Roiding Out pt. 2

Pete hurries home after his confrontation with George, his chest weighing heavy—both figuratively and literally—with the consequences of his actions.

IMPORTANT NOTE: This story was written as a paid commission. If you are interested in commissioning your own story from me, please see the [Commissions] page for more information!

Pete stayed in the showers for a few minutes after George left. He leaned against the wall, feeling numb, not really thinking of much of anything.

He stared at his chest, dread curling in his stomach. His nipples looked obscene, like something straight out of a kinky fantasy he wanted nothing to do with.

The heavy-gauge nipple rings only added to the grotesquery of it all. He tried to look closer, saw the way his nipples stretched around the thick metal, and nearly retched.

He looked down between his legs. George hadn’t left him with much. He was hard—he knew he was—but he barely even felt it. He barely even saw it.

And maybe that was the worst part of it all. George had utterly violated his body, changed it into something he never wanted—something that disgusted him on a fundamental level—and he was all horned up about it. It was honestly a little bit sick.

He was convinced it was George’s fault. George must have done something to his head, made him this way. It was the only explanation that made sense because he wasn’t the kind of person that got off on being forcibly transformed.

After a while, he pushed off the wall. The sudden motion made the nipple rings swing. His nipples stretched with them, sending tingles of pleasure through his pecs and making his cock twitch.

"Fuck," he muttered. They were going to take some getting used to.

He carefully walked over to his towel. It was lying in the middle of the shower area, soaked with water. He grabbed it off the floor and twisted it in his hands, wringing what he could out of it.

He briefly considered covering up his chest but he only had one towel and he’d rather die than let the other guys at the gym see what he’d been reduced to. He flinched as he wrapped the cold, wet towel around his waist. Embarrassingly, despite how heavy the towel was and how hard he was, he barely made an impression in the drenched fabric.

Pete sighed. He’d just have to bear the brief indignity of walking through the locker room with his huge nipples and equally huge piercings out in the open. He was just lucky no one else had come into the showers in the time since George left.

Carefully, so as to not jostle the nipple rings, Pete made his way back to the locker room. There were a few guys on the way. They all gave him strange looks.

He managed to bear the judgmental gazes but not for long. "What the fuck are you all looking at?!" he yelled as he reached the edge of the corridor.

No one dignified his outburst with a response. The guys just looked away, in a manner no less judgmental than the way they’d looked at him in the first place.

Pete bit his tongue. There was so much more he wanted to say. He wanted to lay into all of them for being fucking cowards but he knew it would only attract more attention.

He grabbed his clothes out of his locker and dropped the towel. He tried to slip on his sweatpants quickly but had trouble getting his left leg past the waistband in his haste.

He stopped when he heard snickering. He glared over his shoulder at the other guys in the locker room with him. They shut up, but not for long.

Face red and ears hot, he pulled up his sweat pants. He hurriedly pulled on a shirt—forgetting about the piercings—and had to bite back a moan as the hem collided with them.

He immediately regretted the shirt. He liked tight clothes because they showed off his body but right now they were more of a curse than a blessing.

Not only did the shirt stretch over his chest, doing next to nothing to hide his nipples and the piercings, but it also rubbed against them and sent frissons of pleasure through his body. The sensations went straight to his cock and if George hadn’t reduced him so much there would have been a massive tent in the front of his pants to add to his humiliation.

The shirt was at least good for keeping the piercings in place. He could walk without them bouncing around and tugging on his nipples.

He did just that. Once he had his shoes on, he practically power-walked out of the locker room. He kept his head down and tried not to make eye contact with anyone else on the way out of the gym but he could feel their eyes on him.

He was sweating by the time he got to his car. The shirt did stop the piercings from bouncing but the faster he walked, the more his nipples rubbed against the inside.

Pete climbed into the driver’s side and slammed the door behind him. He collapsed against the seat and released the moan he’d been holding back. "Fuck," he whined, looking up at the roof. "How am I supposed to live like this?"

