The Cards (Patreon)

A kind of story based on some captions made by Himbo Heaven.

"And it has to be one of these four?" you ask the man in the armchair across your coffee table. "We've been over this already. Just make your decision," he says, not even looking up from the device in his hand. You make a defeated sigh and pick the top card from the stack.

Thank God it comes with dumb, you think as you can't imagine living like that and keeping your wits about you. Deep down you wouldn't mind looking better, you know that. It's not like you are remarkably ugly. At worst you could be described as unremarkable, but handsome people have always behaved in a way that annoyed you. Like they got this genetic gift and act like they are better than everyone. The irony here is to get it literally gifted, or forced rather, to become the ultimate end of vain entitlement. No, you correct yourself. There was that "made to fulfill" part too, which makes you conflicted because it somehow makes it better holistically while also being worse personally. An ornamental slut eager to please. Frustrated you throw the card down on the table and pick the next one.

This is even less appealing to you. The first one at least had some air of luxury, but this is just crude. Even the description doesn't bother with any sophistication but simply states "Dude, bro". You've worked hard to never be anyone's dude or bro. There should be a comma after "socks" shouldn't it? And another one after caps. Why did it have to say "dumb"? Actually, that whole last run-on sentence sounded pretty horrible. You throw the card on top of the first one in disgust, though it glides almost to the middle of the table before it settles. You're trying to shake the mental image of socks, caps, and a locker room with sweaty athletes having sex with each other.

"Do they all have to be so vulgar?" you ask, but the man ignores the question, still staring at his device. You pick the third card from the stack and suppress a laugh.

That's not going to happen, is it? Just imagine being one of those sex-obsessed people, always trying to score, always making innuendos and flirting. Such a life would be so lacking, with no art, no literature, no real human connections, no science, no awe for the wonders of the world, no plans for how to make the world a better place. Just...

"One more minute then I'll pick one for you," the man interrupts. You throw the card next to the other two and pick up the last one.

Finally something without sex in the text, but then it has "Slut" right there in the title. In a way this is just the jock again, but worse in almost all aspects. None of the aesthetic part, no hints of any life outside of the gym or team or friends, and unlike the jock text an unqualified reduction in intelligence. If the last one's life sounded empty, this one is even more tragic.

"Fuck it! I'll take..."

Trophy Boy

It's the one with the softest landing after all. Sure, some people would be weirded out by a meticulously sexualized and objectified man, but there must be so many who'd love to care for him.

The man in the armchair nods and makes a slight motion with his hands. You recognize the scent of lavender, no its cum, no bubblegum, no lube. It's over so quickly you think you must have been mistaken. You feel warm, not in a feverish way, but as if you've been out in the sun a tad too long. You're thirsty but can't resist licking your lips. Your lips feel different. Your mouth feels different. Did the transformation already start? You're just about to ask him when your clothes turn to powder, perhaps more like sand than flour, because it falls off you cleanly to reveal the smooth, tan, perfect skin of your toned arms. A swirl of pride, horniness, and disgust wash over you as you trace the rest of your meticulously toned body with your gaze.

You lick your lips again. Your mouth is lacking something. Shouldn't there be something happening to you? Some sort of change, for some reason you can't quite recall. You think of bubblegum. Your mouth lacks bubblegum! There's a man you don't recognize getting up from an armchair, reaching for some cards at the table next to you. Or a lolly. A pink strawberry lolly to suck on. "Who are you?" you ask the man. He's fit, dressed in plain but expensive clothes. You stare at his groin as he collects the cards. A dick! Your mouth is lacking a dick to suck on. "It doesn't matter. You won't see me again," the man says and heads towards the door. "Aww," you whine and try to make a sad face, pouting your lips. There's a big glass bowl with strawberry lollies on the table though, so you stand up, adjust your thong, and head over there to find something to suck on. If only they made them cum flavored.

Jock

Once the transformation is done, this must surely be the best option. To be surrounded by teammates that support each other. Bro culture may be toxic from the outside, but as a dumb member it must be great.

