Salvator was the hottest guy I'd ever laid eyes on. Platinum face card, banging body, can you blame me for sneaking a peek at him in the gym locker room? And that was how I found out he had one of the smallest dicks I'd seen on a man.
I thought he'd be angry at me for peeping, but he actually seemed relieved to let someone in on his secret and even admitted something to me: he was a virgin!
I was shockedâ the guy was sex on legs. Even I'd managed to get my dick wet once or twice, and I wasn't much of a looker. But it turned out he was so ashamed of the size of his penis that he'd never let anyone near it, resigning himself to a lonely existence of being the big man in the streets while rubbing himself off with a pillow between the sheets.
He had the face of a movie star and the body of a supermodel and he still wasn't happy, just because he didn't have the cock of a porn star to match. In a way, I felt sorry for him, because that's one hell of an insecurity. But mostly I thought that he was the dumbest man on earth to be so gifted and complain about the one thing he didn't have.
(And also like... hadn't the guy ever heard of bottoming?)
So I offered him a deal: I'd do a little trade with him and take his tiny pecker and give him my own, leaving him with the thick nine incher of his dreams. However, I would get it back for three days a month... along with everything attached to it.
Long story short, Salvator is having a LOT more sex these days, so I suppose I can say "you're welcome" to the men and women of this great city for unleashing such a gift upon them. And as for me? I take a long weekend off of work at the end of every month for a lovely beachside vacation where I can reconnect with my old package, along with Salvator's chiseled abs and fat ass.
I'm having a lot more sex these days too.
A happy ending all around, although I can't help but feel like I got the better end of the deal; he only gets one part of me, whereas I'm getting to take advantage of all of him. Imagine giving up all of that up just because it didn't have a few inches more on between the legs!
I suppose I can't talk though... after all, I get to have it all.
In the dusty streets of a rundown neighborhood in the city, where the facades crumbled like old promises, Michael Prince strode confidently through the block of social housing. Michael was a star among project developersâusually a sharply tailored suit, polished leather shoes, and a portfolio boasting luxury apartments in the best locations. He had his eye on the block: buy it, evict the tenants, luxury renovate everything, and resell at astronomical prices. Money was his god, and he worshipped diligently.
As he walked through the hallway of the third floor, he mentally noted the cracks in the walls and the flickering neon lights. Suddenly, a door opened, and out stepped a man in a wrinkled Pistons jersey, jeans, and Timberland boots. Rogue Pauper, a tenant who lived off odd jobs and welfare, stared at Michael. Michael stared back. It was like looking into a mirrorâthe same sharp cheekbones, the same blue eyes, the same build. Like identical twins, except one was dressed in silk and the other in rags.
"Damn, who are you?" Rogue muttered, cigarette dangling from his lip.
Michael, usually unflappable, was overwhelmed. "I⌠I'm Michael Prince. And you look like⌠me."
Rogue grinned crookedly. "Come in, man. I gotta take a closer look at this."
Michael, against all reason, agreed. Rogue's apartment was a mess: a dirty mattress on the floor, empty beer cans, and the smell of stale smoke. They sat down, shared stories from their lives. Michael talked about board meetings and million-dollar deals, Rogue about tough streets and petty hustles. They cracked open cheap, lukewarm beerânothing Michael would ever drink willingly. But with each sip, the mood loosened, the glances grew more intense.
The beer flowed in streams, and the words became slurred, mixed with laughter and gestures that drew ever closer. An inexplicable attraction built up, like an electric shock racing through their identical bodies. They laughed about their differencesâMichael's polished world against Rogue's raw chaosâand in doing so, their hands touched accidentally, a finger brushing over an arm, a knee bumping against another. At first, it was innocent, a mishap, but soon it became deliberate: Rogue placed his hand on Michael's thigh, feeling the warmth through the khaki pants, and Michael didn't stop him. Instead, he returned the gaze, looking into eyes that were his own, and felt a pull in his chest that wandered deeper.
The heat rose, the room seemed to shrink, the alcohol ignited a fire in their veins. Rogue leaned forward, his breath smelling of beer and tobacco, and Michael, who was otherwise always in control, let it happen. Their lips met first hesitantly, a test, then hungrily, tongues circling, hands gripping hair. Rogue pulled off Michael's jacket, unbuttoned the shirt, revealing smooth, trained skin that he explored with rough fingers. Michael gasped as Rogue's mouth found his neck, sucking and biting lightly, while he pushed up the jersey and stroked over Rogue's muscular back, shaped by hard jobs.
They fell onto the mattress, a whirlwind of limbs and fabric. Rogue pressed Michael down, kissed lower, over the chest, sucked on nipples that hardened under his touch. Michael arched, his hands tugging at Rogue's jeans, pushing them down, revealing hard arousal straining against the fabric. He grasped it, stroked firmly, heard Rogue moan, a deep, animalistic sound. Rogue reciprocated, pulled off Michael's pants, kissed the navel, lower, took him into his mouth, hot and wet, tongue swirling until Michael trembled and clawed at the sheets.
They turned, explored each other with hands and mouths, sweat mixing with the smell of the apartment. Rogue flipped Michael over, kissed his back, bit into the shoulder while pressing against him, hard against soft, and slowly entered, first gently, then deeper, rhythmically. Michael gasped, pushed back, their bodies in sync, like twins becoming one. The rhythm grew faster, wilder, uninhibited, moans echoing through the room until they both exploded, waves of pleasure leaving them breathless.
Sweat-soaked and naked, they lay there afterward, sharing a joint. The smoke curled toward the ceiling. Michael, still high from the adrenaline and the orgasm, murmured: "Imagine we switch roles. Just for a day. You as me, me as you."
Rogue inhaled deeply, grinned. "Hot idea, bro. Let's do it."
Still naked and relaxed from the high, the air hung heavy with their scent, a mix of sweat, smoke, and desire. The erotic tension crackled on as they began the switch, their bodies still sensitive and aroused from what had just happened. Rogue stood up first, stretching languidly, his muscular body glistening in the dim lamp light, beads of sweat sliding over his chest. Michael lay there, watching him with hungry eyes, feeling his pulse quicken again as Rogue bent down to pick up Michael's suit from the chair. The movement made his muscles ripple, and Michael bit his lip to keep from pouncing on him right away.
Rogue slipped into the underwearâfresh and expensive, a contrast to his own boxers that clung tightly to his arousal, which hadn't fully subsided. He grinned at Michael as he pulled up the khaki pants, slowly, almost provocatively, buckling the belt and smoothing the fabric over his thighs. "Feels like silk on the skin," he murmured hoarsely, his voice vibrating with suppressed desire. Michael sat up, couldn't resist, reached out and stroked over Rogue's leg, feeling the warmth through the fabric. "Looks damn hot on you," he whispered, and their gazes locked, electric, full of promise.
Rogue put on the shirt, button by button, and Michael stood up, helped him with it, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed over Rogue's chest, grazing the nipples that were still sensitive. Each touch sent shivers through both of them, a soft moan escaped Rogue as Michael's thumb accidentallyâor notâbrushed over a hard bud. They paused, breathing heavily, their faces just inches apart. "Not done yet," Rogue breathed, pulling on the jacket and turning in front of the cracked mirror, smoothing the fabric that clung tightly to his broad shoulders. "Damn tight in the wrong places," he said with a wink, and Michael laughed, but his eyes wandered lower, where the suit accentuated the contours of Rogue's arousal.
Now it was Michael's turn. He picked up Rogue's clothes, feeling the rough texture of the worn jeans in his hands. Rogue watched him intently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a crooked grin on his lips. Michael pulled up the jeans, slowly, feeling the rough denim on his naked skin, loose but rubbing in places that aroused him. Rogue stepped closer, helped him adjust the belt, his hands sliding over Michael's hips, lower, brushing the insides of the thighsâa touch meant to tease. Michael gasped, grabbed Rogue's arms, pulled him closer. "You're doing that on purpose," he murmured, and Rogue laughed softly, his breath hot against Michael's ear. "Of course, bro. Wanna see how you lookâand feelâin my stuff."
Michael pulled on the Pistons jersey, the fabric smelling of Rogue, of sweat and cigarettes, and it felt liberating, raw and real. Rogue helped him straighten it, his hands wandering over Michael's chest, kneading lightly until Michael pressed against him, their bodies touching, arousal against arousal. They kissed, not briefly but deeply, tongues dancing, hands digging into fabric and flesh, but they pulled apart breathlessly before it escalated. Michael slipped into the Timberland boots, heavy and clunky, stomped experimentally, and Rogue nodded approvingly. "Looks good on you. Made for the streetsâand for me."
The tension hung in the air, their bodies vibrating with suppressed desire as they sat back down on the mattress, now dressed in each other's roles. Every movement, every rub of the new fabric on their skin reminded them of the other, keeping the arousal simmering. They exchanged info, their voices rough with lust. Michael explained in detail: "Tomorrow you have a meeting with the investors at 10 a.m. in the downtown office. The door code is 4729. My assistant is Lauraâshe's picky, so act like you know everything. Contacts: The boss is Mr. Hargrove, call him Sir, and the deal with the blockâyou gotta convince the seller it's a good offer. My phone password is 123456, easy." As he spoke, his hand stroked over Rogue's arm, a gentle but electrifying touch.
Rogue jotted it all down on a crumpled note, nodded, but his eyes roamed over Michael's body in his clothes. "Sounds doable. And you? As me: Go to the gym around the corner, the guys there know me as Rogue. Train hard, but watch out for the bossâhe's Vito, hangs out in the cafĂŠ at the end of the block. He gives jobs, small deliveries, nothing illegal, but pay on time. Welfare office: Show your ID, wait in line, and evenings hang with the buddies. My phone's junk, no password." His fingers circled on Michael's knee, a tease that left both breathless.
They laughed at the absurdity, clinked the last beer remnants, but the touches didn't stopâa foot brushing against another, hands grazing. "Just one week, okay? Meet back here in next Wednesday," Michael said, his voice hoarse. Rogue grinned, leaned in until their lips almost touched: "Or longer, if it's fun. And I bet it will be."
At the entrance of the block, they said goodbye, Michael with the bag in hand, Rogue with one last wink. Rogue climbed into Michael's Porsche and sped off, the engine roaring like a victorious beast.
Rogue, in Michael's world, was a whirlwind. With his crude, prole attitude, he rubbed colleagues and friends the wrong wayâhe cursed in meetings, called bosses "dude," and flirted shamelessly. Yet strangely, he was more successful than Michael had ever been. His direct approach broke through barriers, deals closed faster. He navigated the world of the rich with a raw energy that fascinated everyone.
Michael, meanwhile, dove into Rogue's life and took to it. He spent hours in the cheap neighborhood gym, pumping iron and sweating with the locals. At the welfare office, he hung out, chatted with those waiting, felt a freedom he'd never known. With great enthusiasm, he took on small errand jobs for the neighborhood bossâpicking up packages, delivering messages. It was rough but honest, and Michael blossomed.
The week passed. The agreed meeting point was the old block, at the same time. But when the clock struck, neither was there. Rogue had just sealed the deal on selling the social housing blockâcleverer than Michael could have managed. He celebrated with his new buddies in a luxury bar, Dom PĂŠrignon flowing in streams, laughter echoing through the room.
Michael, in Rogue's role, had gotten the assignment from the neighborhood boss to start the evictionsâironically in his own block. He grinned, cranked the music in the apartment to maximum volume, heavy bass booming through the walls. In the hallway, he set up a barbecue grill, smoke billowing out, sausages sizzling. The neighbors cursed, but Michael just laughed. This was his new lifeâchaotic, free, and he didn't want to go back.
Part I: https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/804415910726221824/the-away-game?source=share
Part II: https://www.tumblr.com/futuradiego/804561218338766848/the-away-game-part-ii?source=share
SHAVING (Morning Light)
The bathroom was still steamy from Tyler's shower when Derrick knocked on the doorframe.
"Hey," Derrick said. "Can I ask you something weird?"
Tyler looked up from the sink, toothbrush hanging from his mouth. He was shirtless, sweatpants sitting low on his hips, that trail of blonde hair disappearing below the waistband. Five days of stubble darkened his jawâhe'd been letting it grow since the gym incident with Brad, too exhausted to care.
He pulled the toothbrush out. "Weirder than possession?"
"Different weird." Derrick stepped into the small bathroom, the air warm and close. "Can I shave you?"
Tyler blinked. "What?"
"Your face. Your stubble." Derrick gestured. "Can I shave it for you?"
Tyler rinsed his mouth, buying time. When he straightened, he looked at Derrick in the mirror. "Why?"
Derrick's face flushed. "Because Iâ" He stopped, searching for words. "I've spent weeks obsessing over your body. Your hair. Your stubble. The texture of it. And I've never gotten to just... touch it. Not without being inside you. I want to know what it feels like. From the outside."
Tyler's throat worked. His hands gripped the edge of the sink. "That's not weird," he said quietly. "That's just... intimate."
"Is that a yes?"
Tyler turned around, leaning back against the counter. He looked at Derrickâreally looked, taking in the way Derrick's eyes kept dropping to his jaw, his throat, the hollow where his pulse jumped. "Yeah. Okay."
Derrick's breath caught. "Sit on the edge of the tub."
Tyler obeyed, lowering himself onto the porcelain rim. From this angle, sitting, they were almost the same height. Derrick standing between Tyler's spread knees, looking down slightly for once.
Derrick opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out Tyler's shaving cream, his razorâthe nice one, heavy chrome handle, fresh blade. He ran the hot water until steam rose, then wet a washcloth and wrung it out.
"Close your eyes," Derrick said softly.
Tyler did.
The hot cloth pressed against his faceâjaw, cheeks, throat. Tyler exhaled, his shoulders dropping. The heat seeped into his skin, softening the stubble, and he felt Derrick's fingers working the cloth gently, deliberately.
"You have no idea," Derrick whispered, "how long I've wanted to do this."
The cloth lifted away. Tyler heard the hiss of the shaving cream can, then felt the cool foam being smoothed across his jaw. But Derrick didn't use a brush. He used his fingers.
Those smaller hands spread the cream carefully, exploring. Derrick's fingertips traced the line of Tyler's jaw, feeling the bone structure underneath, the scratch of stubble through foam. His thumb brushed Tyler's bottom lip.
"Your stubble is so much thicker than mine," Derrick murmured. "I can't grow this yet. Mine's still patchy. But yoursâ" His fingers moved to Tyler's throat, spreading foam there. "It's perfect."
Tyler swallowed, and Derrick felt the movement under his palm.
"Keep still," Derrick said.
The razor made a sound like tearing silk.
Derrick tilted Tyler's chin up with two fingers, exposing his throat. The blade scraped down in smooth, careful strokesâcheek, jaw, the vulnerable hollow where Tyler's pulse hammered visibly.
Tyler's breathing had gone shallow. His hands gripped his own thighs to keep from moving.
"You trust me," Derrick said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Tyler breathed.
Another stroke. The foam peeled away, revealing smooth, tan skin. Derrick rinsed the blade, then continuedâunder the jaw, down the throat, the sound rhythmic and intimate.
"I used to hate this face," Tyler admitted, eyes still closed. "When I'd see it in the mirror. Because it was the face I had to show everyone. The mask."
"It's not a mask anymore," Derrick said. He cleaned Tyler's cheek, his fingers gentle. "It's just you."
When he finished Tyler's face, Derrick paused. Then he said, quietly: "Can I do the rest?"
Tyler's eyes opened. "The rest?"
