So had Percy’s new form been written retroactively into Mike’s memories—the way his new mega-form had been mapped into Percy’s? It had to be. Cliff, too, had always been like he was now, the new and improved hung ‘n’ lanky version. Cliff, though, had acted as though the pictures were just pictures. Did Cliff remember being different? Did Percy? He didn’t think so. But if that was true, the fact that Mike remembered his old, unimpressive body from what was already starting to feel like his old life—that meant he was different somehow, unless the old memories went away at some point. He hoped they didn’t.

Mike gave Percy another up-and-down assessment. “I’m sure they turned out amazing,” Mike said honestly.

“Okay, you get a kiss for that,” Percy said happily. To Mike’s surprise Percy then actually bent down and gave him a brief but serious smooch, right on the lips. There was even a quick brush of tongue before he pulled back. Percy winked and said, “Make sure to tell Calvin that was purely platonic.”

The name triggered something in Mike’s memories. A perfectly muscled, dusky-tanned Adonis with a heart-melting smile. Affection welled up in him from nowhere, like ink seeping into clear ocean water from a gap between universes, and Mike found himself wanting to call his man and tell him he loved him, in case he’d forgotten. Also, to arrange a marathon fuckfest as soon as he was done at the bakery. Thank god even hot-as-fuck A-list pastry chefs worked early and had their afternoons free.

Percy was at the open door, bag over his shoulder. “I’m going to head out before you change your mind about that good word thing,” he said from the doorway. “Drinks tonight to celebrate?”

“Uh, you bet,” Mike answered.

Percy smiled and closed the door behind him with a thunk and a click, leaving Mike alone, bemused, transformed, and incredibly horny in the silent, empty apartment. As he sat there he considered the strange new life stretching out before him unasked-for… and grinned like a loon.

3 parts 9,837 words Added Jun 2020 12k views 4.8 stars (12 votes)

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