He’d been a frustrating little nerd when he first crossed my path. Not the adorkable sort you’d find on TV, I’m afraid - I just may have shown him mercy if that were the case - but, no, he’d been of the faux-woke, holier-than-thou variety. A total prude, and a pretentious ass to boot. 

But I saw potential where others did not. I saw each and every dark, twisted desire bubbling beneath the surface of that social facade, and made it manifest. 

He’d sat down that night to his usual bate sesh, gingerly flicking through tab after tab of naked chicks, the sluts, whores, bitches he’d been so critical of, except, this time, it felt different. He felt different, imagining what it’d be like to be the dude among them, to nut across those fake tits, ploughing all twelve inches of his fuckmeat into their wet, dripping pussies.

The thoughts were foreign to him, invasive, but, as a slideshow of increasingly-explicit women scrawled across his screen, he found himself well and truly fixated. Obsessed, even, with his jaw hanging loose in awe of such total babes.  

A beefy mitt reached out to tame his cock which seethed with wanton need. The legs, their asses, the oversized racks, it was all proving to be too much for the former nerd, but, with nothing but pussy on his mind, he’d little care or thought for the dweeb he used to be. All that mattered was pussy. Ass. Putting on a show.

Operating on sheer instinct, he began to work his meat, using the spit from his slacken jaw as lube. His forearms and triceps pumped like pistons as he worked himself into an aggressive rhythm, using his free hand to exaggerate the width of his delts. Remnants of a black NASA-emblazoned t-shirt clung to his chest, but all the chicks watching knew that it was just for show.

It always was with Buck Randy.

The very notion that he’d ever been smart was enough to elicit a deep guffaw from the stud, features a picture of exaggerated masculinity. In the reflection of the monitor, he saw himself - rather, a grotesuqely beefed-up camstar - smirking back with vacant gaze, but the fear and disgust he felt paled in comparison to the testosterone churning within his balls.

Overly-tanned calves tensed in an obnoxious manspread to reveal all twelve inches of his cock - only a tease, mind. As predicted, the chat went wild, sending spurts of pre - and his former life - trickling down its veined ridges. Some hit his feet, forcing him to look down, where, over a heaving shelf of muscle tits, he saw the tattered remains of his converse which were laughably dwarved by the 17s he now possessed. But how-?

calibabe42: ur so hung  bb work that meat xx

musclefg69: give us a show bucky :p

A smug, most definitely vacant smirk worked its way upon Buck’s face. He had the chat in the palm of his hand, and they him, as he rose to his full height, showcasing the full extent of his transformation into a himbro camwhore. 

“You want show?” he teased in his thick Ukranian bass, earning a torrent of comments from the chat. “Buck give you show.” Quarter turns, lat spreads, side chests, Bucky was giving it his all with plastered grins and a bobbing cock. The comments kept coming, calling him nothing but a himbro, a manwhore, a pussyhound, and, as he worked himself into a most muscular, he came, spewing wave after wave of potent seed across the room.

That’s when everyone saw, how it all became real for him. The fake tan. The box dye job. The heaving bulk that’d convince no-one of him being natty. In that moment, the slut-shaming nerd I’d met was gone, leaving nothing but Vidar Kolinsky - or, to his swaithes of thirsty viewers, Buck Randy.