"Your chest. Your stomach. Yourâ" Derrick's face was flushed. "I want to see all of you. Touch all of you. The hair you have that I don't."
Tyler's cock was already half-hard in his sweatpants. There was no hiding it. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "Yeah, do it."
Derrick grabbed the shaving cream again. Tyler stood, and Derrick's hands went to Tyler's chestâspreading foam across the light dusting of hair there, circling his nipples. The razor followed, careful and methodical, and Tyler watched Derrick's face as he worked.
Derrick was entranced. His eyes tracked every movement, every reveal of skin. When he finished Tyler's chest, he knelt.
"Derrickâ" Tyler started.
"Shh." Derrick was eye-level with Tyler's abs now. He smoothed foam across Tyler's stomach, down the happy trail, stopping just above the waistband of the sweatpants. The razor scraped. Tyler's breathing got harder.
Derrick's hands hooked into the waistband. "Can I?"
"Yes."
Derrick pulled the sweatpants down.
Tyler wasn't wearing anything underneath. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and fully hard now. And there was the hairâthat dark blonde thatch that Derrick had obsessed over in the locker room, in the mirror, every time he'd possessed Tyler.
Derrick just stared for a moment. Then he reached out, running his fingers through it gently.
"This," Derrick whispered. "This is what I couldn't stop thinking about. How it feels. How it smells." He leaned in, inhaling, and Tyler made a strangled sound. "How masculine it is."
"Derrick," Tyler's voice cracked. "If you keep doing that I'm going toâ"
"Not yet." Derrick pulled back. He spread foam carefully around the base of Tyler's cock, avoiding the shaft itself. Then, with excruciating care, he shaved the edgesâcleaning up, trimming, making everything neat and defined.
Tyler was shaking. His cock was leaking. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides.
When Derrick finished, he rinsed the razor one last time and set it aside. Then he just... looked. Tyler, fully revealed. Smooth where Derrick had shaved him, the remaining hair a perfect frame.
"You're art," Derrick said.
"Derrick, pleaseâ"
"Turn around."
Tyler obeyed, bracing his hands on the sink. In the mirror, he watched Derrick kneel behind him.
Derrick's hands spread Tyler's ass cheeks gently. And thereâmore hair. Coarse, intimate, hidden.
"Even here," Derrick breathed. "You're perfect."
He didn't shave it. Instead, he leaned in and pressed his face against Tyler's ass, inhaling deeply. Tyler's whole body went rigid.
"I'm going to taste you," Derrick said. "Right now. Can I?"
"God, yesâ"
Derrick's tongue pressed against Tyler's hole, and Tyler's knees buckled. Only his grip on the sink kept him upright. Derrick licked, slow and deliberate, his smaller hands gripping Tyler's ass, spreading him open. The position was obsceneâTyler braced over the sink, Derrick kneeling behind him in worship.
Tyler came without warning. No touch to his cock, just the overwhelming sensation of Derrick's tongue inside him. He gasped, his cock pulsing, come hitting the inside of the sink in thick ropes.
Derrick pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth. He stood, wrapping his arms around Tyler from behind, pressing his face against Tyler's back.
"Thank you," Derrick whispered. "For letting me do that."
Tyler was still shaking. He turned in Derrick's arms, and for the first time since this all started, he kissed him.
Not Tyler's body kissing Derrick's while Derrick was inside. Just Tyler. Just Derrick. Lips and tongue and the taste of each other.
When they broke apart, Tyler touched his own smooth jaw, feeling the difference.
"Your turn," he said.
"What?"
Tyler smiledâthat genuine smile Derrick had taught him. "You got to worship me. Now I get to worship you."
He dropped to his knees.
THE FEEDBACK LOOP (Reverie)
They didn't make it to the bedroom.
Tylerâs knees hit the bathroom tile with a heavy thud, and his hands went to Derrickâs jeansâyanking the button open, pulling the zipper down with shaking fingers.
Derrickâs cock sprang free, hard and straining against his boxer briefs. Tyler stared at it, his breath hitching.
"Sympathetic resonance," Derrick breathed, his hands tangling in Tylerâs hair. "I told you. It changed me."
Tyler didn't answer. He leaned forward and took Derrick into his mouth.
The sensation hit them both like a physical blow.
Derrick gasped, his head falling back against the doorframe. He felt the hot, wet suction of Tylerâs mouthâbut simultaneously, he felt the fullness in his own throat. He felt the texture of skin against a tongue that wasn't his. He tasted his own musk.
Tyler pulled back, looking up with wild, blown-out pupils. "What? Did I bite you?"
"No," Derrick shook his head, his hands trembling where they gripped Tylerâs bare shoulders. "I felt it. I felt what youfelt. The taste. The shape."
Tyler froze. "The link?"
"Itâs not just muscles," Derrick whispered. "Itâs nerves. We're bleeding over."
Tyler stared at him, processing. Then, a dark, hungry look crossed his face. "So if I do this..."
He leaned in and ran his tongue up the length of Derrickâs cock, slow and deliberate.
Derrick groaned, his knees buckling. He felt the wet tongue on his cock, but he also felt the hard ridge of a vein against the roof of his mouth. It was a hall of mirrorsâsensation bouncing back and forth, amplifying until it was deafening.
"Bedroom," Tyler growled, standing up and hauling Derrick with him. "Now."
They stumbled down the hall, shedding what little pajamas they wore in a trail of towels and polyester. By the time they hit the mattress, they were both naked, and Derrick got his first real look at Tyler from the outsideâhard, feral, and his.
Tyler crawled over him.
Derrick gasped as the weight settled.
He had spent weeks piloting this body, feeling its power from the inside. But feeling it on top of him was different. It was crushing. It was absolute. Tylerâs chest pressed him into the mattress, broad and heavy and hot. His thighs pinned Derrickâs legs.
"You're so heavy," Derrick whispered, his hands roaming over the expanse of Tylerâs back, digging into the muscle. "God, Tyler. You're a tank."
"I dreamed of this," Tyler murmured against his neck. "Feeling you small under me. Knowing I could just..." He ground his hips down, his erection pressing against Derrickâs thigh. "Knowing I could crush you if I wanted."
"Do it," Derrick begged. "Crush me."
Tyler kissed himâdeep and messyâand the sensation split again. Derrick felt his own mouth opening, but he also felt the softness of lips yielding, the taste of saliva, the rush of dominance.
Tyler pulled back, breathing hard. He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for the lube. His hand shook as he slicked his fingers.
"I'm going to feel this," Tyler said, his voice rough. "When I push inside you. I'm going to feel exactly how tight you are. From both sides."
"Don't talk," Derrick panted, spreading his legs. "Just put it in."
Tyler positioned himself. The head of his cock pressed against Derrick.
He pushed.
A double gasp tore through the room.
Derrick cried out at the stretchâthe burning, filling invasion. But simultaneously, he felt the velvet heat engulfing him. He felt the resistance giving way. He felt the squeeze.
"Fuck," Tyler groaned, stopping halfway. "I can't tellâI don't know who is whoâ"
"Don't stop," Derrick demanded, wrapping his legs around Tylerâs waist, pulling him down. "Deeper."
Tyler thrust, pushing himself as much as possible, trying to cram his cock into Derrick as if he could enter and possess Derrick through his prostate.
The feedback loop screamed. Every movement was an echo. Derrick felt the pleasure of being takenâthe fullness, the prostate hitâand the pleasure of takingâthe grip, the friction, the power.
"I'm everywhere," Tyler gasped, his rhythm becoming frantic. "I'm inside you and I'm around you and I can'tâ"
"Just fuck me," Derrick moaned, his hands clawing at Tylerâs shoulders.
Tyler obeyed. He pounded into Derrick, the mattress springs creaking under their combined weight. It was chaotic, messy, and perfect. The line between pilot and vessel was gone. There was only the motion.
"Touch yourself," Tyler commanded, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come while I'm inside you."
Derrickâs hand flew to his own cock. The stroke sent a jolt through Tylerâhe felt the phantom hand on his own shaft, the building pressure.
"Come for me," Derrick whispered, echoing the command he used to give in the locker room. "Fill me up."
Derrick came first, his body arching off the bed. He felt his own release, but he also felt the rhythmic grip of his own ass milking Tyler's cockâa vice that sent Tyler over the edge.
Tyler shouted, burying his face in Derrickâs neck as he emptied himself. Derrick felt the pulses deep inside him, but he also felt the drain, the release, the ecstatic weakness of the orgasm from the source.
They collapsed.
Silence returned to the room, broken only by their ragged breathing. The ghost sensations slowly faded, leaving them as two separate bodies again. Sweat-slicked, tangled, and heavy.
Tyler rolled to the side, pulling Derrick against his chest. He buried his face in Derrickâs hair, inhaling deeply.
"Are we going to be like this forever?" Tyler asked quietly, his voice vibrating against Derrickâs back. "Hearing each other? Echoes of feeling?"
"I don't know," Derrick admitted, tracing the line of Tylerâs arm draped over him. "Maybe. Does it scare you?"
Tyler thought about it. "No. It's just... I don't know where I end and you begin anymore."
"We chose this," Derrick said. "We opened the door. Maybe we don't close it."
Tyler pulled him tighter. "I think I love you," he whispered. "I should have said that before. But I love you."
Derrick closed his eyes, leaning back into the solid warmth of the man who used to terrify him.
"I love you too," Derrick said. "Since the bus ride."
"That feels like a lifetime ago."
"It was two months."
Tyler laughedâa soft, genuine sound that belonged only to them. "Two months. And now I can't imagine⌠being without you."
"You won't have to be," Derrick promised.
And as they drifted off to sleep, Derrick realized he couldn't tell whose heart was beating slowerâhis or Tylerâs. And he didn't care.
REVERSE RESONANCE
Tyler was in the zone.
He was three paragraphs deep into his history mid-term, fingers flying across the butterfly keyboard, the blue light of the laptop reflecting in his eyes. He wasn't thinking; he was just flowing.
...demonstrating a clear systemic reliance on socioeconomic stratification to maintain industrial hegemony.
Tyler stopped.
His fingers hovered over the keys. The cursor blinked at him, mocking.
Hegemony.
He stared at the word. He knew what it meantâdominance, leadership, especially by one social group over others. The definition sat in his brain, clear as a bell.
The problem was, Tyler Martinez didn't use words like hegemony. Tyler Martinez used words like "control" or "power."
He backspaced, deleting the word. He tried to type "power."
His fingers refused. The sentence felt clunky. Wrong. Hegemony was the right word. The only word.
He sat back, rubbing his face. It wasn't just the essay. Yesterday, heâd explained the physics of a curveball to a freshman pitcher using the term "angular velocity." He hadn't even realized heâd said it until the kid looked at him like he was Einstein.
He grabbed his phone.
Tyler: bro Tyler: im glitching Tyler: [screenshot of essay] Tyler: who wrote this
Three dots bubbled immediately.
Derrick: Omw.
Derrick let himself in ten minutes later. He was still in his gym gear, smelling like Dove soap and humidity. He dropped his bag by the door and walked straight to the desk, leaning over Tylerâs shoulder to read the screen.
Derrick smelled good. Grounding.
"Show me," Derrick said.
Tyler pointed at the screen. "Read the last sentence. Tell me I didn't just hallucinate that."
Derrick read it. A slow, satisfied smirk spread across his face. "Socioeconomic stratification. Nice."
"It's not nice, Derrick. It's creepy." Tyler spun his chair around. "I didn't look that up. It just... appeared. Like a pop-up ad in my brain."
Derrick sat on the edge of the bed, looking unbothered. "Itâs the bleed. I told you. I got the traps and the lats; you got the vocabulary."
"I don't want the vocabulary," Tyler snapped, standing up and pacing the small room. "I want my own brain. I feel like I'm cheating on a test, but the cheat sheet is stuck to the inside of my eyelids."
"You're not cheating," Derrick said, his eyes tracking Tylerâs pacing with a heavy, hooded gaze. "You're upgrading."
"I'm becoming you." Tyler stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I caught myself organizing my playlist by BPM yesterday. Who does that? You do that."
"Itâs efficient."
"Itâs nerdy!" Tyler groaned. "What happens if this keeps going? Do I start needing glasses? Do I forget how to throw a fastball because my brain is too busy defining 'hegemony'?"
Derrick stood up. He crossed the room in two stridesâDerrickâs walk, but with a confidence that was all Tylerâand grabbed Tylerâs wrists.
"Stop," Derrick said. "Look at me."
Tyler looked. Derrickâs eyes were dark, intense.
"You're not losing anything," Derrick said firmly. "You're just expanding. You think I learned how to bench press 225 overnight? No. I absorbed your muscle memory. Now you're absorbing my syntax. Itâs a trade."
"It feels like an invasion," Tyler whispered.
"Does it?" Derrick stepped closer, crowding Tyler against the desk. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're evolving."
Derrick let go of one wrist to trace the line of Tylerâs jaw.
"And honestly?" Derrickâs voice dropped an octave. "Smart Tyler is doing things to me."
Tyler blinked, thrown off track. "What?"
"Watching you panic over being too articulate? Hearing you accidentally use big words?" Derrick pressed his hip against Tylerâs thigh. "Itâs hot."
Tyler let out a breathy laugh, incredulous. "You have a kink for SAT words."
"I have a kink for you," Derrick corrected. "For every version of you. But this version? The one that can talk physics while pinning me down?" Derrickâs eyes darkened. "Thatâs the final boss."
Tyler felt the heat rise in his cheeks. The panic was receding, replaced by that familiar, heavy pull in his gut. "You're weird."
"And you're brilliant." Derrick kissed himâa hard, possessive press of lips. "Now stop freaking out and finish your essay. You're going to get an A, and you're going to thank me."
Tyler leaned back against the desk, looking at this smaller man who somehow took up so much space in his life. He could feel the connection between themâa hum in the air, a wire stretched tight.
"Hey, Derrick?"
"Yeah?"
"Hegemony," Tyler said, testing the word on his tongue. "It means dominance, right?"
Derrick smiled, and it was devastating. "Yeah. It does."
"Cool." Tyler pulled Derrick back in by the waist. "Just checking."
THE REASSURANCE (One Night Before)
The bathroom, yet again, was dense with steam. Tyler stood under the spray, head bowed, letting the hot water hammer against his neck. Tomorrow was the away game. Two days on the road. The bus. The hotel. The noise. Two days of performing "Tyler Martinez" without the one person who knew the script was fake.
The glass door rattled.
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah."
The door slid open. Derrick stepped in.
He was wearing his boxers. The fabric instantly darkened, clinging to his thighs as the spray hit him.
Tyler blinked, water streaming into his eyes. He looked at Derrickâs bodyâreally looked at it. It wasn't the scrawny frame he remembered from the bus two months ago. The shoulders had filled out. The chest was broader. Derrick was beginning to look like a mirror image, a softer echo of Tyler himself.
"You're soaking your boxers," Tyler said, his voice thick.
"I know." Derrick reached for the shampoo bottle. "Turn around."
"What are youâ"
"Let me wash your hair," Derrick said. His eyes were locked on Tylerâs head, dark with a familiar, hungry focus. "Please. I want to."
Tyler turned.
He heard the snap of the bottle cap. The smell of his own shampooâcedar and citrusâfilled the small glass box. Then, Derrickâs hands were in his hair.
The sensation was electric.
Derrick didn't just wash; he worshipped. His fingers drove deep into the scalp, massaging with a pressure that was borderline possessive. He gathered the wet, heavy strands in his fists, pulling just enough to make Tylerâs breath hitch, then smoothing them back down.
