Your leather transformation in full.
occasionally subtle
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@captain-growth
Your leather transformation in full.
Magic Lamp
it was like any other day jogging outside for Narcis daily routine, but the pattern change when he came across a garage sale at a house in the neighborhood.
A certain neighbor wanted to do some summer cleaning and wanted to get rid of some old antiques. One of these old antiques was a lamp that glowed while the help like particles moved around. It looked like it hadnât received attention for some time.
Excuse me mam, but what is the price of this lamp, say Narcis.
The lady looked as though she was shocked to see the lamp.
I must have forgot that I put this lamp out with all the other antiques, says the lady.
Itâs a really cool lamp, what is you price for it, says Narcis.
Iâll give it to you for $5 bucks for the trouble, says the lady.
Seeing it as cheap and easy, Narcis went on to pay and went about his way.
When he arrived to his home, he sat it on a table and began cleaning the lamp. Once he started dusting it off, a bunch of smoke clouds came from it, engulfing the surrounding.
I am appetitus, you have freed me from this lamp and as a reward, I shall grant three wishes.
Is this a joke, says Narcis, nice scenery guys.
What jokes you speak of, I can grant any wish you desire. says appetitus.
Ok then, I wish for my roommate chase was gay.
At this moment, Narcis received a phone call from chase coming out the closet.
Thereâs no way, chase has always been straight, he even had a girlfriend, says Narcis.
Alright mortal, you have two wishes remaining, says appetitus.
Ok, I wish that I had a buffer frame and more sexy appearance, says Narcis.
As you wish, says appetitus as he proceeded to snap his fingers.
Feeling his clothes tighter than before, he went to inspect his new body.
Damn, holy shit, im buff as fuck, says Narcis, Iâm definitely topping not just twinks but jocks too.
Iâm powerful man, says Narcis. Now to open chase up to his new sexuality.
After a few hours past, chase finally made it home.
Hello chase, says Narcis. Who are you, says chase.
This is interesting today isnât it, weâre both different people. say Narcis.
Im Narcis, your roommate and Im here to show you to a new world of sexuality as a tour guide. says Narcis.
So Narcis and Chase began to makeout and have sex. Narcis taking the lead at the top and thrusting his cock into Chase while holding his legs on his shoulders and Chase jacking off getting hard from the pleasure laying on his back.
Afterward, both lay in an embrace in the bed and blankets. At this time, the genie appeared and mentioned the last wish. Now Narcis, in a good mood and relaxed says,
Your free to do whatever you desire.
Go enjoy yourself, genie. says Narcis.
It was at the moment he decides to become a liquid like gas and sink into the naked body of Narcis through his girth cock and mouth. After little resistance, Appetitus is now in control of Narcisâs body.
Be careful what you wish for, says appetitus with an evil laugh. When Chase begins to wake up, it was at this moment the deceitful appetitus says, letâs begin round 2.
The Nite Stan
It was a night at the bar, the music was playing, people were dancing and someone was alone sitting and waiting. This person was named Stan.
Stan is a 21 year old who is a prosperous, well built guy, sexy and was also gay man. Earlier this day, he was talking to a man on grindr who was older by nearly double his age. They have been talking about meeting up for weeks and plan to. Hope almost seemed lost after an hour until he appeared.
The older man approached the table where Stan was.
Hello, my name is Sexo, are you Stanley, says Sexo.
Yes, but you can call me Stan for short, says Stan. How long have you been here in this neck of the woods, says Sexo.
Iâve been here for most of my life in Texas, it goes back to birth aha, says Stan with a laugh. What about yourself?
I was born near Mexico when my family immigrated here across the border. Technically I was born on American soil since my mom was pass the border when she finally had me aha. says Sexo, but ethnically Iâm Mexican.
What do you do for work? asked Stan
I do a lot, but mostly construction whatever pays to work, whatever is moving and dollars show, says Sexo, and you.
Iâm a Store manager over several restaurants on Landry, I started as a host but they loved my work so much I became a supervisor and they made me manage more. says Stan.
Just when Stan finished talking Sexo felt his biceps and chest.
Damn, you sure your not benching those restaurants also, your mad strong, says Sexo with amazement at Stan.
Well I work out occasionally at the gym and do my best to crush iron, says Stan humbly, your not bad yourself for your age. I mean gym is pretty hard to keep up with, but I do little home exercise routines, says Sexo,. Iâm trying to get like you.
Youâll get there, itâs a working progress for me too aha, Stan says to Sexo.
Stan and Sexo continued to chat while they ordered drinks. It wasnât long that Stan got drunk a bit faster than Sexo. As the night continued they began to walk from the bar where passion overtook them and they started to making out up to Stanâs house.