He didn’t have an answer and the gym parking lot probably wasn’t the best place to think. He had to get home.


Pete had thought things couldn’t get worse but the simple act of starting the car had disabused him of that notion. The vibrations of the engine, traveling up his legs and through his body, made his nipples rub against his shirt.

He gritted his teeth as he pulled out of the gym parking lot. He considered taking the shirt off but he didn’t know if he wanted the whole world to see what George had done to him.

On the one hand, it wasn’t like he’d ever see the people he met on the road again. But on the other, there was always a chance. And besides, the principle was the important part.

He kept the shirt on. He just had to bear it. Home wasn’t too far away—just a few minutes by car—and the streets seemed pretty clear.

At first, things weren’t too bad. The sensations were distracting but didn’t rise to the point they were a genuine danger to his wellbeing. It wasn’t until he was halfway home things started to get worse.

It started just under his throat, a small spot between his collarbones. It wasn’t even all that bad if he was being honest. Just a little itch that a quick scratch took care of.

It came back. He scratched it again. It came back. Faster, the second time.

The itch didn’t get better. It got worse. Every time it came back was faster and more intense than the last. Soon, he couldn’t get rid of it at all.

He had to keep one hand on the steering wheel and one hand at the collar of his shirt, scratching the spot. It was the only way he could focus on the road.

Maybe everything would have been fine if it had stopped there but it didn’t. The itch spread. And with every second that passed, it spread further and faster.

It spread across his chest and down his stomach. No matter how much he scratched, he found no relief and things only got worse when the itch spread to his back.

At first, he thought it was the shirt. It got bad enough he decided dignity wasn’t worth the suffering and slipped it off as soon as he hit a red light but the cold A/C breeze only provided a moment’s reprieve from the sensation.

The itch was something else. It was on his skin, somehow. He tried to brush down his arms and his front but there was nothing there—even though he felt there were hundreds of tiny little needles prickling at his skin.

He placed both hands on the steering wheel, gripping it so hard his knuckles turned white from the strain. He gritted his teeth, forcing his mind to the road.

He wasn’t far away from home now. He just had to endure a few more minutes. He wanted nothing more than to scratch his entire body—the sweat dripping down the side of his face only made the itching worse when it landed on his torso—but he knew it wouldn’t end well for him if he did.

It was a miracle he made it home at all. There were points he seriously considered swerving off the road and into a tree if only to get rid of the sensation but he always stopped himself short.

He must have slipped into a Zen state of sorts at some point. He barely even remembered pulling into the driveway, much less opening the garage.

The itch wasn’t as bad anymore but the horror of what had replaced it didn’t dawn on him until he walked through the door connecting the rest of the house to the garage.

It had been one thing after another tonight and Pete almost couldn’t bear to look. Not that he needed to.

He could feel it. Hair. Coarse against his fingertips as he scratched his chest.

He stumbled on his own feet as he ran for the nearest bathroom. He tore open the door. It banged against the wall.

A look in the mirror above the sink confirmed the worst. Hair.

Some guys thought body hair made them look manly. Pete wasn’t one of those guys. He thought it was messy. Neanderthal.

Body hair, to him at least, was the hallmark of a beta male that didn’t make the effort to groom himself. He hated it and seeing even the thin dusting of body hair on his torso was something he found beyond disgusting.

"Fuck!" he said, slamming his fist on the counter. "That motherfucker! FUCK!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

In the space of a single night, his life and the image he’d carefully cultivated had fallen apart. And all because of one guy.

Pete gritted his teeth. The worst part was how impotent he felt. Not literally—even reduced his cock could still get rock-hard—but more in the figurative sense.

There wasn’t anything he could do. Nothing he was willing to do, anyway.

George was twice his size and clearly much stronger—not the kind of guy he could just push around by being bigger. And as if that wasn’t enough, George also had powers, apparently.