"Itâs so heavy when itâs wet," Derrick murmured, his voice right at Tylerâs ear. "Like gold wire. I could spend hours just doing this."
Tylerâs knees felt weak. He braced his hands against the tile wall, letting his head fall forward. "You're obsessed."
"I am," Derrick agreed, his thumbs working the base of Tylerâs skull. "I used to watch you in class, running your hand through it, and I'd get so jealous of your own fingers."
Tyler let out a shaky breath. The tension in his shouldersâthe knot of anxiety about the game, the travel, the separationâbegan to unravel under Derrickâs relentless, rhythmic touch.
"I'm going to miss this," Tyler whispered. "The bus ride tomorrow... it feels like a prison sentence."
Derrickâs hands paused, then resumed their slow, kneading rhythm. "Itâs forty-eight hours, Ty. You'll survive."
"Will I?" Tyler turned his head slightly, trying to catch Derrickâs eye. "What if I start forgetting? What if I'm out there, being 'The Martinez,' and I forget what it feels like to be... this?"
"You won't forget." Derrick guided Tylerâs head back under the spray, rinsing the suds away. He combed the wet hair back with his fingers, exposing Tylerâs forehead, his vulnerable face. "You're not dependent on me. You're just used to me."
"It feels the same."
Derrick moved his hands to Tylerâs shoulders, squeezing the trapezius muscles. "You know what scares me?" he asked quietly. "That you'll get on that bus, surrounded by the team, the noise, the hype... and you'll realize you actually like it. That the confident, star athlete doesn't need the weird little guy who hijacks his body."
Tyler spun around.
Water sprayed everywhere. He grabbed Derrickâs wet face in both hands, pinning him with a look that was fierce and terrified.
"Don't say that."
"I hear you," Derrick whispered, water dripping from his lashes. "You're becoming the person you were supposed to be. Maybe that person doesn't need a pilot anymore."
"I will always need you," Tyler said, shaking him slightly. "You think this is about confidence? Or batting averages? Derrick, you're wired into my nervous system. I hear your voice when I'm thinking. I feel your hands when I'm alone."
"Even when I'm not there?"
"Especially when you're not there." Tyler pressed their wet foreheads together. "When I'm in that hotel room tomorrow, I won't be thinking about the game. I'll be thinking about your hands in my hair. I'll be thinking about how quiet it is without you."
Derrickâs breath hitched. "Tylerâ"
"I love you," Tyler said. The words didn't feel heavy anymore; they felt like breathing. "Not because you fixed me. But because you saw the broken parts and wanted them anyway."
Derrick let out a wet, choked laugh. "That was almost poetic."
"Shut up." Tyler kissed himâa desperate, open-mouthed collision that tasted of water and desperation. "Come to the game."
Derrick pulled back, blinking. "What?"
"Come with me. On the bus. Stay in my room." Tylerâs grip on Derrickâs face tightened. "I don't care anymore. I want you there."
"Tyler, the team... they'll know. If they see me in your room, if they see us together like that... they'll know."
"Good," Tyler said. The fear was there, pounding in his chest, but the exhaustion of hiding was stronger. "Let them know. I'm done performing for everyone but you."
Derrick searched his face, looking for the crack in the armor. He didn't find one.
"You're sure? Once you do this, you can't take it back."
Tyler thought about the locker room talk. The forced laughter. The years of holding his breath. Then he looked at Derrickâwet, shivering, looking at Tyler like he was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"I'm sure," Tyler said. "I want you. I want everyone to know you're mine."
A smile broke across Derrickâs faceâbrilliant and devastating. "Okay. Yeah. I'll come."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Derrick reached for the body wash. He poured a dollop of blue gel into his palm. "Now turn around. You've got a game to win, and I want you clean."
Tyler laughedâa sound of pure reliefâand turned back around.
Derrickâs hands returned to him. Soaping his back. His shoulders. His chest.
As Derrickâs hands slid lower, over the ridges of Tylerâs abs, Tyler leaned back against him. He felt the solid warmth of Derrickâs chest against his spine, the way their bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces finally clicking into place.
"Hey, Derrick?"
"Yeah?" Derrickâs hands were circling his navel now, thumb grazing the waistband of his boxers.
"When we get back..." Tyler swallowed. "Move in. For real. Not just your body in the closet. All of you. Your books. Your clothes. Your weird physics posters."
Derrickâs hands stilled. "You mean that?"
"I've never meant anything more. I want you here. Permanently."
Derrick pressed his face between Tylerâs shoulder blades. His arms wrapped tight around Tylerâs waist, holding on.
"Okay," Derrick whispered into wet skin. "Okay. Yes."
They stood there until the water ran cold, two bodies steaming in the mist, neither willing to be the first to let go.
The Final Possession
The mattress dipped as Tyler pulled Derrick down. They were both still damp from the shower, skin tacky and warm, smelling of cedar soap.
"One more," Tyler murmured, his voice rough. "Before I have to be 'Martinez' for forty-eight hours. I need you inside me."
Derrick scanned Tylerâs face for the old panic, the desperate need to escape. It wasn't there. Tylerâs eyes were clear. This wasn't an eviction notice; it was an invitation.
"How long?" Derrick asked.
"An hour. Maybe two." Tyler laced their fingers together, squeezing hard. "But not like before. Don't put me to sleep. I don't want to disappear."
"You want to ride shotgun?"
"Yeah." Tyler smiledâa small, crooked thing that made Derrickâs chest ache. "I want to feel you feeling me. Both of us, awake, at the wheel. Can we do that?"
"I don't know," Derrick admitted. "We've never tried a split stream."
"Let's try." Tyler lifted Derrickâs hand, kissing the knuckles. "Come inside. But don't shove me out. Just... slide over."
Derrick closed his eyes. He found the frequencyâthat familiar, humming wire that connected them. But instead of pushing, he stepped in softly. Like slipping into a warm bath without making a splash.
The world doubled.
Derrick gasped.
He was still on the bed, looking up at Tyler. But he was also looking down at himself. The sensory input was a chaotic, beautiful stereo signal. He felt the heavy thud of Tylerâs heart in one chest and the rapid flutter of his own in the other. He felt Tylerâs larger lungs filling with air, and his own shallower breath matching the rhythm.
Holy shit, Tylerâs thought echoed, clear and bright as a bell. You're here. But I'm still here.
"I'm here," Derrick said with his own mouth, while simultaneously feeling Tylerâs lips curve into a grin.
Tyler stood up. Derrick felt the movement from both perspectivesâthe visual of Tyler rising like a titan, and the internal sensation of quads firing, balance shifting, gravity acknowledging the mass.
This is trippy, Tyler thought, walking to the dresser mirror. Itâs like... surround sound.
"Show me," Derrick whispered from the bed. "Show me what we feel like."
Tyler looked in the mirror. His own face stared back, but the eyes were darker. Heavy-lidded.
Touch us, Derrick projected, the command soft but heavy.
Tylerâs hand moved to his chest. He ran his palm over the pec, thumb tracing the nipple, and the sensation hit them both. Derrick felt the texture of Tylerâs skin under the hand, and Tyler felt the heat of the touch on his chest.
Lower, Derrick guided.
Tylerâs hand slid down over the ridges of his abs, past the navel, to the waistband of his sweatpants. He shoved them down.
His cock was already hard, bobbing in the cool air.
You know what I like, Derrick thought. Do it the way I do it.
Tyler wrapped his hand around himself. But he didn't just stroke. Guided by Derrickâs phantom muscle memory, he twisted his wrist, applying a torque that Tyler never used on himself.
Tighten the grip, Derrick instructed. Twist at the top. Yes.
Tyler gasped, his knees buckling slightly. Fuuuck. How do youâ
I know your wiring better than you do, Derrick thought. Use your other hand. Reach back.
Tyler obeyed, confused but pliable. His left hand reached behind him, sliding between his glutes.
Press, Derrick commanded. Not there. Higher. Right on the perineum. Hard.
Tyler found the spotâa pressure point heâd never noticedâand dug his thumb in.
The pleasure was blinding. It hit a nerve that sent electricity straight to the base of his spine. Tylerâs head fell back, a ragged moan tearing out of his throat.
Oh my god, Tyler thought, his mind reeling. What is that?
Access, Derrick answered. Now stroke. Synchronize it.
Tyler moved his hand on his cock, twisting the skin, while his thumb pressed rhythmically into the sweet spot behind his balls. The feedback loop was catastrophic. Derrick, watching from the bed, felt every jolt of pleasure as if it were his own, amplified by the sight of Tyler unraveling in the mirror.
I'm gonnaâDerrick, I can't hold itâ
Don't hold it, Derrick urged. Give it to us.
Tyler stroked faster, his hips bucking involuntarily against the dresser. He watched his own face in the mirrorâflushed, eyes rolled back, mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.
He came with a shout, his knees hitting the floor.
Derrick, lying on the bed, gasped as the sympathetic orgasm slammed into him. He didn't even touch himself. The neural link was so strong that Tylerâs release triggered his own, a phantom fire that left him shaking and breathless.
Silence settled in the room.
Tyler slumped against the dresser, chest heaving. Did you... did you feel that?
"Yeah," Derrick croaked from the bed. "I felt everything."
Tyler turned. He crawled back onto the mattress, moving with a heavy, boneless grace. He collapsed on top of Derrick, crushing him into the sheets.
The sensation was overwhelmingâDerrick felt the weight on top of him, but he also felt the sensation of being the weight, pressing down.
I don't want you to go, Tyler thought. The thought was small, sticky with dopamine and sleepiness.
"I'm right here."
No. You're gonna leave. You're gonna pull out.
Derrick sighed. He focused on the tether. Gently, carefully, he untangled their nervous systems. He stepped back through the doorway.
The world snapped back to singular.
Derrick was just Derrick again. Small. Separate.
Tyler flinched. He buried his face in Derrickâs neck, groaning. "I hate it. Itâs so quiet."
"I'm still here, Ty."
"Itâs not the same." Tyler lifted his head, his blue eyes fierce and dilated. "You're coming tomorrow. To the game."
"Tyler, we talked about this. The bus list is finalized. Coach willâ"
"Fuck the list." Tyler propped himself up on his elbows, looming over Derrick. "I'm not doing forty-eight hours in a hotel room without you. I'll sneak you in. You can fit in my duffle bag."
Derrick laughed, batting Tylerâs chest. "I am not riding in a duffle bag."
"Then you're sitting on my lap." Tyler wasn't smiling. He grabbed Derrickâs hand, lacing their fingers together. "I'm serious, Derrick. I travel better when you're there. I sleep better. I'm... better."
"You're codependent."
"I'm in love," Tyler corrected, leaning down to kiss himâslow and heavy. "And I'm the team captain. If I say you're coming, you're coming. If Coach complains, I'll tell him you're my emotional support nerd."
"If you call me that in public, I will possess you and make you dance the Macarena during the seventh-inning stretch."
Tyler grinned, nuzzling into Derrickâs neck. "Deal. Just pack a bag. We leave at six."
Derrick ran his fingers through Tylerâs damp hair, feeling the steady beat of the heart he knew as well as his own.
"Okay," Derrick whispered. "Six o'clock."
THE AWAY GAME: CLAIMING
It was morning. The charter bus idled in the parking lot, diesel exhaust pluming white in the crisp morning air. Derrick stood on the curb, clutching his duffle bag, feeling small against the backdrop of the team. They were giants in tracksuitsâbroad shoulders, backward caps, the easy, sprawling confidence of men who owned the space they occupied.
Tyler emerged from the athletic center.
He looked tired but electric. When his eyes found Derrick, the tension in his jaw vanished, replaced by a smile that felt like a secret.
"You came," Tyler said, stopping in front of him.
"You threatened to stuff me in a duffle bag. I didn't have a choice."
Tyler huffed a laugh, grabbing Derrick's bag before he could protest. "Stay close. If Coach asks, you're my tutor. We have a physics test Monday."
"Do you even take physics?"
"Not the point."
They climbed aboard. The air inside was thick with the smell of Red Bull, aggressive body spray, and pre-game adrenaline. Heads turned. Conversations lulled.
Tyler didn't hesitate. He walked straight to the backâhis territoryâand tossed both bags into the overhead rack. He slid into the window seat, then looked up at Derrick, who was hovering in the aisle like an intruder.
"Sit," Tyler said, patting the upholstery.
Derrick sat. Tyler immediately spread his legsâthat wide, claiming stance that used to infuriate Derrickâand pressed his thigh against Derrickâs. The heat was instant. Solid. Deliberate.
The bus lurched forward. The campus began to roll away.
Tylerâs hand dropped to the seat between them. Palm up. The morning sun caught the light dusting of golden hair on his forearmâthe hair Derrick had spent so much time admiring in the mirror.
Derrick stared at the hand. The thick fingers. The calluses.
"You sure?" Derrick whispered.
Tyler didn't answer. He just reached over and laced their fingers together.
Derrickâs breath hitched. He waited for the explosion. He waited for the jeers, the slurs, the sound of his world ending.
Instead, silence rippled through the back of the bus. Then, from two rows up, Garciaâthe catcherâturned around. He looked at their joined hands, then up at Tylerâs face. He rolled his eyes.
"Finally," Garcia groaned, fishing his wallet out of his hoodie pocket. "Marcus, pay up."
"Wait, what?" Tyler stiffened.
Further up the bus, Marcus Chen turned around, grinning over the seat back. "No way. I thought he was gonna drag it out until playoffs."
"You guys... knew?" Tylerâs voice was strangled.
"Ty, you brought your 'tutor' to every practice for a month," Garcia said, handing a twenty-dollar bill to Marcus. "And you look at him like he hung the moon. Weâre dumb, but weâre not blind."
Tyler sat there, stunned. His grip on Derrickâs hand tightened, crushing Derrickâs knuckles. "And nobody... cared?"
"Why would we care?" Garcia shrugged, already losing interest. "Just don't be weird in the hotel room."
He turned back around. Marcus gave them a thumbs-up and put his headphones back on. The bus returned to its normal volume of chatter and music.
That was it. The catastrophe Tyler had spent years building in his head dissolved into a twenty-dollar bet.
Tyler slumped back against the seat, letting out a breath that lasted ten seconds. "That's it? That's the reaction?"
"Apparently," Derrick laughed, the sound bubbling up from a place of pure relief.
Tyler turned to him. The look in his eyes was rawârelief, gratitude, and a fierce, possessive heat. He leaned over, ignoring the team, ignoring the world, and kissed Derrick. It wasn't a peck. It was deep, slow, and claiming.
When they broke apart, Tyler pulled Derrick into his side, wrapping a heavy arm around his shoulders.
"Told you," Tyler murmured into Derrickâs hair.
"You didn't tell me they knew."
"I didn't know they knew." Tyler pressed his nose against Derrickâs temple, inhaling deeply. "But I'm glad they do."
Derrick rested his head on Tylerâs shoulder, watching the highway blur by. He traced the veins on the back of Tylerâs hand with his thumb, marveling at the fact that he was hereânot inside, not hidden, but right here.
By the afternoon, the team decamped at the sweaty, dilapidated hotel, and the couple wandered over to find their room. Derrick jangled the sweaty key to Room 314, pushing the door open, and the scent of industrial carpet cleaner and chlorine came rushing forward into the hallway.
Tyler dropped the bags on the floor and immediately crowded Derrick against the closed door. The kiss was frantic, adrenaline-fueled. Tylerâs hands were everywhereâin Derrickâs hair, gripping his waist, pressing him against the wood.