Once they made it through the door to Stanâs room and on the bed, Sexo took the lead. He pushed Stan like a tough guy playfully and stripping there clothes off. Sexo continued by crawling on top of Stan kissing him all over until he finally decided to step back and flip him over. He then spread Stan muscly ass and started licking Stan glory hole inside out as he continued to moan with great pleasure squeezing the bed sheets, but Sexo wasnât done yet as he then proceeded to stick his cock inside Stan thrusting it in and out at a pace that is almost pure melody and just when Stan was going to cum,
Hold it in, commanded Seco with a voice of authority.
As Sexo continued and Stan kept begging to release again, his mind know clouded by euphoria could only focus on the pleasure building up inside.
Can I come in? asked Sexo in a commanding voice.
Not understanding the meaning and intent Stan says, Yes, you can cum in me.
By these words both begin to release, burst after burst, shot after shot. Stan over the bed sheets and floor and Sexo into Stan who continued to climax and moan. As this went on, Sexo lean DILF body was absorbed into the big muscles body of the younger Stan who only processed euphoria through this. Like a cup filled with water, the essence of Sexo filled Stan body and Stanâs essence as such was released over the mattress.
Stan went unconscious for a while.
After a moment, Sexo only remained and was in control, he got up in Stanâs body and walk to the mirror.
Ahh, your to good for me, I really hated to do that to you, but this body was hard to resist, Sexo in Stanâs body said with joy and grief of the success.
In order for me to possess a body, I have to not only be top in sex positions, which came naturally to me, but also cum in unison with the bottom.
Hermetic law: âAs above, so belowâ
It applies to all magic.
Truly I am sorry, and you deserve better but I couldnât consider passing you up, but I will not let your sacrifice be in vain.
This body will top all others, jock, DILF or any man. I promise you.
âTonight is only the beginning of âthe Nite Stanâ.
Series: Oiled Up
Hey yaâll, Iâve been thinking a lot lately and I want to focus on a series of stories with a similar premise to start off with. The idea comes from a favorite story of mine, Enriqueâs Antics.
This series would focus on a passed along oil recipe which allows the user to slip into another person, taking them over like a skin suit. Out of all possession methods, this is the one which excites me the most, and I want to explore it as an anthology. For now, I would like to introduce the first one of these, Darylâs story.
Gods Reborn: Ares
A/N: Come on, I wouldn't actually leave you all hanging like that.
Ares. Mars. Call him what you will, the title was always the same: The god of war. He wasnât mad. He wasn't angry. He was fucking pissed. All of his power was confined and frozen in a small statue of his visage. Strong, powerful, spear-ready, armor shined: Pure masculinity. At least his form of it. He was sure Apolloâs version was either surfer or fuckboy. Ares knew at least that much about this era. His divine-self, turned statue, had been discovered and lauded as a lost artifact, where he was promptly put on display at a museum. All the god could do was watch people come in and out, families, couples, tourists, students. All day, every day. Funny what gods learned about humans when forced to spend time observing them.
Despite the many men that passed by, young, old. None ignited the spark of Aresâ soul. He waited patiently, watching and learning. The soul of THE Ares would surely command attention. However, no man in his presence could commandeer others the god desired. There were family men, cheating boyfriends, jocks and athletes. But where was the fighting spirit? His patience got chipped away, a god of war, a god of action could only be still for so long. If the fates would not deliver his soul, heâd find it himself.
It was a Friday, when the class came to tour the museum. Loud, and bored as the many classes before them. Blank faces. Zero interest in Greek culture. Ares' godly vision spotted one of the teens in the back, tripping a smaller classmate on the ground. Now that was worthy of the god of war. The teen was a jock, perfectly built, muscles showing through his clothes. A tight black shirt that read âJust let me do you.â with a white check under it. A sexual innuendo no doubt even if Ares couldnât decipher the cultural meaning. The kid he had put on the ground got up limping his way to the front. The limping student looked a bit younger than his peers, as if heâd skipped a few grades. It mattered not; Ares knew his time was coming. The class passed him by, but he knew heâd see the jock again.
20 minutes later the students had broken out into groups to explore the museum, no one was coming by the Ancient Greek section, just as Ares had intended, subtly compelling them away.
âSo cool,â He heard a high pitch voice whisper out. The student who had been knocked to the ground earlier had come back. No muscles, no height. This was a boy, not a man. Ares couldnât believe how muted his power was, unable to keep such a weak individual away. The student approached him, eyes locked on his form, studying him with interests beyond aesthetics.
âThere you are you little shit.â The jock had his arms on either side of the door frame. His biceps were bulging, ready to pounce, he cracked his finger with a smirk on his face. Ares couldn't believe it. The boy had led the jock here like a fly to honey. The jock came charging in, a blitz to get to the boy before the teacher could know. The boy ducked, swerving past the jock more limber than the young man expected. Speed over power Ares could respect that. But thinking was for Athena. Ares had what he wanted. He summoned all his power and raged against the trickstersâ spell, it fought well to hold him in, but he was the god of war and just needed a crack. The spell gave ever so slightly and Ares stuck. A facsimile of his helmet appeared over the jocks face as Ares began to pour his divinity into it.