The man in the armchair nods and makes a slight motion with his hands. Your eyes widen as knowledge rush into you, rules for sports you barely knew existed, famous players, games from history, not just who won or lost, but where it was played, who was in it, the notable swings of fortune. You know not just the rules, but how to apply them in practice, what to do differently when the grass is wet or when the sun is in your back. You know how to save every second when putting on football pads. You know what underwear chafes, what fabrics are good for running, how to pour out the contents of your training duffel on the floor so all the sweaty clothes dry over night. You know how to pace yourself in beer pong to come out winning more often than not, and how to cure hangover the day after in time for training. You know how to suck your bro's dick to keep him on the edge for as long as possible. You know how to recognize how many shots into the evening the teammates will let you make out with them with sloppy kisses. You know how to move your body to keep your bros inside you for as long as possible, and have them come back for seconds once they've creamed inside of you and recharged.

"What the fuck!" you gasp, as if gasping for air. As if you were drowning in knowledge you didn't want in the first place. You're panting heavily, frantically scanning the room with your eyes as if you've just woken up from a nightmare. You see the man across the room, sitting in the armchair, and suddenly you're reminded of what is happening. The cards, the choice, the transformation. Only you haven't transformed. You look the same as when you came in through the door from school. Doing what though?

You struggle to remember anything that happened during the day. You can't even remember what school you are attending, or what subjects. You glance at the wall clock and know there is basket on ESPN in 40 minutes. You desperately don't want to know that. You look around the room for any hints of what you are studying, of who you really are. You only see a line of football gear strewn on the floor, giving off a faint odor of sweat and liniment cream.

Your panting isn't coming down though, but instead is intensifying as if you were sprinting. You've been too confused and preoccupied to notice just how profusely you're sweating. You feel it one of the legs first, but within seconds you are cramping all over your body. Not just like a big ball of tensed muscle, but fading in and out all over the body seemingly randomly. You try to get out of your seat, but collapse on the floor writhing in pain and convulsions. Eventually the cramps begin to subside and you are aware that the only remaining discomfort is where your too tight clothes cut into you when you move. You're also aware that someone is walking around above you, getting ready to leave your apartment.

"Dude. Fuck me..." you exhale as you roll on your back, exhausted and soaked in sweat, waiting for your heartbeat to go down.

"Many will," you hear someone answer before he closes the door behind him.

Cumdump

It's the only one where you don't lose your smarts if the texts can be trusted. A smoking hot body and boosted libido must be possible to work with.

The man in the armchair nods and makes a slight motion with his hands. You feel both your butt cheeks spasm quickly, as if you flexed your muscles there for half a second. Then it happens again. And again. Every five seconds or so there's a contraction of your butt muscles. Then the fourth time it's followed by a quick clenching of your sphincter. Same with the next one. It's like involuntary kegel exercises. You can feel the contractions getting deeper each time, as if you are clenching harder or more muscles are involved. By the tenth or so contraction it's like a wave that travels from your butt muscles through your ass and out your dick. You can feel an erection slowly building, but the whole thing doesn't feel sexual in any way. It's just like an annoying hiccup. One you imagine would prevent you from walking.

It goes on for minutes and you are just about to ask the man how long this would take, if something is wrong, or if you were required to do something, when the contractions suddenly expand both up and down. You feel your thighs flexing as well as your abs. Every contraction is reaching further away into your body, like a ripple of flexing muscles, always starting from your butt cheeks. You're starting to feel fatigued around your ass and shift around to get more comfortable when you hear a short, ripping sound. It's your underwear you realize. Standing up would be unthinkable with the incessant muscle contractions, so you are limited in what you can do in between the increasingly violent flailings, but you manage to discover that your ass has been growing into a bubble butt, explaining the wardrobe failure. You scoot down into a half-sitting position that is at least closer to comfortable.

You don't know if the frequency had been increasing all along or not, but the thrusts throughout your body happen much faster now, every two seconds or so. The ripple of contractions has extended to basically cover your entire body, all the way down to your feet and all the way up your chest, neck, and out your arms. There's barely any time between one wave being finished and the next one starting. While your dick started out just getting hard it is now radiating horny energy. You're making a small, short moan for every contraction, more of a yelp really, but it is when the wave hits your dick you make the sound.

Then suddenly one wave, once it hit the throat, bounced back down the chest. It goes on a while like that until slowly, slowly the contractions drift out of sync with each other that it's really two different waves. One from the ass and out and one from the throat and down. They are timed differently and drift in and out of phase with each other.