"We made it," Tyler breathed against his neck.
"Unpack," Derrick laughed, pushing him back gently. "You have a game in three hours."
"I don't care about the game."
"You will."
Tyler groaned but complied, unzipping his bag. Derrick sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He loved watching Tyler moveâthe effortless economy of it, the way his back muscles shifted under his shirt as he hung up his jersey.
A knock at the door made them both jump.
"Expecting someone?" Derrick whispered.
"No."
Tyler opened it. Marcus stood there, leaning against the doorframe in his team sweats.
"So," Marcus said, his eyes flicking to Derrick on the bed. "Official?"
"Yeah," Tyler said. His voice was steady. "Official."
"Cool." Marcus grinned. "I just wanted to say... I'm glad, man. You seem lighter. Less like you're about to punch a hole in the drywall."
"Thanks," Tyler said, looking at his feet, his ears turning pink.
"And Derrick?" Marcus nodded at him. "He talks about you constantly, just so you know."
Marcus left. Tyler closed the door and leaned his forehead against it for a long moment. When he turned around, his eyes were wet.
"Come here," Derrick said softly.
Tyler crossed the room and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in Derrickâs stomach. Derrickâs hands went instantly to Tylerâs hairâthick, gold, perfect. He scratched Tylerâs scalp, feeling the tension bleed out of the big body.
"I wasted so much time being scared," Tyler mumbled into Derrickâs shirt.
"You weren't wasting time," Derrick said. "You were waiting for the right pilot."
Tyler huffed a laugh. He rolled over, looking up at Derrick. "Stay with me tonight. After the game. One bed."
"There are two."
"I don't want two." Tyler reached up, tracing Derrickâs jaw. "I want to wake up with you. No possession. No tricks. Just us."
"Okay," Derrick whispered. "Just us."
The away game snuck up on them that evening. Derrick sat in the bleachers, drowning in Tylerâs navy hoodie. It smelled of detergent and Tylerâa scent that had become Derrickâs entire world.
Bottom of the ninth. Tie game.
Tyler stepped up to the plate.
From the stands, Derrick could see the shift in posture. The way Tyler rolled his shoulders. The way he dug his cleats into the dirt. It was the same stance Derrick had inhabited a dozen times, but watching it from the outside was different. It was terrifyingly impressive.
The pitch. The swing.
The crack was sharp and violent.
The ball disappeared over the left-field fence. The crowd erupted. Derrick was on his feet, screaming with the rest of them.
Tyler rounded the bases, a slow, predatory trot. As he crossed home plate, he didn't look at the dugout. He didn't look at the coach.
He looked up into the stands. He found Derrick.
And he pointed.
It wasn't subtle. It was a declaration. This is for you.
Derrick pressed both hands to his face, laughing and crying at once, his heart swelling until he thought it might burst.
The game wasn't really the point of this trip anymore, and the couple stumbled into the room after midnight, high on victory and cheap champagne the team had snuck onto the bus.
"You pointed," Derrick said, shoving Tyler toward the bed. "That was so fucking corny, bro."
"It was romantic," Tyler corrected, pulling his shirt off. "And I looked hot doing it."
"You actually did," Derrick admitted, his eyes tracking the movement of Tylerâs abs. "You fuckin'... did."
They undressed each other in the dark. There was no rush tonight. No desperate need to merge. Derrick ran his hands over Tylerâs skinâthe smooth chest, the rougher line of hair leading down his stomach, the heavy weight of him. He worshipped every inch, no longer as a pilot checking the controls, but now as a lover learning the map.
When they finally came together, it was slow. Grounded.
Tyler pressed into him, heavy and solid, and Derrick wrapped his legs around Tylerâs waist, anchoring him.
"I love you," Tyler whispered against his mouth. "I love this so much."
Afterward, they lay tangled in the center of the bed, the second mattress untouched. Tylerâs arm was a heavy weight across Derrickâs chest; his breathing was deep and even.
Derrick lay awake, listening to the hum of the mini-fridge and the beat of Tylerâs heart.
"Hey, Derrick?" Tyler mumbled, sleep-heavy.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. for getting on the bus."
Derrick smiled in the dark. He reached out, resting his hand on Tylerâs arm, feeling the warmth of the skin, the soft hair, the solid reality of him.
"I didn't have a choice," Derrick whispered. "You took up the whole seat."
"Still do," Tyler breathed, pulling him closer.
"I know." Derrick closed his eyes. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
[Gentle reader -- I welcome feedback and comments. If you enjoyed this story, feel free to let me know. I'm always looking for new ideas and themes to explore in writing. Thanks for making it this far on this journey with me. Yours in bondage and restraints, Futuradiego]
this story was inspired by a possession story I read on the male transformation blog but am now unable to locate. My apologies to the original author for taking its essence without due credit.
1
The charter bus was already packed when Derrick climbed aboard, orientation packet clutched in one hand and backpack slung over his shoulder. Students crammed the narrow aisle, sprawled across seats with legs extended, bags claiming territory.
One seat. Right next to the guy in the baseball uniform.
Derrick had noticed him at orientationâhard not to. Tyler was the kind of guy who took up space without trying, all broad shoulders and easy confidence, his community college baseball cap worn backwards over dark blonde hair. Now he sat with his legs spread wide, one arm draped over the seat back, his duffle bag shoved partially into the aisle. The tight grey uniform pants left nothing to imagination, and Derrick caught himself looking before jerking his gaze away.
"Hey, manâthis seat taken?" Derrick kept his voice light, friendly.
Tyler's eyes flicked up, a quick assessment that felt almost physical. Blue eyes, sharp. Something flickered across his faceâsurprise? Recognition? Then his jaw tightened and he looked back at his phone without a word, shifting his duffle bag maybe half an inch.
Derrick squeezed past Tyler's knees, trying not to make contact but the aisle was too narrow and Tyler wasn't moving. Their legs brushed. Tyler's thigh was solid muscle under those pants, radiating heat in the stuffy bus. Derrick dropped into the seat, suddenly aware of how much smaller he wasâTyler's shoulder easily clearing his by three inches, Tyler's presence taking up what felt like two-thirds of the shared space.
"First day, right?" Derrick tried again. "I'm Derrick. You play baseball?"
Stupid question. The uniform made it obvious.
Tyler didn't look up from his phone. "Yeah."
Silence stretched out. The bus lurched forward and Derrick grabbed the seat in front of them, while Tyler barely moved, his body absorbing the motion with athletic ease.
"Cool. You guys have a good team?"
Tyler's jaw worked. "It's fine."
The dismissal was clear. Derrick should have taken the hint, but something in the tension of Tyler's shoulders felt less like disinterest and more like... something else.
The bus hit a pothole and Derrick lurched sideways, his shoulder slamming into Tyler's arm. "Shitâsorry, man."
Tyler went rigid. For a second Derrick thought he'd actually snapped. But Tyler just pulled his arm away from the seat back, crossing both arms over his chest instead.
Tyler's phone buzzed in his hand. Not a text buzz. A notification buzz. Distinct, with that particular pulse pattern that Derrick recognized because he had the same app. Grindr.
Tyler's entire body went taut. His thumb stabbed at the screen, killing the sound, and he shot Derrick a look that was pure venomâblue eyes blazing with something between rage and panic. Like Derrick had personally reached over and outed him to the entire bus.
Derrick froze. Oh.
Oh.
Tyler's glare didn't waver, daring him to say something, to acknowledge what that notification meant. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. The hand gripping his phone had gone white-knuckled.
"Iâ" Derrick started, but he didn't know how to finish that sentence.
"Don't," Tyler said, low and threatening. Just that one word, vibrating with warning.
Derrick shut his mouth and looked away, staring determinedly at the seat in front of him. His heart hammered. The air between them felt electric now, charged with Tyler's barely restrained fury and something else Derrick didn't dare name. He was hyperaware of every point where their bodies almost touchedâTyler's thigh just an inch from his, the heat radiating off him, the way Tyler's breathing had gone shallow and controlled.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. Tyler never looked at him again, eyes fixed on his phone screen with laser focus. But he also never moved away. Stayed exactly where he was, legs spread, taking up space, that solid thigh close enough that every bump and sway of the bus threatened contact.
When they finally pulled up to campus, Tyler was on his feet before the bus fully stopped, grabbing his duffle and pushing past Derrick without a word. Derrick watched him goâthe aggressive set of those shoulders, the way other students automatically moved aside.
Fresh start, he'd thought. First day optimism.
He had no idea how right and wrong that would turn out to be.
2
The humiliation was still burning in Derrick's chest when he shouldered through the athletic center doors.
It had been three weeks of this shit. Three weeks of Tyler's casual cruelty on the busâthe manspreading, the dismissive grunts, the way he'd "accidentally" elbow Derrick's ribs when reaching for his bag. But today had been different. Today Tyler had escalated.
In the cafeteria. In front of everyone.
Derrick had been carrying his tray, looking for a seat, and Tyler's foot had just... appeared. Derrick went down hard, his lunch exploding across the floor in a spectacular spray of spaghetti and red sauce. The laughter was immediate, brutal. And TylerâTyler had looked down at him with those cold blue eyes and said, "Watch where you're going, little man."
The rage that followed was unlike anything Derrick had felt before. Not just anger. Something darker, more primal. A need to make Tyler feel what he felt. To understand. To suffer.
He'd followed Tyler after classes ended, watched him head to baseball practice. And now Derrick stood in the hallway outside the locker room, heart pounding, not even sure what he planned to do.
The athletic center was mostly emptyâpractice had just ended and most players were already showered and gone. Derrick could hear voices inside, water running, the metallic clang of locker doors. He pushed through, the smell of sweat and body spray hitting him immediately.
Tyler was at his locker. Alone.
He had his back to Derrick, already shirtless, those broad shoulders gleaming with sweat. His baseball pants hung low on his hips as he reached up to grab something from the top shelf, muscles shifting under tanned skin.
Then Tyler turned around.
His eyes went wide when he saw Derrickâsurprise, then immediate annoyance. "The fuck are you doing in here?"
"Youâ" Derrick's voice cracked. He stepped closer, not sure what he was doing but unable to stop. "You can't justâ"
"Can't just what?" Tyler's jaw set, aggressive. He took a step forward and Derrick should have backed up but he didn't. "You gonna cry about it?"
They were close now. Too close. Derrick could smell himâsweat and grass and something underneath that was just Tyler. His chest was rising and falling hard, adrenaline spiking. Tyler's eyes flicked down to Derrick's mouth, then back up, something confused crossing his face.
"Iâ" Derrick started.
And then Tyler shoved him.
Not hard. Just a dismissive push to the shoulder, the same casual violence Tyler always used. But Derrick's hand shot out instinctively, grabbing Tyler's wrist to steady himself.
Skin on skin.
The world lurched.
Derrick felt it first as vertigoâthe ground tilting beneath him, his vision doubling. Tyler's face was right in front of him and then it was everywhere, surrounding him, and thenâ
He was looking at himself.
His own face, small and shocked, brown eyes wide. His own body, compact and tense. He was seeing himself from above, from Tyler's height, and the disorientation was so complete that Derrick'sâno, Tyler'sâknees buckled.
What the fuck what the fuck what the FUCKâ
The thought wasn't his. It was Tyler's. Derrick could feel Tyler inside this body, inside his body, panicking and thrashing like a trapped animal.
GET OUT GET OUTâ
"No," Derrick heard himself say, except it was Tyler's voice, deeper, coming from Tyler's throat.
He looked down. Tyler's hands. Bigger than his, scarred knuckles, calluses from batting practice. He flexed the fingers experimentally and felt Tyler's horror spike inside himâa foreign presence he could somehow sense, trapped and screaming silently.
Derrick took a step. Tyler's body moved with easy athletic grace, so different from his own. He could feel Tyler's muscle memory, the casual power in these limbs. Another step. Tyler was still trying to fight, but it was like pushing against waterâDerrick's will was everywhere, in control.
He turned back to the locker, and in the mirror mounted inside the door, Tyler's face stared back at him.
Blue eyes. Strong jaw. The face that had sneered down at him a hundred times.
Derrick smiled with Tyler's mouth.
Tyler's panic became terrorâa wordless scream that only Derrick could hear. And beneath the terror, something else. Something Tyler would never admit.
A spark of arousal.
Derrick felt it in this body's responseâthe quickening pulse, the heat pooling low in Tyler's belly, the way Tyler'sâhisâcock was starting to thicken in those tight baseball pants. Tyler was horrified by his own reaction, trying desperately to suppress it, but Derrick felt everything.
No no no this isn'tâI'm notâ
"You are," Derrick whispered with Tyler's voice.
He ran Tyler's hands down Tyler's chest, feeling the solid muscle, the way Tyler's body responded to touch. Tyler's consciousness thrashed harder, humiliation mixing with the unwanted arousal, and Derrick could feel the exact moment Tyler realized how completely he was exposed. Every secret thought. Every hidden desire. All of it laid bare.
Derrick's phone buzzed in his own body's pocketâhis real body, which was still standing there frozen, eyes glazed and empty like a puppet with cut strings.
The bizarreness of that image snapped something in Derrick. This wasn't right. This was violation, possession, something impossible that shouldn't exist. His focus wavered and Tyler's will surged up immediately, desperate and violent.
The world lurched again.
Derrick gasped, stumbling backward, and suddenly he was back in his own body. Smaller. Looking up at Tyler.
Tyler staggered, catching himself against the lockers. His chest heaved. His eyes were wild, unfocused. "Whatâ" He touched his own chest, his face, like he needed to confirm he was himself again. "What the fuck was that?"
Derrick couldn't speak. His whole body was shaking.
Tyler's hand shot out and grabbed Derrick's shirt, yanking him close. "What did you do?" His voice was raw, terrified. Up close Derrick could see Tyler's pupils were blown wide, his breathing ragged.
"I don'tâI didn'tâ" Derrick stammered.
Tyler shoved him away, and Derrick hit the lockers hard. Tyler backed up, putting distance between them, still touching his own body like he didn't trust it. His hands were shaking. "Stay the fuck away from me," he said, but his voice cracked on the words.
Then he grabbed his shirt and bag and ranâactually ranâfrom the locker room, leaving Derrick alone with the fluorescent lights humming and the smell of sweat and the knowledge that something fundamental had just changed.
Derrick looked down at his own hands. They felt wrong now. Too small. He could still remember what it felt like to have Tyler's body, Tyler's strength.
And Tyler's desire.
He touched his own face and shuddered.
3
The house was packed, bass thumping through cheap speakers, the kind of off-campus party that happened every weekend in the neighborhoods surrounding community colleges. Students crammed into a living room that wasn't meant to hold this many people, red cups everywhere, the air thick with weed smoke and cheap beer.
Derrick stood near the kitchen, nursing a beer he didn't really want. His eyes kept tracking across the room to where Tyler stood with the baseball team.
Tyler looked good. Fuck, he always looked good. Dark jeans that sat low on his hips, a plain white t-shirt that stretched across those shoulders. His backwards cap. That easy confidence in how he moved, laughing at something one of his teammates said, beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
They hadn't been on the same bus since the locker room. Derrick knew Tyler had been deliberately taking earlier or later routes, avoiding him. In classâthey shared one gen-ed history courseâTyler sat on the opposite side of the room and never looked once his direction.
But now they were here. Same party. And Tyler knew he was here too. Derrick had seen the moment Tyler spotted him across the roomâthe way Tyler's whole body went tense, his laugh cutting off mid-sound. Tyler had turned away immediately, but not before Derrick caught the flash of something in his eyes.