As much as he liked to think of himself as a particularly exceptional specimen of masculinity, Pete was still just a normal human deep down. And the sensation of utter helplessness and fear he’d felt while being pinned against the wall by George was still vivid in his mind.

No. No. Retribution was out of reach.

For now, at least, he had to learn how to cope. He had to adjust. As much as he hated admitting it, he would have to live with his shrunken cock and his pierced nipples for the foreseeable future.

The hair was one step too far, though. Just looking at it made him sick. Maybe he might have tolerated it if it had been a small patch on his chest but it was on his belly too, hiding the sculpted abs he’d worked so hard on.

Pete grabbed his manscaping kit on the way to the shower. The body hair had to go. The other stuff he couldn’t do anything about but he was pretty sure a good razor could take care of the hair.

He stepped into the shower enclosure and turned on the water. He leaned back so the stream fell on his chest and stomach but not his head.

Fuck, he thought. Even the splashing of the water on his piercings was enough to make his nipples tingle. He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his head against the wall of the enclosure, trying to ignore the sensations.

Once he was satisfied he was wet enough, he cut the water and slathered shaving cream on everything. He tried the safety razor on the densest patch of hair at the top of his chest and breathed a sigh of relief when it came away to reveal a clean stretch of skin.

He quickly did the rest of his torso. He was careful enough not to nick himself but he went as fast as he could while being reasonably safe.

On a handful of occasions, he had to stop to bite back a moan as he grazed his nipples in the process of shaving his chest but he made quick work of the hair. It felt like such a relief when he finished he couldn’t help but sigh.

Things were still bad, what with the piercings and all, but he was glad to know he at least had some control over his own body still.

He grabbed the detachable showerhead off the wall and rinsed himself down. He felt about as well as he could but he was going to feel so much better once he managed to get rid of all the dregs of shaving cream that remained on him.

The relief was short-lived. First, an unbidden moan spilled out of his lips as the stream from the showerhead fell on one of his nipples. Second, the sound and the sensation of the water hitting his chest didn’t sound right at all.

Pete looked down, already dreading what he might see. It was impossible but he had hair on his body again. There was even more than when he started.

It seemed almost absurd to think that he’d go into the shower to shave and come out with even more hair on his body than what he went in with but there wasn’t any denying what he saw with his own two eyes—what he felt with his fingers as he dragged them across his chest in disbelief.

No. No, no, no. He refused to be defeated. This was the one thing he could still do something about and he wasn’t just going to lie there and take it like the rest of the shit he’d let George get away with.

His fingers trembled as he lathered up with shaving cream. Whether it was out of fear or anger, he couldn’t quite tell. His emotions were all over the place and he didn’t have the energy to process them.

So he just bottled them up. He shoved the stupid feelings aside and focused on the task before him.

To think that he’d grown so much hair in so short a time. It bordered on the absurd. There wasn’t just a light dusting on his chest and stomach anymore. He’d grown the beginnings of a proper pelt of body hair.

To make matters worse, the hair had spread further. It was in his pits now. A light dusting, nothing too offensive, but still too much for Pete.

Besides, the way things were going, he doubted the new patches of hair would remain relatively inoffensive for long. Whatever curse George had placed on him seemed hell-bent on making him utterly miserable.

In the process of shaving down a second time, he managed to graze his nipples even more. It made the already tedious task more difficult than it had to be because the nipple rings would swing and extend the stimulation. He had to fight down any urge to give in to the pleasure. He wasn’t willing to give George the satisfaction.

Pete made sure to watch as he washed down after the shave. He almost felt stupid doing it but he wanted to believe that keeping an eye on things would stop the magic.

The water revealed smooth, unblemished skin under the shaving cream but he only felt tenser than before. He kept his eyes open, tried not to blink, half-convinced the hair would start growing back at any moment

It didn’t happen. His skin remained smooth. That was, at least, until he blinked.

