So, today is my twentieth birthday and so far it has gone pretty well… As a hipster, I’ve always wanted to grow a beard, but I’ve never been able so I was wondering if you could help me out and give me a little birthday gift of change.
As it’s a present, I’ll let you decide to make it more of a surprise, but just know that I’ve always wanted to be ginger or blonde, and be pretty dang hairy. Thanks for your help.
It’s your birthday. Your day. It’s been pretty good so far, but it would be so much better if the change that you’d been wishing for all your adult life would come true. Unfortunately, you’re pretty sure that barring a complete miracle it won’t. That being said, you do have something to look forward to over the weekend: an all expenses paid stay at the Bacchanalia, a five-star hotel downtown that, as far as the rumor mill went, was so exclusive that not even the president could get in without a reservation.
It is almost too good to be true, and in fact you would believe it is if not for the fact that the friend who gave you the voucher tells you that there is an important catch. Given the opportunity you’re pretty sure you’re willing to do anything short of murder, so you’re not sure how big of a catch it is. And what he tells you is that you have to show up at one of Hierarch Industries’ local intake clinics and get an assessment done on your physical state.
If that’s all that you need to do, then you’re all for it. You’ve heard of Hierarch Industries before. They’re an up-and-coming company. One of the few without any controversies attached. And as far as you know, they’re pretty strict on their code of ethics and conduct, treating all their employees well and paying livable wages to everyone including the custodians. They just aren’t really in your circle of interest, so you’ve never actually read up on them. You spend the early hours of the next day reading up on them and are honestly somewhat impressed by what you see.
When the time for your appointment arrives, you pack yourself and your bags for the weekend into a car and off to the clinic. You’d called in advance and were told that as soon as you were done your assessment you could go check in. If you’re being honest, you’re extremely excited to experience this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The clinic is just a minor hiccup, one that you hope won’t take too long.
You’re right. There’s practically no one there when you get to the waiting room. The receptionist, a cute twink who writes his number on the back of your number stub, calls you in two minutes after you sit down. The physical assessment itself is pretty run of the mill, at least until you’re asked to sit down and given a cup of something to drink.
The clinician explains that you’ve qualified for the Alpha program. You remember reading about it earlier, but aren’t exactly clear on what it entails beyond the vague corporate speak on the website. The clinician explains that it’s a lifestyle and medication program that will improve your life and help you become the man that you’ve always wanted to be.
You’re skeptical, of course, so he shows you the before and after picture of a man that had gone through the program. On one side is a scrawny theatre kid and on the other is a true beast of a man, a veritable god cloaked in mortal flesh, with such self-possessed confidence and authority that a merge glance into his piercing eyes makes you shiver and want to fall to your knees.
It’s not possible. Science can’t do that. You tell the clinician as much. And even if it were possible, the side-effects must be extreme. He tells you that apart from an increased libido, aggressiveness, and cockiness, there are no side-effects. He tells you that there’s no reason not to try. You ask if the transformation you want is possible. He tells you that yes, if you want it enough. You waste no time. You down the solution in the cup.
The clinician smiles and tells you that there’s a limo outside waiting to take you to the Bacchanalia, and that your stuff has already been packed inside. You ask when you can expect changes. He tells you that you’ll find out soon enough.
The whole way up to the room, you’re feeling strange. Your skin is hot and tingly all over. You’re feeling itchy, but given the amount of well-dressed attractive men that are walking around, you resist the urge, fearing to look any more out of place than you already do. Eventually, you make it to your room.
As you enter, you notice that your shirt feels too tight on your torso. Particularly around your chest. Something weird is going on with your body. You’re hot under the collar, sweating profusely too. But you feel pumped. Full of energy. By the time that the bellboy comes in behind you, you’re tearing off your shirt.
You tell him to leave your bags by the door and come back later for his tip. He just chuckles and tells you that there’s no need, giving you the sense that he knows what’s happening to you. He tells you that he’s well-compensated for his work. But by then you’re too far gone to care. The sensations are too intense. Too overwhelming. You just want to be left alone. At least for now. Because your pants are starting to get tight, and not just from the erection that is surging to life between your legs.
You stumble your way to the bathroom as soon as the door closes behind you. Heat spreads across your cheeks as you fumble with the button on your waistband and step out of your pants. With only your boxer-briefs on you look at yourself in the mirror and practically have a heart attack when you see your muscles swelling on your frame.
If you’re not mistaken it looks like you’ve gained a couple of inches in height, and your body has thickened in proportion. Your pecs are firm slabs of muscle, with tight abs and thick biceps. You flex for yourself in the mirror and watch in awe as a thick ginger beard grows out of your face, and the hair on the top of your head changes colors.
A thick pelt of hair grows across your chest as well as your cock pulses insistently between your legs. You pull your underwear down, your cock springing free and leaking pre-cum onto the floor. Your bush is the same color as your hair, as your beard, and you can’t resist the urge to pull on your new manhood a couple of times.
As your newfound confidence solidifies, you stand up straight in front of the mirror and walk out of the room. Your cock and your heart jump at the sight that greets you in the bedroom. A young jock is spread out on top of the sheets, a silk jockstrap framing his plump ass cheeks, a snapback placed on top of his head backward. When he notices you come in he gets on his hands and knees and pushes his ass backwards. "I’ve been waiting for you for so long, Alpha," he moans.
You can’t resist. You jump into bed, almost bowling over him. You line your cock up with his hole, slicking it with spit. You thrust your hips forward and his hole opens up for you, velvety and hot. You’re new to your role, but your instincts are undeniable. You are now an Alpha. You need to mate. And this is your omega. The one that will complete you.
Suffice to say, by the time the night is over, you’ve bred his hole and his throat many times.