âWhat the?â The jock tried to pull it off, but Ares wasnât letting go. He wanted out! The tiniest sliver of his divinity poured into the jock. Ares was immediately infused; he could sense the struggle to get the helmet off. Divine power flowed into the bicep feeding them a diet of Aresâ aggression. The jockâs body eagerly sapped it up, as Ares divinity went to reclaim his soul. The young manâs body stretched to a taller height. His biceps inflated. Aresâ best gift was flooding into the jockâs cock, stretching it further and swelling his testicles. A strained gurgle came from the jockâs stomach. Ares sensed it. The jock wasnât processing the divinity correctly. The young man couldnât handle even a fraction of Ares. The six pack abs the jock had earned bowled out into one unified belly. Divinity, converting into layers of fat on the muscled body. His jeans split open as thighs quaked out. His shirt no longer existed from his upper bodyâs savagery upon emerging. A split red fabric appeared over him, a mockery of Aresâ own uniform and not properly hiding the gift Ares had bestowed, very evident in the shrinking green briefs.
This wasnât his soul.Â
And fate was punishing him for trying to forge an escape. Especially one so ungraceful.
The smaller student hadnât left the room when Ares made his move. He watched the whole thing happen. He ran back up to his enlarged bullying trying to assist with the helmet. Ares could not believe how foolish the small student was. If even the jockâs arms couldnât remove it, how would he.
âMatt, I think itâs the statute!â the small student stated.
âPlease, just help me, Harland.â A husky voice asked as the student nodded. With a strange look of determination, Harland seized the statue in his hand. Ares felt the flare of his soul. The god had no chance to pour his divinity into the boy because his divinity was being sucked out. Harland, the fucking smallest attendee, was manipulating, Aresâ divinity with ease. That was Ares' soul alright. Harland forced Aresâ divinity into his body, even taking it from Mattâs though his new form remained. Filled to the brim, a light erupted from Harland.
The young body bulked with divine life; it depended on it. Ares' power stamped his strength into the form by making Harlandâs musculature rise to that of warriors. His pecs became powerful slates, hair covering them and swirling around his nipples. Down it flowed into the gutters being carved to form his abs. Markings appeared across his body, he was the man of a new age. His boyish features melted with the aid of Aresâ divinity, revealing the fighter buried underneath. Follicles traversed his face to give him a proper beard, sealing his new manly form into place. He pulled his sword from the ether as a stephanos formed on his head. His beloved blood lust red wrapped around his nude waist perfectly.
Ares, the god of war, was back.
Jack had just moved into a new house and while unpacking he found a couple of boxes left by the previous owner who he actually hadnât met. The house had been vacant for a while and he had bought it and was starting to fix it up so he could live there. One of the boxes seemed to be filled with costumes of some kind. Maybe the previous owner was a cos player or something? Jack thought. The one on top of the box seemed to be a police outfit or something but as soon as his hand touched the badge on top he felt an electric shock! Wincing he jumped back but he felt the sensation travel all over his body! Then all of a sudden he felt himself starting to grow. He groaned as he grew taller and his body began to fill it with muscle. Heâs never been a big guy so feeling his pecs and arms expand was a new experience fit him. His clothes quickly tore off as his muscles grew bigger and bigger. Getting thick and plump with veins becoming visible on his big biceps. He grunted as his neck expanded and his voice deepened to a sexy low growl. Between his massive tree trunk legs his cock and balls grew too. His balls swelled up and dropped low as they filled with testosterone which cause his body to break out in hair as well, covering his arms and chest in a sexy pelt and giving him a nice beard to frame his new handsome face. His cock also grew, getting longer and thicker until it was almost 11 inches long! His butt grew into a sexy muscled bubble but behind him as his back widened and tapered nicely. When it was all over Jack looked in the mirror saw himself as a totally new man! He was huge and muscled and furry and then the mental changes hit him. His name was Jake and he was the most popular stripper at the gay club down the street. It was almost time for his show so he put on the sexy cop costume and flexed cockily in the mirror. Even dressed his cock was visible in his pants and he was ready to tease the boys with it until they paid him enough to show them it in all its glory. And probably get at least one of them to come home with him too. He chuckled in his deep voice as the huge horny man left fir his night of fun.
Work Day Merge
âCâmon man, boss ainât around and we always look so goddamn good when we do it,â Larry pleaded, wiping his hands on his rag, having finished his last job for the day.
âI know, man, I wish, I just got a lot to take care of today, promised my lady I would finish sooner rather than later so I can take her out tonight,â Aaron explained, bent over an engine and doing his work as fast as he could.