Fear. And something else.
Derrick took a sip of his warm beer and let his eyes drift back to Tyler.
Tyler was drinking faster than his friends, Derrick noticed. Already on his third or fourth beer, the way he was swaying slightly when he laughed. One of his teammates was demonstrating some play, gesturing wildly, and Tyler's attention kept... wandering.
Across the room. To where a guy in a tight tank top was dancing with some girls.
Tyler's eyes tracked the guy's movement for a beat too long before he jerked his gaze away and took another pull of his beer. His jaw was tight. Derrick recognized that lookâthe same controlled tension Tyler had on the bus, the careful way he held himself.
The party swirled around them. Someone turned the music up. Bodies pressed closer. Derrick moved through the crowd, not consciously heading toward Tyler, but somehow ending up closer. Near the back hallway where it was slightly less packed.
Tyler was there suddenly, heading to the bathroom, and they were face to face in the narrow hallway.
Tyler froze. His eyes went wide, then narrowed. "You," he said, and it wasn't quite an accusation but close.
"Me," Derrick agreed.
They stared at each other. The music was muffled here, the hallway dim. Tyler smelled like beer and cologne. His chest was rising and falling too fast.
"Are youâ" Tyler's voice was rough. "Are you gonnaâ" He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't say possess me out loud because that would make it real.
"No," Derrick said. "Not unlessâ"
"Unless what?" Tyler stepped closer, aggressive, using his height. "Unless I piss you off? Unless you feel like it?"
"I don't know," Derrick admitted. "I don't know how it works."
Tyler's hand shot out and grabbed the front of Derrick's shirt. Not violent, not quite. More like he needed to hold onto something. "You can'tâyou can't justâ" His pupils were huge, alcohol and fear and something hungry. "That wasn'tâI'm notâ"
"I know what I felt," Derrick said quietly. "In your body. What you felt."
Tyler's grip tightened. His face was so close now Derrick could count his eyelashes. "Shut the fuck up."
"Make me."
It was supposed to be defiant. It came out breathless instead.
Tyler's eyes dropped to Derrick's mouth. He was breathing hard, his whole body coiled tight. For a second Derrick thought Tyler might actually kiss him, might close that last inch andâ
Tyler shoved him away, stumbling back. "Fuck you," he said, but there was no heat in it. Just panic. He shouldered past Derrick and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door.
Derrick stood there, heart pounding, and realized his hands were shaking.
He knewâknewâhe could do it again. If he wanted. Could push through that bathroom door, grab Tyler's wrist, and just... slip inside.
The temptation was dizzying.
Instead, Derrick turned and headed back to the party. But he was hyperaware of Tyler the rest of the night. When Tyler emerged from the bathroom, when he rejoined his friends but kept drinking, kept tracking guys with those furtive glances. When Tyler's teammate threw an arm around his shoulders and Tyler tensed before forcing himself to relax.
They didn't speak again. But Derrick caught Tyler looking at him across the roomâonce, twice, three times. Each time Tyler's expression was unreadable, somewhere between fear and fascination.
When Derrick finally left around midnight, stepping out into the cool night, he turned back and saw Tyler through the window. Tyler was standing alone by the kitchen counter, beer bottle forgotten in his hand, staring at the door Derrick had just walked through.
Their eyes met through the glass.
Tyler didn't look away.
4
The bus was nearly empty when Derrick climbed aboard Thursday afternoon. Three students scattered across the seats, all absorbed in phones or textbooks. The usual crowd hadn't shown yetâthis was the early route, the one Derrick had been taking specifically to avoid Tyler.
He swiped his pass and moved down the aisle, heading for his preferred spot near the back.
Heavy footsteps behind him. Purposeful.
He turned.
Tyler stood in the aisle, duffle bag over one shoulder, still in his practice uniform. Those tight grey pants, the jersey with MARTINEZ across the back in block letters. His cap was backwards, blonde hair curling out from underneath. And he was looking directly at Derrick with an expression that made Derrick's stomach drop.
Not angry. Not scared.
Hungry.
"This seat taken?" Tyler asked, and his voice was lower than usual, rougher.
Derrick stared. "Iâno?"
Tyler didn't wait for a better answer. He slid into the aisle seat, his body blocking Derrick's exit, and dropped his duffle bag between his feet. The bus lurched forward and Tyler spread his legs wide, one thigh pressing against Derrick's, claiming space.
They sat in silence for a full minute. Derrick's heart hammered. He was intensely aware of every point of contactâTyler's thigh solid and warm against his, Tyler's shoulder higher than his own, the smell of sweat and grass and something sharper underneath.
"You've been avoiding me," Tyler said finally, not looking at him.
"I've been avoiding you? You literally changed your bus route."
"Yeah." Tyler's jaw worked. "And you started taking the early one."
So Tyler had noticed. Had been tracking him.
"What do you want?" Derrick asked.
Tyler's hand flexed on his thigh. "I don't know."
The admission hung between them. The bus rumbled over a speed bump and Tyler swayed into Derrick, shoulder knocking against his, and didn't pull away.
"I can't stop thinking about it." Tyler's voice was barely audible over the bus engine. "What you did. What it felt like."
Derrick went very still. "What did it feel like?"
Tyler's hands fisted. "Likeâ" He stopped. Started again. "You were everywhere. Inside me. I couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn'tâ" His breathing was getting faster. "And I should have hated it."
"But you weren't," Derrick said softly.
"I was." Tyler's eyes finally met his, and they were wild, desperate. "I was terrified. But I alsoâ" He bit off the words.
"Also what?"
Tyler's hand moved. Slow, deliberate, he reached across his own body and grabbed Derrick's wrist. Skin on skin. His grip was tight, fingers digging in, and Derrick felt it immediatelyâthat pull, that doorway opening between them.
"Do it," Tyler whispered. "I needâI need to know if it was real."
Derrick's power stirred, hungry and eager. "Why?"
Tyler's grip tightened. "Because I haven't been able to sleep. Because I keep feeling you in my head even though you're not there. Because every time I close my eyes I remember what it was like to not be in control and Iâ" His voice cracked. "I get hard thinking about it."
The confession shattered something between them. Tyler's face was flushed now, humiliation and arousal mixing. His chest heaved. And his hand was still locked around Derrick's wrist, holding on like Derrick might disappear.
"You want me to possess you," Derrick said, testing the words. "Right here. On this bus."
"Yes," Tyler breathed. "Please."
The 'please' destroyed Derrick. He'd never heard Tyler say that word before.
Derrick looked around. The other passengers were absorbed in their own worlds, earbuds in, facing forward. No one was paying attention.
"Okay," Derrick breathed.
He let his power surge forward, and Tyler's eyes rolled back.
The world inverted.
Derrick gasped with Tyler's lungs, feeling Tyler's consciousness shove against him immediatelyâbut different this time. Not fighting to escape. More like... testing. Exploring. Tyler's panic was still there but underneath it was a desperate curiosity.
Oh god oh fuck you can feel that you can feel everythingâ
"Yes," Derrick said with Tyler's mouth, keeping his voice low. "I feel everything."
Tyler's horror-arousal doubled. He was so exposed, every secret laid bare.
The bus slowed at a stop. Derrick stood with Tyler's body, and Tyler's consciousness suddenly spiked with panic.
Your bodyâwe can't just leave itâ
Derrick looked back. His real body sat there, eyes glazed and vacant, and any second someone might notice.
Fuck fuck what do we doâ
Derrick's mind raced. Then Tyler's consciousness pressed urgently: Get off here. There'sâthe construction site, the porta-potty, we canâ
It was insane. Reckless. But Derrick grabbed his own body's arm and pulled it to standing. To the other passengers it would look like he was helping a drunk friend. He half-dragged, half-carried his empty shell off the bus.
The construction site was just past the bus stopâweekend work, currently abandoned. Derrick muscled his body behind a dumpster, propped it in shadows where it wouldn't be seen.
This is so fucked up, Tyler's thought was panicked laughter.
"You asked for this," Derrick reminded him.
I know. God, I know. Tyler's consciousness wrapped tighter around his. Now what?
"Now," Derrick said, flexing Tyler's hands, "I have your body. What do you want me to do with it?"
Everything, Tyler answered immediately. Anything.
5
Derrick walked Tyler's body away from the construction site, feeling the strength in these legs, the easy athletic stride. Tyler's consciousness was still there, wrapped around his, experiencing his own body from the outside.
This is what I feel like? This is how my body moves?
"Yeah," Derrick said aloud. "This is you."
He headed toward campus, Tyler's route automatic. And as he walked, Tyler's arousal was building, the fascination mixing with fear.
The locker room. Tyler's thought was sudden, urgent. Take me there.
"Why?"
Where it started. I needâplease.
Derrick changed direction, heading for the athletic center. It was late afternoon, the building mostly empty. He pushed through the locker room door, the smell of disinfectant and sweat immediately familiar.
Tyler's consciousness spiked with recognition. Here.
Derrick walked to Tyler's lockerânumber 17âand Tyler's fingers moved automatically through the combination. Inside, Tyler's spare clothes hung neatly.
Touch me, Tyler's thought was desperate. I need to feel it again.
Derrick's handsâTyler's handsâgrabbed Tyler's jersey and yanked it up. The fabric dragged over Tyler's torso and off. Tyler's bare chest in the mirror, the defined muscle, the light hair.
Yes yes pleaseâ
But they didn't have time for slow. Derrick's hands were frantic now, unbuttoning Tyler's baseball pants, shoving them down just enough. Tyler was already hard, straining against his compression shorts.
Don't stop don't stopâ
Derrick shoved the compression shorts down and Tyler's cock sprang free. He wrapped Tyler's hand around it immediately, no teasing, no exploration. Just desperate need.
Oh fuckâ
He stroked fast, rough, Tyler's body knowing exactly what it needed. His other hand gripped the locker door for balance, knuckles white. Tyler's consciousness was fragmenting, overwhelmed.
The orgasm hit fast and hard. Tyler came with a strangled gasp, spattering the inside of his locker, and his consciousness whited out completely.
When awareness returned, Tyler's thought was dazed: Holy shit.
Derrick was already cleaning up with his jersey, shoving everything back into place. His movements were rushed, sloppy. Someone could walk in any second.
We shouldâTyler started.
"I know," Derrick said. "I need to get back."
I don't want you to leave, Tyler's consciousness pressed closer, almost desperate.
"I have to. My bodyâ"
I know. Fuck. I know.
Derrick left the locker room, walking quickly back toward the construction site. Tyler's consciousness was quiet now, subdued, coming down from the high.
When they reached the dumpster, Derrick's body was still there, slumped and waiting.
This is so wrong, Tyler thought, but there was wonder in it too.
"You asked for it," Derrick reminded him gently.
I did. And IâI want to again. Tomorrow. Can weâ
"Yes," Derrick said.
Thank you, Tyler's consciousness whispered.
Derrick let go.
The world lurched and he gasped, back in his own body. Small and cold after Tyler's warmth. Tyler stood in front of him, swaying, eyes wild.
"Tomorrow," Tyler said hoarsely.
Tomorrow," Derrick agreed. Tyler blinked, the vulnerability suddenly vanishing as the reality of what they'd done hit him. He stiffened, his face hardening into that familiar mask. "Don't be late," Tyler snapped, his voice cold. "And don't think this means we're friends." He turned and walked away fast, leaving Derrick alone by the dumpster.
6
Derrick saw Tyler the moment he climbed aboard the Friday morning bus.
Tyler was in their usual spotâthe seat they'd shared that first day. He sat sprawled with his legs wide, duffle bag on his lap, backwards cap shadowing his eyes. When Derrick started down the aisle, Tyler's gaze locked on him with an intensity that made Derrick's stomach flip.
Derrick walked straight to Tyler and stood there, waiting. Tyler's eyes traveled up his body slowly, deliberately, before that familiar smirk crossed his face.
"Well, well," Tyler said, loud enough that nearby students could hear. "Look who finally decided to show up."
"Move your bag," Derrick said.
"What's the magic word?" Tyler's voice had that mocking edge.
"Please," Derrick said quietly.
Something flashed in Tyler's eyes. He moved the bag to the floor, then patted the seat. "Since you asked so nice."
Derrick slid in and Tyler immediately spread his legs wider, his thigh pressing hard against Derrick's. The contact was aggressive, claiming space, but Derrick felt Tyler's muscle tenseânot with hostility but with barely controlled tension.
The bus lurched forward and Tyler's arm shot out, hand landing on Derrick's shoulder and staying there. Heavy. Possessive.
"You're so fucking small," Tyler said, his fingers digging in slightly. "Like, do you even work out?"
"No," Derrick said evenly.
"It shows." Tyler's hand squeezed. "Bet I could justâ" Tyler grabbed Derrick's bicep, his large hand easily encircling it. "Yeah, tiny."
"Maybe I should," Derrick said.
Tyler's grip tightened, thumb pressing into the soft underside of Derrick's arm. It hurt, electric and intimate. "You good? Not gonna cry on me, are you?"
"I'm fine."
"Good." Tyler released his arm and threw his own across the back of the seat, behind Derrick's shoulders. To everyone else it looked dominantâTyler claiming territory. But Derrick could feel Tyler's fingers twitching near his neck, wanting to touch.
They rode in silence for a few stops. Tyler kept up the physical contactâhis thigh pressed hard against Derrick's, his arm a constant presence, occasionally his shoulder would bump Derrick's head. Each touch calibrated to look aggressive while actually being desperate connection.
"You going to Chen's history class?" Tyler asked eventually.
"Yeah. Nine."
"I got the same one. Eight-thirty section though." A pause. "Could go to yours instead."
Derrick turned to look at him. Tyler was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, trying to look casual. "You don't have toâ"
"I know I don't have to," Tyler cut him off. "I'm saying I want to. Got a problem with that?"
"No."
"Good." Tyler's hand finally made contact with Derrick's neck, just his fingertips, hidden from view. The touch was gentle, so different from the aggressive grabbing. "So we're walking to class together."
"Okay," Derrick breathed.
Tyler's fingers pressed slightly harder, then withdrew. "Don't make it weird."
The bus pulled up to campus and Tyler stood first, grabbing his duffle. When Derrick stood, Tyler immediately crowded him from behind, one hand on his lower back pushing him forward. To observers it looked like impatience. But Derrick felt the way Tyler's hand lingered, palm flat against his spine, fingers spanning wide.
They got off the bus and Tyler started walking toward the academic buildings. Derrick fell into step beside him, and Tyler slowed down fractionally, adjusting his pace.
They passed other students, and Tyler's demeanor shifted in public. Shoulders squared, stride aggressive, careful distance between them. But when no one was looking, Tyler would drift closer before catching himself.
"So," Tyler said as they approached the history building, his voice dropping lower. "After class. You free?"
"Yeah."
"Good." Tyler's eyes were hungry. "Because we need to talk. About yesterday."
"Okay."
"Andâ" Tyler glanced around. "Maybe do it again. If you want."
"I want," Derrick said immediately.
Tyler's breath hitched. For a second his mask slipped completelyâraw, vulnerable, desperate. Then someone called his name and the walls slammed back up.
"See you in there," Tyler told Derrick. Then, quieter: "Sit in the back. I'll find you."
The lecture hall was already half-full when Derrick entered. He headed straight for the back row, choosing a seat near the corner where the overhead lights didn't quite reach.
Then the door opened and Tyler walked in.