Faster than he could open his eyes, the hair grew back. He felt it. An intense full-body itching that lasted for literally a fraction of a heartbeat.

When he looked again the hair was even thicker. He’d even grown a bush.

He was seriously tempted to shave it all down again but he knew that would only make matters worse. If things kept going at the pace they were, he’d soon end up with a bush that was bigger than his cock and that was a humiliation he wasn’t sure he could live with.

Dejected, he hopped out of the shower and toweled down. He was careful to not jostle his nipples or the piercings too much, electing to just dab them dry.

It didn’t save him from the jolts of pleasure entirely but taking that one small caution saved him from the worst of it.


Pete clambered into bed in a pair of boxer briefs. He hadn’t had dinner yet but he wasn’t even hungry. He just felt numb, at a complete loss about what his life had become overnight.

He couldn’t even pull the blankets up all the way. They rubbed on his nipples and he didn’t think he could sleep like that.

To make matters worse, he was so horny he was on the verge of humping the bed. He wanted to bust a load so badly he was willing to try jerking off but after spending his entire adult life stroking his beautiful cock two-handed, he had no idea what to do with the pathetic little peanut George had left him with.

He lay in bed, arms at his side, feeling miserable as he stared at the ceiling. He stayed that way for a good long while. Until his eyelids got too heavy to keep open.

Despite the thoughts whirling in his head, tiredness from the day’s events ultimately won out. Moments after he closed his eyes, he was fast asleep and snoring slightly.


Pete rummaged in his bedside drawer. He was hard. He was horny. And he needed to get his rocks off.

Fortunately, it didn’t take him too long to find what he was looking for: his silicone stroker. Fuck. Just having it in his hands made his cock throb.

He twisted the cap off the plastic housing and tossed it over his shoulder. The sleeve inside was transparent and slightly pink, made of high-quality silicone that felt like the real thing. Hell, it even looked like the real thing.

Pete licked his lips as he brushed his fingers along the folds of the rubber pussy. He slipped his index finger into the hole, thrusting a few times before adding a second.

Fuck.

He grabbed a bottle of lube off his nightstand and drizzled a healthy amount into the rubber sleeve. He didn’t neglect his cock either. He was so horny he was in it for the long haul and he needed to be greased up if he was gonna be fucking his pocket pussy for a few hours at least. A good dollop of grease along the top of his cock would do the trick.

Pete grabbed himself with one hand. He stroked his twelve-incher and moaned as he raised the pocket pussy to his lips and tongue-fucked the fake cunt to spread the lube around. God. There wasn’t anything quite like it in the world.

Once he’d properly greased up and the pussy was nice and slick, he walked over to the floor-length mirror. He looked at his reflection and grinned.

He was enormous. His arms and legs bulged with muscle. His stomach was rock-hard. His chest was thick. All of it was covered in a thick pelt of wiry, coarse hair befitting a real man.

He couldn’t help but flex an arm to show off the swollen, veined bicep though there weren’t really any ladies around for him to impress.

Not that he cared. A body like his was meant to be shown off. His chest was the best part of him, too. Two slabs of meat with large dark nipples and heavy nipple rings hanging off them.

Fuck. He was hot.

Weirdly enough, there was a small voice in the back of his head saying it was all wrong. That he wasn’t supposed to look this way.

It was a ridiculous thought, naturally. He’d worked hard to get this big. Worked hard and juiced regularly.

Maybe once upon a time, he’d looked like a typical jock but that was a lifetime ago. He looked much better like this. A hulking pile of muscle that looked like he could break just about any guy in half over his knee.

Yeah, Pete thought to himself. This was how a real man looked.

His thoughts were interrupted by the insistent, pulsing need between his legs. It wouldn’t be denied any longer. He wanted to fuck something, to rut, to breed. What else was his powerful body built for?