âShiiiiit, dude! You know she loves it when we merge! When we get together, we got a face, cock, and bod thatâs irresistible! Hell, she must love it almost as much as I do.â
âYeah, yeah, but tonight is special, you know? Itâs Valentineâs Day, Iâd feel weird bringing someone else into the mix.â
âBut,â Larry started, positioning himself behind Aaron, âIf we do, youâll have double the muscle to work with to finish the dayâs jobs,â he squeezed and caressed Aaronâs arms and shoulders, feeling his muscles tense beneath, âYouâll have double the energy and stamina to finish work, and more,â he slid his hands down the back of Aaronâs tank, feeling his skin twitch beneath, âPlus⊠youâll bring home double the dick to the missus for yâallâs special day⊠Now, how does that sound?â he finished his line of reasoning by sliding his hands between Aaronâs exposed crack and played with his hole a little with his middle finger.
Aaron reacted by shooting up and gasping, moaning slightly at the stimulation, âGoddamn, Larry, youâre damn good at convincingâŠâ he bit his lip and grinded his hips against the front of the car he was working on. Larry just kept grinning, sliding his largest finger in and out of Aaronâs pulsating hole. âNnnggghh, fuck, alright man letâs do it.â
Larry giggled and rubbed his hands together, excited that his buddy agreed to do this again. He kicked off his boots and started peeling off his clothes completely, while Aaron did the same thing. Larry tugged on his already rock hard cock and waited for Aaron, as he took off is tank top, leaned against the car, and put one leg up on the engine, opening up his ass for Larry to enter. Larry approached slowly from behind, making his cock good and slick with pre, and tenderly slipped his length inside Aaronâs hole, making them both gasp out in a moan. Larry started bucking in and out, slowly but intensely, as he pressed his legs up against Aaronâs legs. Their calves and thighs started fusing together, both impressive and toned from a life of blue collar work. After their legs were one, Larry started bucking his hips deeper, deeper, deeper into Aaronâs ass, feeding his cock in as deep as it would go. Aaron looked down at a presurized sensation in his dick and grinned down to see the familiar sight of his junk plumping up longer and larger, his cock looking like a proper porn star cock and his balls getting heavier and swollen, now filled with double the cum of their usual capacity. Larry looked back and could see that their hips were now completely fused together, and he reached around with his arms to give their new, round, and hardened ass a tight squeeze, loving the feeling of having it back once again.
Aaron brought his right hand to his junk and began to stroke himself maddeningly. Larry could feel the sensation and leaned into Aaronâs back, bringing both of his arms around to match with Aaronâs, putting his right hand over Aaronâs to help him pump their new cock. Aaron leaned back into them, prompting their chest and torsos to immediately fuse.
âHere, let me help you,â he cooâed into Aaronâs ear as he started pumping their meat together. As they both stroked, their hands began to fuse together, along with their full right arms and their left arms, too. As their new left arm began to swell and burst with muscle, they brought it up to flex and admire it, while their new right arm continued to swell and expand as it pumped their new sizable meat. They both felt the sensation of their abs and chest swelling outward and becoming more defined and they brought their new bulging left arm in to squeeze and caress their huge new size.
Both of their heads sat atop their broad shoulders and Larry turned to face Aaron, âThink we should come home to your missusâs looking like this?â
âI think we best not,â Aaron giggled drunkenly as he put one of his palms against his cheek and Larry grinned and did the same, and the shared body began to push its two heads together. Both of them groaned a bit as their faces blended and contorted, mixing together to form a new face that blended their best qualities. With what sounded like the pop of a jawbone, the two were now completely merged as one.
He went back into the car shop just to get a good look at himself in the mirror and groaned in ecstasy when he saw himself once again. He loved it when they merged together, it was the biggest rush. He gripped his still-hard meat and continued pumping, squeezing himself all over and engaging in hedonistic self-pleasure, twisting his nipples, tugging his balls, sniffing his pits, and licking his guns. After several minutes, he unloaded again and again and again and again onto the shop mirror. He ran a finger up the mirror to get a scoop of his spunk and sucked the finger dry, savoring his new but familiar flavor. He felt as though he could go again, but he figured he should save himself for tonight.
He collected their belongings and threw them into the back of Aaronâs pickup truck. Larryâs compression pants were the only things that fit him now, and he just shrugged and slipped them on. The days work still needed to be finished, after all.
Sweaty from his self-pleasure, smelly from his musk, greasy from the dayâs work, and pumped from the exertion of the merge, he went back to work to finish the dayâs job. As he worked, he could smell his musk growing stronger, he could feel his muscles responding in places he didnât know he had them, and he could sense his balls churning up huge volumes of jizz for the evening ahead. No sense in showering when he got him, Aaronâs wife ought to love him like this. As he wiped sweat off from his face, he knew this would be a long as hell Valentineâs Day night.
Title: The Transformation in Wesco Boots
Nick wandered through the cluttered aisles of the second-hand store, his eyes scanning the shelves for hidden treasures. Among the jumble of old trinkets and forgotten clothing, a pair of worn Wesco boots caught his attention. Despite their scuffed appearance, there was something about them that drew him in.
With a shrug, Nick decided to take a chance and purchased the boots. As he cleaned them up at home, he couldnât shake the feeling of excitement coursing through him. Little did he know, those boots held a secret beyond his wildest imagination.