He scanned the room until his eyes found Derrick. Something crossed his faceârelief? Hunger? He started up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Tyler dropped into the seat directly next to Derrick, his duffle bag hitting the floor with a heavy thud.
"Hey," Tyler said.
"Hey."
Tyler slouched in his chair, legs spread wide so his thigh immediately pressed against Derrick's. Their shoulders were touching too. He smelled like deodorant and nervous sweat.
Professor Chen cleared her throat. "Good morning, everyone. Let's dive into chapter sixâthe Industrial Revolution and its social impacts."
Derrick tried to focus. But Tyler's presence was overwhelming. Every time Professor Chen turned to write on the whiteboard, Tyler would shift, pressing harder against Derrick. His hand would drop below the desk and his fingers would find Derrick's knee, squeezing briefly.
Tyler's hand was back under the desk, palm flat on Derrick's thigh now. Not moving, just resting there. Claiming.
Derrick slowly, deliberately, placed his own hand on the desk between them. Palm up. An offering.
Tyler stared at it for a long moment. Then his hand moved from under the desk and his fingertips brushed across Derrick's palm. Skin on skin. Electric.
Tyler jerked his hand back immediately, like he'd felt that pull, that doorway opening, and panicked.
"Mr. Martinez," Professor Chen's voice cut through. "Care to share your thoughts on textile manufacturing's impact on child labor?"
Tyler's whole body went rigid. "Uhâthey used kids because they were cheaper? And smaller so they could fit in the machines?"
"Correct, though I'd appreciate a more detailed analysis."
"Right. Yeah." Tyler's face was flushed. He opened his textbook with unnecessary force.
The class continued. Tyler made an effort to pay attention, but every few minutes his leg would press harder against Derrick's, or his elbow would bump Derrick's arm.
"Working in pairs," Professor Chen announced, "I want you to discuss the prompt on slide twelve. You have five minutes."
Tyler immediately turned his whole body toward Derrick, one arm draped across the back of Derrick's chair. His fingers were touching Derrick's shoulder, hidden by the chair back.
"So," Tyler said, his voice low. "The prompt."
"'Evaluate the societal changes brought on by industrialization,'" Derrick read.
"Right." Tyler's fingers pressed harder. "Societal changes. People's lives getting completely transformed. Not being in control of their own time anymore. Their bodies becomingâ" he paused, eyes darkening, "âcommodities."
The subtext was obvious.
"Some people probably liked it," Derrick said carefully. "The structure. Being told what to do."
Tyler's breath hitched. "That's fucked up."
"Is it?"
"I don't know." Tyler leaned closer. "Maybe some people need it. Need someone else toâ" He stopped, face flushing. "We should probably actually do the assignment."
"Probably."
But neither moved. Tyler's hand on Derrick's shoulder was gripping now. His other hand dropped below the desk again and found Derrick's knee, sliding higher up his thigh.
"After class," Tyler whispered. "I know a place. Private. You canâ" He couldn't finish.
"Possess you," Derrick finished.
Tyler's eyes fluttered closed briefly. "Yeah."
"For how long?"
"As long as you want." Tyler's hand was high on Derrick's thigh now, trembling. "I got practice at two. Until then, I'mâ" He swallowed hard. "I'm yours."
"Okay," Derrick breathed.
"Time's up," Professor Chen called out.
Tyler pulled back slowly, hands leaving Derrick's body with obvious reluctance. He turned to face forward, adjusting himself subtly under the desk.
When Professor Chen finally dismissed them, Tyler was on his feet immediately. "Come on," he said to Derrick, loud enough for nearby students to hear. "We need to talk about that group project."
There was no group project. It was a flimsy lie, but Tyler said it with enough confidence that no one questioned it, and Derrick followed Tyler out of the lecture hall, through the bright hallway, past the main buildings toward the old maintenance wing.
Tyler pushed through a door marked "Facilities Access - Authorized Personnel Only."
They passed storage rooms until Tyler stopped at a door near the end.
"Groundskeeper's office," Tyler said, pulling a key from his pocket. "My roommate's brother works here. He's off on Fridays."
Insideâdesk, filing cabinet, a worn couch. Tyler locked the door behind them.
They stared at each other. Tyler's chest was heaving, his hands clenched. The mask was completely gone. He looked terrified and desperate and painfully vulnerable.
"I haven't been able to think about anything else," Tyler said hoarsely. "Since yesterday. I should be freaked out. Should be running. But all I can think about isâ" His voice cracked. "I need to feel it again. You inside me. Taking over."
Derrick stepped closer. "You're sure?"
"I'm not sure about anything anymore." Tyler's laugh was broken. "Except that I need this. Need you." He held out his hand, palm up. "Please, Derrick."
Derrick reached out and their fingers interlaced, and the world began to shift.
7
The world inverted.
Derrick gasped with Tyler's lungs as consciousness transferred, expanding, filling Tyler's body. Tyler's presence wrapped around him immediately, but this time there was no resistance. Tyler's consciousness opened completely, welcoming, eager.
Yes yes finally pleaseâ
Derrick steadied himself with Tyler's hands against the desk, feeling the solid muscle in Tyler's arms. He looked at his own empty bodyâsmaller frame standing frozen, eyes glazed, mouth slightly open.
Your body, Tyler's thought came with worry. We need toâ
"I know," Derrick said with Tyler's voice.
He caught his own smaller frame before it could collapse, Tyler's strength making it easy. He carried himself to the couch and laid his body down carefully, positioning it to look like sleep.
That's so fucking weird, Tyler thought.
"Get used to it," Derrick murmured.
He turned Tyler's body to face the small mirror near the filing cabinet. Tyler's reflection stared backâblue eyes, strong jaw, backwards cap. Derrick reached up with Tyler's hands and slowly took the cap off, revealing Tyler's hair. Thick, blonde, slightly messy.
You really do like my hair, Tyler's thought was almost shy.
"I love your hair," Derrick said, running Tyler's fingers through it.
Derrick's hands moved to Tyler's shirt, grabbing the hem. He pulled it up slowly, watching in the mirror as Tyler's torso was revealed inch by inch. The defined abs, the solid pecs, the light dusting of hair. Tyler's body was beautiful.
Touch me, Tyler's thought was desperate. Please touch me.
Derrick pulled the shirt off completely and ran Tyler's hands over Tyler's chest, feeling the warm skin, the muscle underneath. Tyler's consciousness shuddered.
This is what you feel when you look at me? This want, this hunger?
"Yes," Derrick said, exploring lower, over the abs.
I never knew, Tyler thought. Never knew anyone wanted me like this.
"I've wanted you since that first day on the bus," Derrick admitted. "When you glared at me. When your leg pressed against mine. I hated you and wanted you and couldn't separate the two."
Tyler's consciousness ached. I wanted you too. That's why I was so fucking mean. Because I couldn't understand why this small nerdy guy made me feelâ He couldn't finish.
Derrick's hands moved to Tyler's belt, unbuckling it slowly. Tyler's breathing had gone ragged. The belt came free and Derrick unbuttoned the pants, pulled down the zipper. Tyler's cock was already hard, straining against his boxer briefs.
Oh god, you're going toâ
"Tell me to stop if you want me to stop."
Don't stop. Please don't fucking stop.
Derrick pushed the pants down Tyler's hips, then the white boxer briefs. Tyler's cock sprang free, thick and flushed and leaking. And there were his pubesâthat neat triangle of dark blonde curls. Derrick ran Tyler's fingers through them, gentle, reverent.
Why do you like that? It's justâit's just hair.
"It's masculine," Derrick said. "It's part of you being fully you. And it's beautiful."
No one's ever called me beautiful before.
"You are," Derrick said firmly. He wrapped Tyler's hand around Tyler's cock, and they both groaned.
Fuck fuck fuckâ
Derrick stroked slowly, exploring, learning what Tyler liked. He could feel Tyler's muscle memory, but he also experimented, paid attention to how Tyler's consciousness responded.
His other hand moved up to Tyler's jaw, feeling the stubble. The scratch of it, so different from Derrick's own smooth skin.
You keep touching my face.
"I like your stubble," Derrick admitted. "I can't grow any yet. Yours isâ" He rubbed Tyler's thumb over Tyler's jaw. "It's sexy."
Tyler's orgasm was building, pressure coiling in Tyler's belly. Tyler's consciousness was fragmenting, overwhelmed by sensation and emotionâbeing desired so completely, being touched by someone who genuinely wanted him.
I'm close, I'mâDerrickâ
"Come for me," Derrick commanded.
Tyler's orgasm crashed through them both, Tyler's cock pulsing as he came hard, streaks hitting Tyler's abs, his chest. Tyler's consciousness whited out, pure pleasure.
When awareness came back, Tyler's thoughts were soft, vulnerable: Holy shit.
"Yeah," Derrick agreed.
He grabbed tissues from the desk and cleaned Tyler's body carefully, reverently. Then he just stood there, looking at Tyler's naked form in the mirror.
We have hours, Tyler's thought came tentatively. Until practice. You couldâif you wantedâ
"What do you want me to do?"
Everything. I want you to do everything. Live my life. Walk around campus in my body. Let people see meâsee youâsee us. I want to feel what it's like when you're in control out there, not just in private.
The request was enormous. Complete surrenderânot just his body, but his identity, his reputation.
"Are you sure?"
I've never been more sure. Please. Show me what it's like to be me through your eyes.
Derrick felt something shift in his chestâTyler's chestâtheir chest. This was intimacy deeper than sex, trust more complete than anything he'd experienced.
"Okay," he said softly. "Let's go."
He got Tyler dressed againâthe boxer briefs, the tight pants, the blue tee, the backwards cap. Each piece of Tyler's armor, his public face. But now Derrick wore it, and Tyler was just a passenger.
Derrick checked his own body on the couch one more timeâstill breathing, still safeâthen unlocked the office door and stepped out.
Tyler's body moved with easy athletic grace, confident and powerful. Students would see Tyler Martinez, baseball star. They wouldn't know that inside, Tyler was experiencing what it felt like to be wanted, to be cherished, to surrender completely.
Thank you, Tyler's thought whispered. For wanting me. For this.
"Always," Derrick replied, and stepped out into the bright afternoon sun wearing Tyler's body like a prize.
âThe scent of aged oak and expensive leather usually signaled comfort to Grant, but tonight, the air at The Rusty Nail just smelled like delayed payment. He was a businessman dealing with a painful reminder of a bad loan, currently dressed in a simple leather jacket and jeans. He was nursing a whiskey, letting the quiet simmer of anger brew beneath the surface. Grant had been trying to collect the $3,000 owed to him for six months, but Brad had always been elusive, promising payment that never arrived. When Bradâcrisp, impeccable, and perfectly tailored in a suit worth exactly that missing sumâwalked through the entrance, Grant knew the wait was over. The irony of the situation settled over him like a cloak, quickly replacing his anger with a cold, focused resolve.
âThe Confrontation
âGrant slid off his stool. His worn brown leather jacket felt like armor as he crossed the floor.
ââBrad?â Grantâs voice was low, cutting through the background chatter.
âBrad stiffened, his eyes flickering with immediate, naked panic. He opened his mouth, a pathetic, strangled sound escaping. âG-GrantâŚâ
âGrant was on him in an instant, his large hand clamping down on the knot of Brad's expensive gray silk tie.
ââYouâre looking well, Brad,â Grant murmured, his face inches from the other man's. âConsidering the three thousand dollars youâve been 'trying' to pay me for half a year. I guess that money went straight into looking like a damn movie star.â
âBrad tried to yank away, his voice tight with desperation. âGrant, please! Iâve been trying to get the cashââ
âGrantâs left hand shot out and bunched the lapels of the custom-made jacket in a crushing grip.
ââL-look out!â Brad stammered, twisting wildly. âWatch the suit! This suit cost three thousand dollars!â
âGrant stared at the terrified, pleading eyes of the man who owed him the exact price of the clothes he was wearing. A slow, predatory smile spread across Grant's face.
ââThree thousand, you say?â Grant chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. âWhat a coincidence. That settles it.â
âThe Deal
âGrant shoved Brad hard toward the back of the bar, leading him directly to the customer restroom, which was dark and discreet. He slammed the door shut and locked them inside.
ââNew deal, Brad,â Grant said, eyes burning. âThe debt. Itâs an inconvenience. This suit⌠this suit is your payment. You said it cost three thousand. A nice, round number. Strip.â
ââWhat?!â Brad stammered, horrified.
ââStart with the jacket. Everything. Shirt, tie, shoes, socks. The whole ensemble. If it fits me, Brad, the three grand is settled. You walk out of here clean, but without a single thread of dignity left.â
âBradâs horror only intensified as Grantâs gaze inventoried the costly watch and the expensive shoes. Brad knew Grant meant every word. He began to undress, slowly.
âThe Exchange
âA few minutes later, the restroom housed a strange tableau: Brad, standing shivering in only his pristine white briefs, clutching his empty wallet. And Grant, now completely transformed.
âGrant checked the fit. The suit was perfect. The bespoke trousers, the shirt, the polished shoes, the watchâit all fit him like a glove. He adjusted the knot of the gray silk tie.
âGrant looked back at Brad. âIt fits,â he confirmed, his voice devoid of emotion. âDebt settled. Now, get your underwear butt out of here.â
âBrad, utterly defeated, snatched his empty wallet and bolted out the back door.
âThe Conclusion
âGrant adjusted the set of the gray suit, the fabric feeling smooth and powerful. He gathered his own rugged leather jacket and jeans.
âHe walked casually through the parking lot, his steps echoing slightly in the expensive leather shoes. He opened the door of his truck, tossed the bag inside, and stood watching. He saw the miserable, white-brief-clad blur of Brad scrambling to his cheap sedan and driving off in a panicked screech of tires.
âDebt settled. And humiliation complete.
âGrant returned to the bar, settled onto his old stool, and signaled the bartender.
â"A celebratory shot of your best whiskey," he announced, followed by, "And a beer chaser.
âHe felt the heavy wool and silk of the suit. He was still Grant, the businessman, but now he was wearing his collateralâa reminder that he always collects his due.
I was scrolling through Grindr when a guy caught my eye. He was what most people would call a chav: tracksuit, trainers, tattoos, cigarette in hand. The total opposite to me, but that just made him all the more attractive. I read Jayâs profile âlookin 4 hot successful guys with $$$â. Hmmmm, he seems like a bit of a gold digger, but I would fit the bill heâs looking for - he might find me a bit boring, since I mostly just working at my corporate job, but saying âheyâ canât hurt.
We start exchanging messages, he asks about my life, my work, my salary, and I ask about his. Seems he lives on a nearby housing estate, works a manual job and is looking to better himself. Well you have to admire his ambition. After chatting for a few hours, I invite him over to my place for a drink.Â
He arrives to the door of my apartment and I let him in âYouâre looking really hot!â I tell him. âThanks, lookin good yourself Paul mateâ he replies. We continue talking before the conversation turns to our differences. He tells me âYouâre so lucky mate, youâve got your life sorted. Wish I had all this.â I consider his comment and reply âWhy thank you, it took a lot of hard work and my life can be stressful. I wish I could take a break from it all sometimes, if Iâm honestâŚâ Apparently thatâs exactly what he wanted me to say. A sly grin appears on his face. âWell, looks like both our wishes might get granted tonight!â He takes a coin out of his pocket and puts his hand on my chest. A current of electricity pulses through our bodies and our bodies become malleable. I look down and see my body moving like jelly, before it begins to reform into a solid state, only this time, it doesnât look like me. I look back up and see my own face âWhat theâŚâ I say before covering my mouth. Thatâs not my voice!