Sweat beaded on Pete’s brow as he stuck the suction cup on the base of the pocket pussy’s plastic holder on the mirror. He looked at his reflection as he guided his substantial endowment to the rubber cunt, rubbing his sensitive glans against the delicate folds.

He slipped the head of his cock into the sleeve. He watched it spread around him, the transparent silicone distorting the image as it stretched to accommodate his substantial girth.

Fuck.

He loved this part. Using his hips alone, he pushed his cock into the rubber pussy, savored the way she dilated for him.

He didn’t take his eyes off the sleeve until he was firmly seated, balls-deep inside the sweet rubber cunt. It was cold at first—the lube and the drawer didn’t help much—but it quickly warmed with the heat of his body.

It was a mystery to him why people bothered with the real thing. This was almost as good and didn’t come with any of the baggage.

He looked up at his reflection and grinned. He flexed again, tensing his stomach, raising both arms in a double bicep curl. Fuck. That was a real man right there. Huge. Hairy. Buried balls-deep in a tight, warm cunt.

He held the pose as he pumped his hips. He loved watching roided-up muscular men fuck smooth, eager women. There was just something about it, something appealing on a primal, fundamental level—as if he was watching the pinnacle of billions of years of evolution.

His nipple rings bounced as he thrust his cock into the sleeve. The weight was just right. They were perfect. He could feel them tugging on his nipples with every bounce.

The piercings made his nipples tingle but it wasn’t enough. The hornier he got, the more he wanted. He lowered his arms and cupped his chest with his hands.

Fuck if he didn’t have some beautiful man-tits. He loved how big his pecs were, how large his dark areolas. Most of all, his huge nipples, stretched around the thick nipple rings, were the best part.

Pete didn’t bother trying to be quiet as he grabbed his nipples. He pinched them between his fingers, rubbing and squeezing them as he moaned and grunted, making his cock jump.

The mirror managed to remain still as Pete picked up the pace. He could only resist the tight warmth of a rubber boypussy for so long, after all.

Fuck. He could hardly get enough. He squeezed his nipples harder, moaning at the sharp pleasure-pain that lanced through his chest as he rammed his cock in and out of the tight rubber asshole wrapped around his girth.

It felt good. So good.

Growling under his breath he went to town on the sleeve. He fucked it hard and fast. Sweat matted down the thick, coarse pelt of hair on his chest as he rammed his cock into the rubber bussy.

The only thing the fake boycunt didn’t have was the sounds. If he had a proper twink under him, the boy would be screaming his name and begging for mercy.

Indeed, just imagining it made him rut even harder. He heard a crack. The shell of the rubber sleeve was breaking apart from the force of his thrusts but he didn’t care.

There was only one thing on his mind: to breed the tight rubber boyhole and pump it full of his seed. He wanted to destroy it, to ruin it for other men.

He wanted to leave it gaping and dripping cum, practically begging for a second round.

Fuck.

He was close.

He was so close.

Something in his belly tightened. His balls drew up against his body. He felt the load churning, his cock pulsing and swelling in the grip of the hot rubber boypussy.

He was gonna come.

He was gonna come!

He was—!


Pete jerked awake.

He was sweating buckets. The sheets around him were drenched. At some point in the evening, he must have kicked his blanket off because it was in a crumpled heap on the ground beside the bed.

It took him a moment to register he’d woken up with his hands on his nipples, tweaking and tugging and squeezing the sensitive nubs stretched around the heavy-gauge ball-capture rings but the moment he did, he let go.

He’d scarcely had a moment to breathe when a wave of horniness slammed into him. It was like being hit by a truck. One moment he was groggy and the next he felt the overwhelming urge to grab his cock or fuck something.

The pulsing need between his legs was difficult to ignore but he pushed it aside. He sat up and buried his face in his hands.

"Fuck!" he shouted. He remembered the dream in vivid detail. Every thought. Every sensation. Everything in crisp clarity, unlike any other dream he’d ever had.