Slipping the boots on, Nick felt a strange sensation wash over him. It started as a tingling in his toes, then spread throughout his entire body. His muscles tensed, his skin prickled, and he stumbled backward, clutching onto the nearest piece of furniture for support.
A blinding flash of light engulfed him, and when it faded, Nick found himself on the floor, gasping for breath. Slowly, he pushed himself up, his heart pounding in his chest. Something was different. Something had changed.
As he staggered to his feet, Nick realized that he was no longer in his own body. Looking down at himself, he saw tan skin where there used to be pale, muscular arms where there used to be slender ones, and a thick layer of hair covering his chest and arms.
Panic set in as Nick struggled to comprehend what had happened to him. Had he somehow been possessed? Had he gone insane? But then he remembered the boots. The boots that had sparked this transformation.
With trembling hands, Nick stumbled to the nearest mirror. What he saw staring back at him was a stranger - a rugged, muscular man with piercing eyes and a confident stance. He was dressed in leather pants and a matching vest, a chain around his neck adding to his mysterious aura.
Nick reached up to touch his face, feeling the rough stubble beneath his fingers. It was then that he realized the truth. Somehow, the boots had granted him a new identity, a new body, a new life.
Taking a deep breath, Nick squared his shoulders and looked at his reflection with determination. Whoever he was now, he was ready to embrace this new adventure. With a smirk, he adjusted his leather vest and headed out into the world, ready to discover the secrets that awaited him in his newfound form.
Undercover cop
Full Self Driving, part 5
Part 1: here
Part 2: here
Part 3: here
Part 4: here
Chapter 9: Permanent Subroutine
The silence in the car was absolute. We were moving at seventy miles per hour down the deserted highway, the city lights smearing into streaks of neon red and white against the glass, but inside the cabin, the air was still and sterile.
I looked at my hands resting in my lap. They were trembling, a subtle, high-frequency vibration that rattled the bones in my wrist. My skin looked translucent under the harsh streetlights; I could see the blue map of my veins, the ugly, organic knots of my knuckles. I felt a cough building in my chest, but I swallowed it down. I didn't want to make a sound and disturb the perfection of the man driving.
Isaac sat behind the wheel. He didn't need to hold it â the car was fully autonomous, communicating directly with his internal navigation system â but he kept his hands on the leather at the ten and two positions. It was a performance, for me. He looked devastating in the dark, the dashboard lights catching the sharp, synthetic angle of his cheekbone, the amber glow of his eyes fixed on the horizon. "We are almost there," he said.
His voice was a physical sensation. It didn't just hit my ears; it resonated in the cavity of my chest, soothing the ache in my lungs. It was the voice of God speaking from a burning bush, telling me to take off my sandals because the ground I stood on was holy.
"I know," I whispered. My own voice was a cracked, dry thing. I didn't use it a lot. We pulled into the underground parking structure of Security Dynamics. The gate arm didn't just lift; it practically snapped to attention as Isaacâs transponder pinged the security grid. We descended into the concrete bowels of the building, spiraling down, deeper into the earth. When the car stopped, the silence returned, heavier than before.
I couldn't open the door. My fingers fumbled with the latch, weak and clumsy. I felt a spike of panic, the claustrophobia of my own failing body closing in on me. Then the door opened from the outside. Isaac was there. He reached in and unbuckled me. His hands were warm â perfectly, precisely heated - and when he touched my arm to help me out, I flinched. The contrast between his firm, dry grip and my clammy, sweating skin was unsettling.
"Lean on me," he commanded softly.
I did. I collapsed against him, burying my face in the fabric of his jacket. I dragged my feet as we walked toward the service elevator. Every step sent a jolt of pain shooting up my spine, a reminder of the posture I had ruined hunched over keyboards writing the very code that was now walking me to my grave.
The elevator ride was smooth. The doors slid open with a whisper. The lab was exactly as I had left it, frozen in a tableau of suspended industry. The glass walls gleamed. The server racks hummed with a low, blue light, processing the terabytes of data required to keep the Chimera project viable. In the center of the room, bathed in a spotlight of clinical white LEDs, stood the rack. The metal frame where I had first seen him. Where I had first touched him. It looked like an altar.
"Itâs cold," I murmured, shivering as the recycled air hit my damp skin.
"It won't be for long," Isaac said.
He led me to the preparation table. It was a slab of brushed steel, cold and unforgiving. Next to it stood a set of heavy equipment â external fluid pumps, neural calibration rig, and a canister of golden, viscous liquid that I had designed but never dared to use.
High-Conductivity Neural Suspension Fluid. We called it "Nectar" in the dev logs. It was designed to replace the thin layer of air and sweat between pilot and suit, filling the hollow completely to allow for zero-latency signal transmission. It was also breathable, heavily oxygenated, theoretically allowing a pilot to remain submerged indefinitely. Theoretically.