This just goes on and you lose track of time. If asked you wouldn't be able to tell if it had been an hour or four. At some point you just gave up on trying to do anything about it, other than inching into the best possible position. You stopped trying to make sense of it, why it was happening, when it would stop. You just are.

"This is the one I enjoy the most," the man in the armchair says.

Startled you look at him, snapped out of your trance, and everything stops. No more waves of contractions. At some point you had shifted position to just lie on your back with your bent legs up in the air, arms behind your neck. You're confused to see silky smooth legs, shaved cock and balls, and smooth abs glazed in precum from all the droplets have have been flung around. You're just as much confused because you are naked as the fact your body looks like it does. But most surprising of all is the emptiness your feel from the lack of the pounding in your ass and your throat. The deep craving you feel to have that continue and the pervasive horny feeling that is like nothing you have ever experienced before. You know of course what was done to you. You selected the card.

"Why?"
"All the other options are just stupidly content with what they become. You on the other hand have a whole journey of coming to terms with it at your own pace. That's why nothing in your apartment has changed."
"Perhaps I am content?" you say as you sit back up properly on your new, plump ass and tentatively try to squeeze them to get back the feeling of being thrusted. You reek of sweat and cum after what essentially were hours of being ghost fucked.

He smiles a wry smile. "Well, you can stay with this decor if you want. Or, if you want me to fuck you, I can give you the cumdump interior and wardrobe."
"Fuck me!" you say without hesitation.

Muscle Slut

It wouldn't be the first time someone would be fixated on getting the perfect body, and there's a lot of money to be made if you just play your card right. It's the only grown-up decision really.

The man in the armchair nods and makes a slight motion with his hands. You feel a flash of heat, like when stage pyrotechnics go off at a concert, but without any blinding light. No light at all, just a quick, searing heat that instantly begins to mellow out. You look at one of your arms and see it is deeply tanned, not quite hazel nut, but not far off, and completely smooth as if you've waxed it. It almost looks shiny to you as you turn the arm in the soft light of the apartment. You can easily imagine how it would look with some oil on, how it would bring out the contrasts. Heck, even a moderate sweat would send you glistening like a well-polished wood carving.

Fascinated you open and close your hand, watching the tendons and muscles work just beneath the skin on the inside of your forearm, creating ridges for the light to play with. One of the veins catches your attention as wraps around to the other side of your arm. You turn it and are surprised by all the veins snaking up and down the arm. It's exciting though, and mesmerizing. While still looking intently at the arm as you twist and turn it and your hand, you begin stroking your groin. Your arm never interested you this much before. Clearly not, because you never realized before how beautiful your veins are, or that you even had them.

You start to tension the muscles in your arm, as much as you can. You have never flexed before in your life, so you are not sure how to do it. To your disappointment not much happens. Perhaps you are imagining it, but the veins on the arm look even more pronounced. You make another attempt to flex the arm, this time with a bit more proper technique and your eyes widens as you see the response. The bicep bulge is like you've never seen it before. You fumble with your other hand to get it into your pants and underwear to fully grip your erect cock, but you don't want to look away from your arm. You don't want to miss a thing, as you relax and flex it again. This time it grows even larger than the last. Transfixed you flex and relax, flex and relax over and over, just admiring how the skin moves over the muscles, the shape and size of the football sized bulge, and how the light gives it all the most beautiful shimmer you've ever seen.

Suddenly a fear wash over you that you are just focusing on one part of your body, and not looking at the whole. How all body parts should be in proportion with each other, and balanced between both sides. Almost in panic you stop jerking off at inspect your other arm. "Fucking ace!" you shout as you see your other arm is just as muscular, just as bronzed, just as vascular, and just as beautiful as your first arm. You flex both arms into a front double biceps pose, and just wished you had a mirror in front of you.

You look down at your body. Your naked torso shows large pecs jutting out over a strong core with abs that look good even sitting down in this position. Below that your rock-hard dick hangs out of your body hugging trunks that cling to your ass and massive legs. You see a lot to be proud of, but just as much that needs work.

But you do have a mirror in front of you. There's one in each room of the apartment save for the kitchen. You tuck your dick back into the trunks, jump up and approach the mirror. You want to go through your competition program before hitting the gym.

"I trust you'll be all right then," said the man you had forgotten about. "No, I'll be the best," you answer, not looking away from the mirror and your side chest pose.