âDonât worry, I have just swapped our bodies. I get to enjoy your life and your money, and you can take a well earned breakâ His reply sounds just like me, the voice and the words. He must have been studying me this whole time. âNow, letâs swap clothes and no one will be able to tell the difference. You thought I was hot? Well now you are!â I strip off my Tommy Hilfiger shirt, the tailored trousers and the Hugo Boss underwear and replace them with non-descript underwear, Nike trainers and a black tracksuit. To anyone else, I was Jay and he was Paul.
In the pocket of my former trousers, the new Paul finds my wallet. He opens it and sees a good amount of cash âFuck yeahâ he exclaims âLetâs go grab a drink, Iâm buying, Jay. Where is my favourite bar?â âOkay, sure we can go to Gerardâsâ. I lead him out of my apartment, he makes sure to take the keys and lock the door, as I lead him to my favourite bar. As we go to enter, the doorman stops me Sorry sir, canât come in dressed like that.â I look down and realise he doesnât recognise me and thinks I am a full blown chav. His comment makes me feel angry, which is weird, because I never get angry. I clench my fists. Wow, this body doesnât seem to be very good at handling its emotions. My former self steps in, smooth talks the doorman, and leads me away calmly to find somewhere else.Â
We decide on a restaurant nearby. It must look so weird for everyone else in the restaurant. And we must have confused the waiter too, as I order a glass of Pinot Noir and my former sophisticated self orders âthe cheapest beer you haveâ. I order the lamb rump and my companion a burger with fries and ketchup. The drinks arrive and I take a sip of the wine. âEurgh, that tastes revolting!â I exclaim âRank!â Paul says as he sips the tall glass of lager. âLetâs swapâ I suggest, and I take the glass of cold lager and take a gulp. âAhhhh, much better!â I respond. âTastes must be linked with the body and not the mind.â
âSounds about rightâ my body replies, savouring the wine. âBut if you are going to be me, you need to start thinking less and start calling everyone âmateââ âOh, yeah, youâre right. Sorry mateâ I reply to him. Saying those words in this voice with this body made me hard.
The food arrives and Paul decides to take the lamb, leaving me with the burger. It tasted fucking amazing. And I just wanted to put ketchup on everything, I felt like a kid but it tasted so good. âMmmm, mate, this tastes awesomeâ Paul chuckled. As the meal ends, I feel myself getting agitated. Paul noticed. âLooks like you need to go for a smokeâŚâ He hints at me. I feel inside the pockets of my tracksuit. In one I find my phone and in the other, a box of cigarettes. Having never smoked in my life, I realise it must just be what this body needs. I head outside, nervous that I will cough like a teenager trying for the first time, but I light up and take a drag and a wave of pleasure flows over me. Mmmmmm, that feels great, I say to myself. I was really getting into this body. I feel like I can do whatever I like. The smoking causes a build up of phlegm in my mouth, which I decide to spit out onto the floor. A couple leaving the restaurant look at me with disgust. Ha, I look like a proper chav now, and it feels so liberating. I walk back into the restaurant and sit back down. âWoah, you stink of smoke!â Paul tells me. âI didnât realise I stank like that.â his face shows a faint look of disgust, which only makes me feel prouder. Fuck, I didnât realise how stuck up I was. âJust what this body needed tho mate.â I say, settling into the life of Jay.
The glow of my laptop screen was the only light in my cramped studio apartment, casting long shadows across the clay-dusted floor. It was past midnight, one of those restless nights where sleep felt like a distant acquaintance. Iâd been scrolling through art forums, hunting for inspiration for my next sculptureâa piece about fractured identities, all sharp angles and hollowed-out facesâwhen I veered into a deeper corner of the internet. Masking fetishes. Iâd stumbled into this world a year ago after a commission for a hyper-realistic silicone mask for a theater piece. The way it transformed the actor, how he moved like someone else entirely, lodged in my brain like a splinter. Iâd been lurking ever since, reading posts about people slipping into new skins, shedding their everyday selves. It scratched an itch Iâd always had, a restlessness with being just Rick â average 5â10â height, slightly-above-average 180 pound build, lightly muscled from hauling clay and stone, sun-kissed skin from too much California sunshine, short blond hair buzzed for convenience, and blue eyes that crinkled when I smiled, which my ex, James, used to love. My hands were calloused from sculpting, and my arms bore a few abstract tattoosâswirling lines symbolizing transformationâhidden under my usual hoodie and cargo pants. But that night, staring at the screen, I wasnât smiling. I was captivated.
I saw his post. Buried in a thread about advanced materials, it stood out like a beacon. The images were unrealâsuits that didnât just mimic skin but seemed to be skin, with veins faintly visible beneath the surface, pores so fine they caught the light like real flesh. The accompanying text was clinical, almost obsessive: âPolymer-based biomaterial, 3D-printed from high-fidelity body scans. Elasticity up to 500%, breathable microchannels, bioadhesive integration. Fully functional.â My pulse quickened. This wasnât the clunky latex stuff Iâd seen in earlier threads; this was art meeting science in a way that made my sculptorâs heart race. I hovered over the private message button, barely breathing. What was I even doing? I was new to this scene, a lurker with no real experience beyond that one commission. But the idea of slipping into something so real, so transformative, pulled at me. I typed before I could overthink it.
âHey,â I wrote, my fingers hesitant but driven. âYour work is incredible. The detail on that suitâthe way the hair follicles catch the light, the subtle veins? Itâs like sculpture, but alive. Iâm an artist, mostly human forms in clay, and Iâd love to model something like that. If you need volunteers, Iâm game.â
I hit send and leaned back in my creaky chair, heart pounding like Iâd just sprinted a mile. What if he ignored me? Or worse, called me out as some amateur poser? Jamesâs voice echoed in my head, mocking my âfrivolous fantasiesâ when Iâd tried explaining my growing interest in roleplay. Heâd left me a year ago, dismissing my art as impractical, my dreams as childish. Screw him. I wanted thisâneeded it, maybeâto feel like someone else, even for a moment.
The laptop pinged, startling me. A response, already? âAppreciate the enthusiasm,â he wrote. âMost people here are all talk, no substance. Whatâs your experience with masking? Scans of models require precision, and materials arenât cheap. Convince me youâre worth the time.â
I grinned, nerves giving way to excitement. He was testing me. Fair enough. I typed back, âI'm new to masking, Iâll admit. But Iâve worked with silicone in molds to build realistic stuff for theater. Your tech is breathtaking, though. Iâm not here to waste your time; Iâm serious about exploring this. Name the terms.â
We messaged for hours. He grilled me â hard. Asked about my comfort with adhesives, how Iâd handle embodying a persona, what drew me to masking. I was honest, maybe too honest, admitting it was the escape that hooked me. Sculpting let me shape others, but this? This was a chance to reshape myself. He shared technical details that were almost clinical in their specificity, but the summation of them built suits that mimicked everything from stubble to sweat. His words were precise, confident, with a quiet intensity that made me picture him hunched over a lab bench, perfecting his creations. By 3 a.m., heâd dropped the bombshell. âIâm in the Bay Area. Are you local?â
I couldn't believe my luck. "Local and willing to meet. Is this an invitation?"
"Tomorrow, 8pm. Don't be late." An address was included.
I stared at the screen, my mouth dry. Tomorrow? This was real. âIâm in,â I typed, my stomach flipping. âSee you then.â
The next evening, I stood outside a hulking warehouse on the edge of town, the kind of place youâd expect to find abandoned machinery, not cutting-edge science. Fogged windows glowed faintly, and a low hum vibrated through the air, like the building itself was alive. I adjusted my hoodie, suddenly hyper-aware of my unremarkable appearance. I knocked, the sound echoing in the stillness.
The door creaked open, and there he wasâCiaran. He was taller than Iâd imagined, 6â1â at least, lean and wiry, maybe 170 pounds, with a frame that suggested he moved with purpose. His skin was pale, almost luminescent under the streetlights, contrasting with messy dark brown hair that fell over intense green eyes. Those eyes locked onto mine, sharp and assessing, like he was already scanning me for potential. His features were angularâa jawline that could carve stone, cheekbones high and defined. Faint scars crisscrossed his hands and he wore a white lab coat over slim-fit jeans and a button-up, blending intellectual precision with an edgy vibe. His Irish accent, soft but commanding, rolled out as he extended a hand. âRick, I presume? Come in. Letâs see if youâre as serious as you claim.â
I shook his hand, his grip firm, and followed him inside. The warehouse was a labyrinth of innovation. Dim overhead lights cast long shadows over 3D printers the size of refrigerators, their nozzles humming as they extruded shimmering material. Vats glowed with iridescent liquids and the air carried a sharp chemical tang mixed with something metallic, like ozone after a storm. Walls were lined with prototypesâfull-head masks dangling like eerie trophies, their synthetic eyes glinting, and bodysuits draped over mannequins, each one impossibly lifelike. My sculptorâs eye caught the details: faint veins under the pseudo-skin, synthetic hair rooted so naturally it seemed to be growing from the flesh. I wanted to touch everything, to understand how it worked, but Ciaranâs presence kept me focused.
He led me through the space, his voice steady as he explained his work. âI started with spider silk proteins for strength, then blended in silicone for flexibility. The mix seems to work well for robustness and flexion. Suiting does require a body scans to map every contour down to the millimeter for a perfect fit, and printing takes hours, but the result is seamless. My suits have microchannels for breathability, and I use bioadhesives to bond to your skin without harm. The suits mimic everythingâpores, hair follicles, even temperature regulation via hydrogels.â His passion was infectious, his green eyes lighting up as he gestured to a vat. âThis is the latest batch. Hypoallergenic, biocompatible. Lasts 48 to 72 hours.â
I nodded, trying to keep up, my mind racing with possibilities. âItâs like youâre sculpting people,â I said, unable to hide my awe. âBut they get to wear the art.â
He paused, his gaze lingering on me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. âExactly. Itâs reinvention. Not just art, but identity.â There was a weight to his words, a quiet intensity that made my skin prickle. Our eyes held too long, and I felt a sparkâattraction, yes, but something deeper, like he saw the part of me I kept hidden. The part that hated being stuck as âjust Rick.â
We moved to a workbench, where he pulled up a chair and gestured for me to sit. âTell me why youâre here,â he said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. âNot the artist angle. The real reason.â
I swallowed, my throat tight. Vulnerability wasnât my strong suit, not after James tore me down for dreaming too big. But Ciaranâs gaze demanded honesty. âItâs the escape,â I admitted, my voice low. âI sculpt to explore identity, but itâs always external. Your suits⌠they let you become someone else. I want to feel that. To not be me for a while.â
He nodded slowly, his expression unreadable but not judgmental. âItâs more than escape,â he said, his accent curling around the words. âItâs control and surrender at once. The suit strips you bare, but it also empowers you. Itâs intimate, vulnerable. For me, itâs been a way to break free of⌠expectations.â He hesitated, then added, âI grew up in Ireland, in an academic family. To say they had rigid expectations would be a dramatic understatement. Masking was my rebellion - it still is. It lets me make the universe, the people I want to see.â
I leaned forward, drawn in. âAnd the science? Howâd you get from rebellion to⌠this?â I gestured at the lab, the glowing vats and silent masks.
âBiochemistry,â he said, a spark of pride in his voice. âAt first I studied it to please my parents, but I twisted it to suit me. There were online communities I found as a teen, then I started experimenting with materials in grad school here in the States. Thisââ he gestured vaguely at the rest of the labââis what happens when obsession meets expertise.â
I laughed softly, relaxing. âObsessionâs my language. Iâve been chasing the perfect form in clay for years. But your work? Itâs alive.â
His smile widened, rare and genuine, and the air between us thickened. We were circling something, a connection beyond shared interests. âYouâre not what I expected,â he said, standing. âMost people flake or get squeamish. I think you want to try a suit.â
My heart skipped. âHell yes I do.â
He smirked, a hint of dominance in his posture. âGood. I have plans for you. Come tomorrow.â
As I left the warehouse, the night air cool against my skin, I felt changed. Not just from our exchange, but from himâCiaran, with intensity, his lab of living art. Weâd barely scratched the surface, but I was already hooked, craving the next meeting - and hopefully a chance to shed my skin.
Chapter 2: First Meeting in the Lab
The warehouse loomed before me again, its brick facade unchanged from the night before, but my nerves were a live wire, sparking with anticipation. Iâd barely slept after our online exchange and that first glimpse of Ciaranâs world. I knocked, and the door opened to reveal Ciaran, his lean frame in the same white lab coat, dark hair over those piercing green eyes. He gestured me inside with a nod. âBack already, Rick? Good. Letâs not waste time.â
The warehouse hummed with life, and Ciaran led me through the labyrinth, his voice steady as he picked up where weâd left off. âThe suits are just the start,â he said, gesturing to a printer extruding shimmering material. âItâs about precisionâmapping every contour, every pore. The bioadhesive bonds temporarily, but the real art is in the psychology. Are you ready to feel it?â
I nodded, my pulse quickening. âLooking at what you're building⌠I think I won't be leaving something behind; I'll be becoming more me, somehow.â My voice betrayed my hunger, and I caught the flicker of approval in his eyes. We stopped at a workbench, and he leaned against it, his gaze locking onto mine. The air between us crackled, a tension that wasnât just about the tech.
âYouâre not just here for the art,â he said, his tone probing, a subtle dominance threading through it. âWhatâs driving you? Really.â
I shifted, my calloused hands flexing. My ex Jamesâs voiceâhis dismissal of my dreams as âfrivolousââechoed briefly, but I pushed it down. âItâs the escape,â I admitted, meeting his eyes. âSculpting lets me shape others, but itâs external. Your suits⌠they would let me be someone else. Itâs freedom, but itâs also⌠intimate.â The word felt risky, exposing a piece of me I rarely shared. Ciaranâs lips twitched into a faint smile, and I felt a pull, like he saw the raw edges I tried to hide.
âIntimateâs right,â he said, his accent curling around the word. âMaskingâs a surrenderâto the suit, to the persona. Itâs why I started. Thisââ he waved a hand at the labââwas a way to rewrite myself.â His openness surprised me, peeling back his reserved facade. Our eyes held too long, and my skin prickled, not just from the cool air but from the spark of connection. He was guarded, but there was vulnerability there, mirroring my own.
He straightened, breaking the moment. âLetâs see if you can handle it.â
âHell yes,â I said, grinning to mask the nervous flutter in my chest. He led me to a small changing room, mirrors lining the walls, amplifying my every movement. âStrip,â he said, his tone matter-of-fact but carrying that commanding edge. âNakedâs best for adherence.â
I peeled off my hoodie, my pants and then after a moment's hesitation my underwear, exposing a body that felt both mine and not at the same time. The fluorescent lights made my skin look almost too real, too ordinary, and I craved the transformation. Ciaran returned with a suit in two parts: a full-body piece and a head mask. âThis is Jake,â he said, holding up the body piece. âIn creating him, I found myself referring to a barista at the coffee shop I visit in the morning; he's an everyday guy. Letâs ease you in, but I want you to lean into the persona.â
The suit was a marvel: a flexible polymer, its surface shimmering with lifelike pores, faint veins, and a neutral tan skin tone slightly darker than mine. Synthetic hairâshort, coarseâsprinkled the chest, trailing to the groin, where a detailed slightly-broader cock promised a good time, all seamlessly integrated. The material was cool, gel-like but firm, with an elasticity that stretched effortlessly. I stepped into it, the polymer sliding over my legs like a wetsuit, compressing my calves and thighs with a gentle hug. The bioadhesive tingled as it adhered, a warm, snug sensation spreading across my torso. My cock settled into its sleeve perfectly, encasing me without constriction, every vein and texture transmitting sensation so vividly I felt a stir just from the fit. The whole thing was remarkably light and breathable, like a second skin that moved with me.