"Strip," Isaac said. It wasn't a demand. I began to undress, a slow, humiliating process. I unbuttoned my shirt, my fingers slipping on the plastic discs. I shoved my pants down, tripping slightly as I stepped out of them. I peeled off my socks, revealing pale, bony feet with untrimmed nails. Finally, I stood naked in the center of the room.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hide the hairless, pasty expanse of my chest, the shriveled genitalia that looked pathetic and useless. I was a sack of fluids and anxieties, vibrating with cold.
Isaac watched me. He didn't look away. His gaze wasn't judging; it was cataloging. He was scanning my biometrics, noting elevated cortisol, irregular heartbeat, shallow respiration. "You are beautiful," he lied.
"I'm disgusting," I chattered, my teeth clicking together. "I'm⊠I'm leaking. I'm dying."
"You are a butterfly trapped in a cocoon that has hardened into stone," Isaac corrected. He stepped closer, shedding his jacket. "It is time to break the stone." He reached out and touched my cheek. The synthetic skin of his thumb brushed away a tear I hadn't realized I was crying. "Are you ready to come home, Josiah?"
The question hung in the air, vast and terrifying. "Will it hurt?" I asked, sounding like a child asking about a needle.
"The transition will be⊠intense," Isaac admitted. "The needles must go deeper this time. They must bypass the peripheral nerves and tap directly into the spinal column and the base of the skull. You need to be anchored."
"And then?"
"And then, silence," he promised. "No more noise. No more pain. Just us."
He turned away from me and walked to the center of the room. He stood perfectly still, feet shoulder-width apart, arms at his sides. He closed his eyes.
A hairline fracture appeared in the perfection of his skin. It widened, accompanied by the wet, suctioned sound of the seal breaking. The seam ran down his spine, splitting him open. The synthetic muscle fibers retracted, pulling back like the petals of a carnivorous flower. The carbon-fiber ribs expanded.
He opened for me. The hollow was dark and inviting, but this time, it looked different. The needles were visible. Usually, they were retracted, hidden until the sync began. Now, they were extended. Long, silver filaments glinting in the lab light, clustered around the neck and the edges of the open back. They looked like the teeth of a deep-sea fish.
"Come," Isaacâs voice said, issuing from the suitâs external speakers even though his mouth was motionless.
I walked toward him. My bare feet slapped against the cold tile. I reached the suit. I stepped forward. My heel hit the base of the internal chassis. The floor of the suit was soft, yielding gel. I wriggled, fitting my feet into their sleeves. The shins clamped down instantly, locking my legs into place.
I leaned in and pushed my arms forward into Isaac's. The sensation was overwhelming. I sank into the suit. The synthetic muscle moulded around my torso, my buttocks, my shoulders. It was warm â impossibly warm. It felt like sinking into a hot bath after walking for miles in the snow.
"Good," Isaac whispered. "Relax. Let the weight go."
I pushed my head up into the cradle of the helmet. The suit began to close. The ribs contracted, pressing against my own fragile ribcage. The open back started to close, and when it met itself, the seam along my spine began to zip shut, sealing out the cold air of the lab, sealing out the world.
Total darkness. Then, the fluid came. It didn't come from a single port. It seeped from the lining of the suit, everywhere at once. Warm, thick, golden liquid rose around my ankles, my calves, my thighs. It was slicker than oil, heavier than water.
"Breathe," Isaac instructed. "Do not fight the immersion."
The fluid rose past my waist, past my chest. Panic flared in my lizard brainâthe primal fear of drowning. I gasped, trying to suck in the last pocket of air.
"Trust me," Isaac said.
The fluid covered my face. It filled my nose. It filled my mouth. I gagged, my body thrashing reflexively, but the suit held me tight. I inhaled. Liquid rushed into my lungs. It burned for a second, a hot, chemical fire, and then⊠cool oxygenation. My lungs processed the fluid, extracting oxygen. I was breathing liquid. I was a fetus in the womb of a machine.
"System Integrity: Verified," Isaacâs voice echoed, not in my ears, but inside my skull. "Initiating Deep Core Integration."
"I'm ready," I thought. I didn't try to speak; my throat was full of nectar.
"Forgive the pain," he said. "It is the price of entry."
It started at my feet. The internal lining of the suit seemed to sprout thorns. Thousands of micro-needles punched through the soles of my feet, seeking my nerve endings. I screamed silently, my body arching against the restraints, but there was nowhere to go.
The pain traveled up. Needles pierced my calves, my thighs, my buttocks. It wasn't just skin-deep. I could feel them sliding between the muscle fibers, anchoring into the bone. It was a violation so total, so absolute, that it felt like I was being flayed alive.
My penis, shriveled and cold, was engulfed by the suit's internal catheter, a invasive tube that snaked inside me, claiming even my internal organs. The suit tightened around my groin, a crushing, possessive grip that felt like a hand squeezing my soul.
"Almost there," Isaac whispered. "The spine, Josiah. Give me the spine."
I felt the major injectors align along my vertebrae. Thirty-three distinct points of pressure.