He set his hands down, bracing them against the mattress as he looked down at himself. So much had changed overnight. His body hair had gotten thicker—had spread further.

He had "fur" on his arms and legs now, thick and dense. He could feel it in his pits, on his chest, on his stomach, and he was sure there was more on his back he couldn’t see.

He looked like a fucking caveman and the worst part of it was none of it felt wrong. Not physically, anyway. Mentally and emotionally, he hated all of it but it felt right on his body. It was a major mind-fuck.

The hair wasn’t the only change. His body felt heavier. Denser. His muscles looked like he’d just gotten a good pump on at the gym but as he’d just woken up, that was impossible.

Pete might have been happy to see the new muscle but under the circumstances, all he had was a sinking feeling. George’s words, which he’d forgotten in the rush to get home, came to mind.

Whenever he or anything else touched his nipples—even accidental grazes counted—he’d change to become more and more like George.

He’d never have believed something so outlandish if he hadn’t lived through it. The hair suddenly made sense. His shirt was rubbing against his nipples the whole ride home and it had only gotten worse whenever he grazed his nipples while shaving down.

It looked like he wasn’t even safe when he was sleeping. There was no escape. Things got worse even if he touched his nipples while asleep.

"I’m fucked," said Pete to no one in particular. He was powerless. There was nothing he could do short of sleeping with a plastic shield over his chest.

The situation, from where he was standing, seemed pretty hopeless. The best he could do was take things in stride.

Sure, he could rail and rage against what was happening to him. But no matter how careful he was, there was no way he could avoid accidentally touching his nipples for the rest of his life.

Things would only get worse and worse for him unless he found a way to break the curse but he didn’t even know where to start. He didn’t think he could live with the paranoia.

And as much as he hated himself for it, the caveman hair felt so right on his body he was starting to think it wasn’t so bad. The way things were going, he’d probably end up loving the forest on his chest before too long.

It was little consolation but it was better than nothing. He hated knowing what was coming but it helped that he wouldn’t be trapped in a body he utterly despised. Well, he would be, but by that point, he wouldn’t despise it anymore.

All that said, he was going to resist the curse with all his might. Just because he was going to take things in stride didn’t mean he would lie down and take it.

He wasn’t going to give up a single inch of ground without a fight. He would do everything he could to slow the curse down and maybe, just maybe, he might find a way to break and reverse it.

His newfound resolve didn’t last. A wave of horniness hit him and his thoughts drifted back to the dream—the cock he’d had in it.

He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer shorts and whipped them off, hoping his cock had gone back to normal but no. If it wasn’t hard, he would have struggled to see it through the dense wiry bush that had sprouted around his crotch.

Fuck.

He was so goddamn horny.

The more he looked at the shrunken peanut and shriveled raisins George had left him with, the more he felt an urge to blow a load.

He fished his cock out of his bush. There was no way he could grip it with his whole hand. He had to settle with his thumb and index finger.

A bolt of pleasure surged up his spine as he gave himself a few little strokes. Even though he was smaller, he was non less sensitive than before. If anything, he was even more sensitive.

He leaned back and moaned, rubbing his cock faster and faster with two fingers. It was pathetic, he knew, but he was so goddamn horny he couldn’t stop.

"Oh fuck. Oh, fuck!" he whined. Just a minute of touching and he felt right on the cusp of coming already.

He was close, so close. He was ready to blow his load. Just a little more and he was going to come.

He was so close.

He bucked his hips and humped his fingers, moaning unreservedly as the imminent orgasm approached but after five minutes of riding the edge, he just couldn’t quite cross that last little bit.

"Fuck…" he said once he gave up trying to come.

He needed to get his cock back. This wasn’t working. But the only way to get what he wanted was to give George what he wanted and he didn’t know if that was a line he was willing to cross just yet.

IMPORTANT NOTE: This story was written as a paid commission. If you are interested in commissioning your own story from me, please see the [Commissions] page for more information!

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