Ciaran handed me the mask. âNo fasteners. Stretch it over your head; align the eyes and mouth first and the rest will follow.â It was stunning: short, messy brown hair, faint stubble that prickled realistically under my fingers, and brown lenses for the eyes. I pulled it on, the material expanding with a soft stretch, then snapping into place over my features. In the mirror, Jake stared backâcharming, unremarkable, with a square jaw and warm eyes that werenât mine. The suit felt alive, every flex of my arms or shift of my shoulders transmitted perfectly, the fake muscles moving as if they were my own.
âFuck,â I breathed, my voice muffled but clear through the mask. âItâs like Iâm him.â
Ciaranâs eyes darkened, a mix of approval and something hungrier. âMove as Jake. Embody him. Heâs casual, confident, the guy who knows everyoneâs order by heart.â
I took a step, loosening my posture, letting Jakeâs vibe take overâeasy strides, a slight swagger. The rush hit me, a euphoric liberation, like shedding chains I hadnât noticed. Every movement felt amplified; brushing my hand against my arm sent a shiver through me, the hair's texture so real I couldâve sworn it grew from my skin. We moved to a corner of the lab set up with a work table, enough to simulate a cafe counter. I leaned against it, tossing out a line. âDouble shot latte, extra foam, right? Got you covered.â
Ciaran played along, sliding into a chair as a customer. âMake it quick, mate,â he said, his accent sharpening. âGot places to be.â
I grinned, slipping deeper into Jake. âChill, man. Jakeâs got the best pour in town.â I mimed grinding beans, tamping grounds, my movements fluid, the suit enhancing every gesture. The texture of the smooth counter under my fingers felt so real I forgot I was acting. Ciaranâs gaze followed me, intense, and the air thickened. Our banter flitted along, light but charged, his laughter rare but genuine when I âspilledâ imaginary coffee and cursed as Jake. âShit, man, donât tell my boss.â
âSecretâs safe,â he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table. âYouâre a natural. Most people stiffen up, but you⌠you disappear into it.â
I paused, still as Jake, my heart pounding. âItâs easy when it feels this good.â The admission hung there, raw, and his eyes softened, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his control.
We kept going, the roleplay deepening. I moved around behind the âcounter,â tossing out quips, but the tension built, electric. His hand brushed mine as I handed him a nonexistent cup, and the suit transmitted the touch so vividly I gasped. My body reacted, my cock stirring, the materialâs sensitivity amplifying every pulse. Ciaran noticed, his gaze dropping briefly, and a smirk played on his lips. âJakeâs getting worked up.â
I laughed, deflecting with humor. âBarista lifeâs intense, man.â But the moment lingered, and I felt the pullâattraction, yes, but also a shared understanding. We were both chasing something deeper than play.
âWant to push it?â he asked, standing, his lab coat shifting over his lean frame. âSomewhere private?â
My throat tightened, but I nodded, the rush of the suit urging me on. He led me to a small room off the lab, a cot tucked in the corner, mirrors on one wall. The dim light cast shadows, amplifying the intimacy. âStay as Jake,â he said, his voice low, commanding. âLetâs see how real this gets.â
I didnât hesitate. The suit made me bold, Jakeâs confidence blending with my own desire. I pulled him close, my hands gripping his shoulders, the polymer transmitting his warmth. Our lips met, his on the maskâs realistic mouth, and the sensation was electricâevery nerve firing as if it were my own skin. His hands roamed, tracing Jakeâs lines, the suitâs texturesâstubble, veinsâamplifying his touch. I hardened fully, the material accommodating without restriction, every movement heightened.
Ciaran's lab coat hit the floor, revealing his lean, pale body, scars faint on his hands. I stayed in the suit, Jakeâs form intact, and he pushed me onto the cot, his dominance taking over. âJakeâs eager,â he murmured, his accent thick with arousal. He played with me first, like a cat with a toy, tweaking a nipple, kissing the skin he'd built. His hand felt amazing around my enhanced cock, and I found myself pressing up into his hand as he worked me slowly. He pressed lube into Jake's ass and lubed himself, guiding Jake's legs apart, the suitâs elasticity letting me move fluidly. He entered me slowly, every thrust transmitted with hyper-real clarity. I gasped as Jake, my legs wrapping around him, the suitâs flexibility enhancing every angle. His hands gripped my hips, but it felt realâveins pulsing, textures responding. The suit amplified everythingâhis thrusts, my moans, the heat building between us. I came first, pulsing my come out through the cocksleeve and onto Jake's abs, the sensation so intense I saw stars. He followed, groaning into my neck, his body trembling against mine.
We collapsed, tangled on the cot, breaths syncing. The suit still felt like part of me, Jakeâs skin warm and snug. âThat wasâŚâ I started, my voice still Jakeâs, low and rough. âMore than I expected.â
Ciaran chuckled, his hand resting on my chest. âBoundaries blur here. The suit does thatâmakes it all feel⌠more.â
I nodded, the high still coursing through me. âI donât want to take it off.â
He propped himself up, his green eyes searching mine through the maskâs lenses. âYou'll need to, though. Itâs temporary â 48 hours, maybe 72 and then the adhesives weaken. Not to mention that your skin needs to breathe.â His tone softened, but there was a hint of something elseâcaution, maybe, or a tease of what was to come. âEnjoy it while it lasts.â
Peeling off the suit was a reluctant act. The polymer released with a faint sting, like a bandage pulling free, leaving my skin flushed but unharmed. The mask came off last, stretching wide before sliding free. I stood naked, just Rick again, stark naked under the lights. Disappointment hit hard, a hollow ache where Jakeâs confidence had been. I wanted to stay him, to keep that freedom.
Ciaran watched, his expression unreadable but not cold. âFirst timeâs always a shock. The comedownâs rough, but it gets easier. Or harder, depending on how deep you go.â
I pulled on my hoodie, forcing a grin. âIâm in deep already. When can we do this again?â
He smirked, that subtle dominance returning. âSoon. Iâve got other personas to show you. But you need to restâyour skin, your head. This isnât just play; itâs a commitment.â
I left the warehouse, the night air cool against my flushed skin. My body still buzzed from the suit, from him, from the way our worlds had collided. Jake was gone, but the pull of Ciaranâs labâand whatever came nextâwas stronger than ever. I was hooked, and I knew it.
Chapter 3: Early Sessions
The warehouse had become my second home in just a few days, its dim lights and humming machines a siren call I couldnât resist. After that first night as Jake, and the charged intimacy that followed, I was hookedâon the suits, on Ciaran, on the way each transformation peeled away layers of the Rick Iâd always been. My own skin felt like a poor substitute for the polymer ones I now craved, and as I stepped inside, Ciaran greeted me with a nod, his green eyes glinting with that quiet intensity. His lab coat hung loose over his lean frame, a faint scar on his hand catching the light as he gestured me toward the workbench. âYouâre early,â he said, his Irish accent carrying a teasing edge. âCouldnât stay away, could you?â
I grinned, shrugging to hide the truth in his words. âWhat can I say? Your labâs more exciting than my studio.â The air buzzed with possibility and machinery. Masks lined the walls, their synthetic gazes watching, and bodysuits hung on mannequins in various stages of completion, each one a new identity waiting to be worn. Our last sessionâJakeâs casual swagger, the cot, Ciaranâs hands on my suited skinâhad left me restless, craving more. My nervousness from that first meeting was gone, replaced by an addiction to the rush of becoming someone else.
Ciaran leaned against the workbench, his gaze probing. âYou took to Jake fast. Ready to try something bolder? Iâve got two personas lined upâdifferent vibes, different challenges. Letâs see how deep you can go.â
My pulse quickened. âBring it on,â I said, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. He led me to the changing room, mirrors reflecting the anticipation in my eyes. âStrip,â he said, that commanding tone sending a shiver through me. I shed my clothes, tattoos stark under the fluorescent lights, and stood naked, ready to surrender to the next transformation.
He returned with the first suit: âMax is driven, intense, and demanding. Obviously spends a lot of time in the gym,â Ciaran said, holding up the body piece. The polymer gleamed, its surface a sun-bronzed tan, textured to realistic perfection. It was much bulkier than Jakeâs, designed to amplify my frame into a dedicated lifterâs physiqueâbroad shoulders, chiseled abs evident even at a distance, entirely hairless below the neck. The cocksleeve was thicker, prominently veined, heavy. The material felt cool as I took it from Ciaran's hands, knowing it would warm to me as I embodied it. I stepped in, the polymer sliding over my legs, compressing my calves and thighs like a second skin. The bioadhesive tingled, warming as it adhered, hugging everywhere it touched, grip firm.
Ciaran handed me Maxâs mask. âSame as before. Align it carefully.â The mask was rugged: a square jaw, buzzed black hair, brown lenses for the eyes, and stubble that felt coarse under my fingers. I stretched it over my head, the material expanding, then settling seamlessly over my features. In the mirror, Max stared back â muscular, driven, a guy who lived for the grind. The suit amplified my movements, every flex of my biceps feeling powerful, my legs thick, my core solid.
âFeel him,â Ciaran said, stepping back, his eyes flashing with approval. âMax doesnât mess around. Heâs all in â every rep, every goal.â
I rolled my shoulders, adopting Maxâs intensity, my strides heavy and purposeful. âLetâs hit it,â I said, my voice deeper, rougher through the mask. We moved to a corner of the lab with gym equipmentâweights, a bench, a mirror. I lifted a barbell, the suit transmitting every strain, the muscles flexing as if they were mine. I ad-libbed, grunting as Max would. âGotta push past the burn, man.â Ciaran watched, his hands gliding over my form as I moved, fingers lingering on my arms, the touch electric through the polymer. âGood,â he murmured. âMax doesnât quit.â
The roleplay was intoxicating, Maxâs drive bleeding into me. I felt unstoppable, the suitâs textures â sweat-slick skin, firm muscle â amplifying every movement. We bantered, Ciaran playing a gym buddy, pushing me to add more plates. His hands brushed my back and my cock hardened, the materialâs sensitivity making every pulse vivid. Instantly I knew: Max got off on being worshipped. I pressed Ciaran's hands onto every inch of Max's body, groaning at the stimulation, edging myself along.
Eventually he withdrew and as I looked at him hungrily he grinned. âReady for the next one?â His voice low, teasing. I nodded, reluctant to shed Max but eager for the rush of transformation once more. The mask and suit stretched to let me peel them away, sliding free of their embrace, and I was Rick again, the comedown sharp but fueling my hunger.
Ciaran returned with Eli, the dancer. âLithe, graceful,â he said, holding up the body piece. This suit was altogether different â slender, pale, almost luminous, with a silky texture that mimicked smooth skin. Minimal body hair, just a faint trail to the groin. The polymer was finer, lighter, stretching effortlessly as I slipped it on. It hugged my frame, compressing my muscles into elegant lines.
Eliâs mask was striking: high cheekbones, flowing black hair to the shoulders, hazel eyes that seemed to dance. I stretched it over my head, revealing Eli to us both - ethereal, long-limbed, graceful, a body built for movement. The suit felt freeing, shedding Maxâs bulk for fluidity.
âMove as Eli,â Ciaran said, his tone softer, almost reverent. âPrecision, flow. As if gravity doesn't affect you.â He dimmed the lights and played some music through speakers I hadn't realized were there â something slow and pulsing. I moved; I couldn't not move. Eli twirled through the lab, the suit allowing impossible flexibility. Every step felt like a dance, the silky texture transmitting caresses against my skin. As I spun, Eli's hair flew up around me like a halo and then down again, brushing my shoulders, the sensation so real I shivered. Ciaran joined after I called to him, not touching but mirroring my movements, his lean frame a counterpoint to Eliâs grace.
âEliâs fire under that elegance,â he said, stepping closer. âShow me.â
I pulled him into the dance, our bodies brushing, the suit amplifying his warmth. The tension snapped; we kissed, his lips on Eliâs pouty mouth, every nerve firing as if it were my own. His hands traced my hips, the silky polymer transmitting every touch. I grew hard, the sensitivity overwhelming, Eli's beautiful cock rising in affirmation of our lust. I danced his lab coat and shirt off of him, then reached for his belt. Ciaran took the lead again, his dominance guiding me onto my back. I stretched, showing off for him, arms up on the cot behind my head, ribcage reaching for the sky. He kissed and licked his way down my chest, pulling Eli's cock into the wet heat of his mouth. My body was on fire, moaning as I arched toward him. He released me, then lubed his fingers and stretched me - scissoring in my hole but also pushing a leg up and up, seeing how far I could bend. He entered me slowly, every thrust electric through the polymer. Eliâs lithe form let me wrap my legs around him, his scarred hands gripping my thighs, the suitâs textures making it feel real. I came first, come spurting out over my chest and face. He followed, groaning into my neck as he filled me, his body trembling against mine.
We lay tangled, breaths heavy, still Ciaran and Eli, the suitâs grace lingering in my limbs. âYouâre getting too good at this,â Ciaran murmured, his hand resting on my chest.
I laughed, Eliâs voice light and melodic. âI admit, itâs addictive. I donât want to go back to me.â
His eyes darkened, thoughtful. âCareful what you wish for. These suitsâtheyâre temporary. 48 hours, maybe 72. Degradationâs a bitch.â
I nodded, the high fading at the thought of removal. âLetâs keep Eli on a bit longer,â I said, half-joking, half-serious.
Ciaran hesitated, then agreed. âFine. Take him home. Test the limits. But be careful â once degradation starts, you'll know.â
I left the warehouse as Eli, slipping out under cover of darkness. The suit held up outside, letting me move freely even if my hoodie and jeans felt wrong on my new form. At my studio, I danced alone, Eliâs grace intoxicating in the moonlight streaming through my windows. I spun, leaped, the silky texture amplifying every sensationâair on my skin, hair wild and flowing. I felt alive, untethered, but by morning, the suit showed signs of wear: in stress areas like the knees and elbows I felt adhesion weakening, and the seams at the neck where the suit ended and the mask began started to show. I tried to spend as much of the day in it as I could, even driving back to the lab that night, but Ciaran met me at the door and knew. Peeling it off was more painful, the bioadhesive stinging as it released, leaving my skin irritated and raw. The mask stretched wide, sliding free, and I was Rick again. Frustration flared hard â I hated the comedown, the return to my real self.
Back at the lab that evening, I vented to Ciaran, pacing the warehouse. âItâs not enough,â I said, my voice raw. âEli felt like⌠freedom. Taking him off was like losing a piece of myself. The degradation sucks.â
Ciaran watched, his green eyes thoughtful, leaning against a vat. âI know,â he said softly. âWe have just such a limited time before the enzymes and adhesives break down. ButâŚâ He paused, his tone shifting, a hint of something new. âIâm working on something. A way to make it last longer. Permanent, even. Itâs experimental, risky. But it could change everything.â
I stopped pacing, my heart racing. âPermanent? How?â
He smirked, that subtle dominance returning. âNot yet. Youâre not ready. But keep goingâyouâre proving yourself. Weâll get there.â
I left, his words echoing in my head. The seed was planted, and our bond was growing, a mix of trust and desire. I was addicted, and Ciaran knew it, guiding me deeper into his world.
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