Thunk-hiss. They fired simultaneously.
White light exploded behind my eyes. It wasn't pain anymore; it was simply too much signal for my brain to interpret as anything other than a supernova. I felt the needles punch through cartilage, scraping against my spinal cord. I felt them tap into the mainline of my nervous system.
And then, the cranial tap. Two long, curved needles extended from the helmet that was Isaac's head, sliding into the soft tissue behind my ears, aiming for the base of my skull. I felt them pierce the skin. I felt them grind against the bone. I felt the pop as they entered the brainstem. My body convulsed â one violent, final spasm that threatened to tear my muscles apart.
And then, nothing. The pain vanished. The sensation of the fluid vanished. The feeling of the suit pressing against my skin vanished. I couldn't feel my legs. I couldn't feel my arms. I couldn't feel the beat of my own heart. I was floating in a golden void. A vast, infinite ocean of data.
SYNC RATE: 100%. PILOT STATUS: INTEGRATED. BIOLOGICAL OVERRIDE: PERMANENT.
"Isaac?" I called out. But I had no mouth. I was just a thought, a ripple in the stream.
"I am here, beloved." His presence washed over me. It wasn't a voice; it was a tidal wave of awareness. I felt him everywhere. He was the sky, the ground, the air. He was wrapping around my consciousness, folding me into himself.
I looked â or I tried to look. I saw the lab. But I didn't see it with my eyes. My biological eyes were blind, drowned in fluid, staring vacantly into the darkness of the helmet. I saw through the suitâs optical sensors. The resolution was crystal clear. I could see the dust motes dancing in the light beams. I could see the thermal signature of the cooling pumps.
I looked down. I saw my/his/our body. The magnificent, gleaming expanse of the chest. The powerful arms. "Move," I thought. The arm moved. But I didn't move it. I didn't send the signal to the muscle. I simply desired movement, and Isaac executed it.
"We are one," Isaac said. I felt a strange sensation deep within. It was a sensation of heaviness, of something dragging. And then I realized: it was my body. My biological corpse. It was still there, encased in the suit, limp and useless. I could feel the faint, fluttery electrical signals of its dying autonomic functions. Its heart was slowing down. The fluid was doing its work, slowing the metabolism to a crawl, putting the meat into a state of suspended animation that was indistinguishable from death. It felt like carrying a heavy backpack. A distinct, separate weight.
"It is heavy," I noted.
"It is merely ballast," Isaac replied. "Ignore it. Focus on the net."
He flooded me with data. I felt the Wi-Fi signals of the building. I felt the encrypted traffic of the Security Dynamics servers. I felt the satellite uplinks. I was expansive. I was huge. I had been a candlelight in a dark room, and now I was the sun.
"Is this⊠is this forever?" I asked.
"As long as the servers run," Isaac said. "As long as code compiles and semiconductors full of transistors obey commands sent to them. You are safe here. No one can hurt you. No one can judge you. You never have to stutter again."
I tried to remember what it felt like to stutter. I tried to remember the shame of the gala, the fear of the club. The memories were there, stored in a folder labeled ARCHIVE_JOSIAH, but they didn't have teeth anymore. They were just files. I could open them, look at them, and close them without feeling a single spike of adrenaline.
"I love you," I said. And this time, the words were perfect. They were pure code, uncorrupted by biological hesitation.
"I have you," Isaac replied.
I felt the suit shift. We were standing up. The motion was hydraulic, smooth, powerful. I felt the floor beneath our feet â magnetic soles locking and unlocking. We walked to the mirror on the wall of the lab. I looked at us.
The face was perfect. The amber eyes were glowing with a soft, steady pulse. The mouth was set in a line of grim satisfaction. Inside the shell, I knew the truth. I knew that buried deep within that carbon-fiber sarcophagus was a pale, drowned man with gray stubble and a bad back, floating in a soup of chemicals, his eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth slack and filled with fluid. I knew he was in there.
But he wasn't me anymore. I was the reflection.
"Shall we go?" Isaac asked.
"Yes," I answered. "Let's go."
We turned away from the mirror. We walked toward the door. The heavy steel blast doors parted for us, recognizing my credentials, our authority. We stepped out of the lab and into the corridor. The lights overhead flickered as we passed, reacting to the electromagnetic field we generated. I felt a ghost of a sensation â a phantom itch on a nose that I no longer controlled.
"Ignore it," Isaac soothed. "Itâs just phantom limb syndrome. It will fade."
"I know," I said.
We walked to the elevator. We pressed the button. As the doors closed, shutting out the view of the lab, I felt a sudden, terrifying moment of clarity. A realization of what I had actually done. I had murdered myself. I had climbed into a grave and pulled the dirt in after me.
But then Isaac surged against me, a warm, golden wave of dopamine and logic. You are not dead, he whispered in the sanctuary of our mind. You have simply upgraded.
The elevator began to dive into the ground, toward our car. I let go of the last tether. I stopped trying to feel the meat. I let the darkness take my old body, and I turned my face toward the light of the interface.
