‘Shit, it’s happened again!’ I cursed under my breath as the jogging pants I’d been wearing as I ran laps suddenly morphed into revealing running shorts and my t-shirt vanished into thin air.
Examining my exposed torso nervously for changes, I nearly freaked when I saw a huge expanse of inked skin where the tattoo of an eagle soared majestically across my serratus and abs. The tattoo looked as though it’d been there for a few years but like the abdominals it covered, it was really brand new, yet another effect of Justin’s fucked up fag-magic.
When me and my bros mocked him and his blimp of an emo fag hag at the mall last week, I’d had no idea they were into that fucking voodoo-bruja shit but when my board shorts transformed into a faggy white speedo at the beach the next day and my usual gym gear of ball shorts and tee turned into shiny spandex tights, a stringer tank and backwards ball cap that evening in the middle of my workout, I knew some weird shit was up. The really fucked up thing was that I couldn’t seem to take the clothes off or break out of my routine until I’d finished what I was doing which meant I spent the whole day at the beach being called a fag and got hit on by roided out gym bunnies all through my workout at the gym that night.
I began to join the dots the next morning when I saw one of my buds, Brody on his way to class dressed up like some Ivy League grad student in chinos, button down shirt, tie and blazer. His cheeks were flaming with embarrassment but like me the previous day it looked like he was forced to continue his day as usual while everyone else seemed oblivious to the changes.
It was three days later when I noticed the first physical changes. I was at the mall picking up some new threads when my jeans, tee and sneakers transformed into the kind of fruity outfit that would make even the most hardcore gym bunnies blush with shame.
Catching my reflection in one of the store’s mirrors as the transformation completed, I’d been horrified to see that I was now dressed in revealing lime green spandex compression shorts, a blue stringer tank, fluorescent yellow running shoes, red fanny pack and a white and yellow trucker ball cap. What freaked me out most though was that I’d hulked out with muscle. Dressed up in that faggy workout gear, I looked like one those douchy meatheads that can only hold a conversation if it’s about macros, lifting or fucking but I reluctantly had to admit the muscle was pretty cool even if the threads weren’t.
The next morning Brody turned up at class in a three piece suit and tie with one of those preppy side-parting haircuts. The combination made him look older and when I asked him about it in private after class he told me anxiously that according to his driver’s license, he’d aged fifteen years and was to all intents and purposes thirty-five. Worse still, he told me blushingly, his voice sinking to a whisper, his cock had shrunk two inches and he’d discovered he could only get off by sticking one of his ex’s dildos up his ass.
Eventually we and a few of the other guys worked out who was behind the changes but for some reason, none of us seemed to be able to get near enough Justin and his fag hag to confront them about it. As my entire wardrobe was gradually replaced by revealing workout clothes in hot, bright colors and synthetic fabrics, I realised, I was beginning to accept and even enjoy exposing my new physique to the world and found myself spending more and more time jerking off in front of the mirror in my room or skipping classes to hit the gym and work on my bod.
As I thought back on the past week and my gradual transformation into a narcissistic gym bunny, I spared a thought for poor Brody, or Broderick as he now preferred to be called, who’d yesterday sprouted a thick grey mustache that worked surprisingly well with his newly receding hairline. With the tweedy suits he was now wearing day to day, he looked more like one of the professors than a college student and who knew, by this time next week, he might actually become one.
I continued pounding out the laps, conscious that I wouldn’t be able to get out of these shorts until I’d done at least fifty circuits of the track and consoled myself with the thought of a slow jerk off in front of my reflection in the locker room mirror afterwards. At least I still have that… Brody’s dick’s so small now he’s had to start bottoming for dudes into old men that he finds on Grindr. Poor fucker!