Surfer Keoni Once Again Becomes Ghetto Thug Dylan by kooldoggie
Unfortunately for young Keoni, after a few months he once again forgot about the dangers of changing his environment. The 6'7", superstudly surferboy, so used to usually going fully naked on the beach all day, surfing, chilling and fucking his boy Justin, made the mistake of selling his old longboard to a bud who lived out in the desert just northeast of LA. He had agreed to deliver the board in his old red pickup, and so he had slipped on the blue flowery boardshorts, hanging so low they rode just above his prodigious ten-incher, showing off his well-trimmed, wispy blonde bush, and gotten on the highway. He had made sure to get completely baked before leaving the beach, so he wouldn't react so badly to leaving his home turf, but a consequence of driving stoned was that he couldn't make wise decisions, and it only took a few wrong turns until Keoni got lost, once again finding himself in an inner city ghetto.
He had been driving in circles awhile, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong, the severe fog in his stoned brain preventing him from making any real progress in the matter, and finally, frustrated to the max, the surferdude just parked the car, finally taking in the wasted, trash-filled, graffiti-ridden streets, no natural features in sight, and then he started trembling as he realized where he was, a real danger zone for chill-as-fuck surfer white boys like him. "Aww, fuuuck, dude," the stoned Keoni drawled, his heart thumping under his chiseled, bare brown pecs. He already was feeling the changes kick in, and the more panicked he became, the faster and harder the severe change would take place. Dylan needed out, badly. Keoni felt his body contort, and he tried to lay back in the seat of his truck, whimpering, hoping it wouldn't be too painful on him. An anger was rising through the stoned haze, his brain gradually getting sharper and more thuggish as the surfer personality was overwritten. Keoni was angry that he wouldn't be able to be naked anymore, living with nature, his limbs long and his body so tall from healthy living, angry he couldn't be stoned to the bone, angry at being a minority white dude threatened by all the black and Latino gangs in the hood. And all that anger flooded into the aggressive wigger thug he was becoming.
He groaned deeply, his big, tanned feet beginning to shrink so they once again would be able to fit into shoes. Keoni put up a good fight, struggling hard to stretch out his size 16 bare feet to preserve their studly strength, but he was losing, the big feet contracting back to a still good size 12, the dark tan fading quick. "Dude, no!" the gentle surfer cried, the sleek, lithe muscles trembling hard now as his long skeleton pushed down to a much more compact size, settling in at 5'10", while he actually gained 10 more pounds, bringing him to 180 lbs. of muscle that was growing more fierce, much more jacked. Keoni had had the sleek muscle tone of a surfer, kept dense and strong for riding waves but not very voluminous. But Dylan desperately needed to show off his buff body; he being a boy who spent every night pumping weights for hours in his garage in order to win the strength to fend off the many dangers of the ghetto, from gangs to harassing cops.
The other features of Dylan were attacking his body: the name in dark Gothic letters tracing itself across those much rounder, harder, striated pecs, the barbells sticking through his brown nipples, elaborate tattoos of knives and marijuana leaves replacing the simple tribal barbed wires around his shoulders and upper arm, beginning to trace down his arm and sleeve him. Keoni was quickly disappearing, the orgasmic groan coming from the boy now deeper and more aggressive than the stoned surfer's light tone. The dusky tan had faded to only a very light flush of a white boy's skin, while the few blonde hairs in his body had fallen out, replaced by a light brown fuzz that traced up his chiseled abs and down his stouter, more muscular legs. The boardshorts already had faded into a pair of ratty boxers, and Dylan pushed them down to reveal the ten-inch formerly brown surfer cock shortening a little back to eight inches, becoming pale from never being exposed to the sun, but a bit thicker than Keoni's had been, with lush dark brown pubes replacing what had been very sparse wispy blonde hairs.
Another deeper groan, "aww fuuuuck," crooned Dylan as he adjusted his still nearly naked body, desiring his threads. The muscular body was settling in, but the face still was changing, from the overly cute and stoner dopey visage of a privileged suburban blonde teen to a more angular, stronger-featured, chiseled face, still pretty albeit in a totally different way, but this was the face of an urban model, with an expression that hardly ever smiled, bright blue eyes, once gentle and unfocused, becoming a deep greenish-brown that had inner fire in them, a smoldering aggression. Keoni's eyebrow ring migrated down to encircle a nostril, while the simple gold hoops in his ears were now a collection of silver cuffs and rings. Dylan took a deep breath, inflating his steel pecs, appreciating their size and toughness while noticing the silly puka shell necklace had been replaced by a couple of gold chains draping over his chest tattoo. And all during the process the long, thick, bright blonde dreadlocks had been retracting, thinning and reshaping, leaving very little hair on his head, just a spiky strip of brown locks down the middle of a much more oval, angular head, bleached blonde, while the sides and back were buzzed down to brown fuzz, shaved into abstract patterns put there by some urban barber.
Dylan was just about there. His threads had appeared in the front seat for him to adorn. He pulled off the silly surfer hemp anklet and pulled on the baggy, thrashed jeans with the metal studded belt and thick wallet chain going to his knees. On his smaller feet went athletic socks and a pair of his chunky silver high-tops. He stretched out his buff torso, wondering for a minute where his muscle shirt had gone, but he recalled it being so blazing hot on the streets today he simply decided to wander shirtless, better to show off his amazing muscles, tats and piercings as well. Finally the doo-rag that he tied around his head, followed by the leather studded wristbands. He sauntered out of the car, not even knowing how he got into the car. Dylan didn't own any red pickup, and he never saw a reason to leave the hood anyway. He owned this fucking hood, he thought as his eyes blazed with sharp, aggressive intelligence. Anyone out on the streets looked scared of the jacked muscled white boy and steered clear of him. He made sure to pull down his baggy jeans so that they stayed below his hips, showing off most of his boxers, pulled down below his butt in the back, and so low in front, anyone could see his cock poking at the boxers just above the studded belt. His rougher, thicker hand, adorned with many rings, felt up the ridged, deeply carved eight-pack, up to the bulging pecs, his biceps swelling with every movement. Yeah, no one messed with Dylan, and everyone knew who Dylan was by the tattoo that so proudly announced his arrival. Time to monitor his hood for trouble, and with that confident urban swagger all his own, 17 year-old Dylan slowly made his way down the street, home at last.