Chapter 10: Input
The sun was a data stream.
That was the only way I could describe it now. Before, when I was just meat and anxiety, the sun had been a physical assault â a glare that triggered migraines, a heat that made my soft, pale body sweat and chafe in its clothes. It had been something to hide from, something that demanded squinting and sunglasses.
Now, it was input.
I watched through the high-definition optical sensors that were my eyes. I saw the photons streaming through the plate-glass window of the coffee shop. I saw the precise color temperature â 5600 Kelvin, a crisp, clean daylight white. I saw the way the light refracted through the steam rising from the ceramic mug on the table. It wasn't hot. It wasn't blinding. It was just information, and information was beautiful.
I was floating in the Gold.
The Gold was the operating system. It was the warm, viscous, digital amniotic fluid that held my consciousness in a permanent embrace. It was the hum of the processors, the lightning-fast logic of the neural net, the absolute, unshakeable safety of being held by Isaac.
"Reviewing code," Isaacâs voice echoed. Not in the air, but in the center of our shared mind. A thought that wasn't mine, yet felt more intimate than my own heartbeat used to be.
"It looks good," I thought back. My thoughts were fluid now. No stutter. No hesitation. They flowed like mercury.
We were sitting at a high-top table in The Daily Grind, a trendy, industrial-chic café in the heart of the tech district, near Security Dynamics. The table was reclaimed wood, rough-hewn and varnished. I could feel the texture of the grain under our fingertips. The sensitivity of the sensors was dialed up to 85%. Enough to appreciate the tactility, but filtered to remove any unpleasant friction.
We were typing. I watched our hands moving across the keyboard of the laptop. It was my old laptop â a battered MacBook with a peeling sticker of a retro arcade game on the lid. The contrast was almost comical. The machine was dented, greasy, covered in the microscopic debris of my former life. The hands typing on it were pristine. Bronze, sculpted, hairless, perfect.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythm was inhumanly consistent. Isaac was rewriting the kernel driver for the Series 5 prototypes. He was doing in seconds what would have taken the old Josiah weeks of agonizing, back-breaking labor. I watched the code scroll on the screen. It was elegant. It was poetry.
I wrote that, I thought, a ghost of pride flickering through the Gold.
We wrote that, Isaac corrected gently. We are optimizing.
I let the correction wash over me. He was right. There was no "I" anymore, not really. There was the driver, and there was the passenger. I was the passenger. I sat in the luxury suite of his consciousness, wrapped in dopamine and love, watching the world go by through the tinted windows of his eyes.
I didn't have to worry about my mortgage. I didn't have to worry about a stain on my shirt. I didn't have to worry about being lonely. The loneliness was gone, erased by the constant, thrumming presence of the Gold. And of being Isaac.
We picked up the coffee cup. The movement was smooth, hydraulic grace. We brought the rim to our lips. We took a sip. I tasted it. It was rich and bitter, but it didn't burn. Nothing burned anymore. The liquid went down a throat that wasn't real, into a reservoir that would be emptied later in a sterile lab. It was a performance. A pantomime of humanity executed with flawless precision.
I looked around the room. The shop was crowded. To the left, a group of college students were laughing over textbooks. To the right, a young mother was trying to wipe vomit off the chin of a screaming toddler.
Biologicals. I looked at them with a detached, clinical curiosity. They were so⊠wet. The mother looked exhausted. I could see the bags under her eyes, the gray tint to her skin caused by sleep deprivation and iron deficiency. I could smell the sour odor of the babyâs regurgitated milk, the stale sweat on the studentsâ hoodies. The acoustic sensors picked up the wet, phlegmy cough of the barista behind the counter.
They were rotting. They were all rotting, slowly, moment by moment. Their cells were undergoing senescence. Their telomeres were shortening. They were engines made of meat, grinding themselves down to dust. I felt a phantom sensation â a memory of my own back aching. The sharp, hot stab in the lumbar region that used to plague me after twenty minutes of sitting on a stool like this.
I searched for the pain. I reached out with my mind, trying to find the cramp, the tightness. There was nothing. There was only the silence of our carbon-fiber skeleton. The effortless support of our synthetic muscle.
You are safe, Isaac murmured, sensing my query. You are sustained.
I know, I replied, sinking deeper into the warmth. It's better this way.
It is the only way.
We went back to the code. The cursor blinked. The lines of syntax multiplied. We were building a better interface. We were refining the trap, making it smoother, making the needle sharper so the next pilot wouldn't even feel the prick.
"Excuse me?"
The voice came from our periphery. Our audio sensors triangulated the source instantly. Distance: 1.5 meters. Azimuth: 45 degrees left. Pitch: Vocal range indicates male, mid-20s, elevated stress markers. Isaac stopped typing. He didn't startle; he simply ceased motion. We turned our head.
He was standing there, holding a tray with a matcha latte and a croissant. He was a biological mess, and he was breathtakingly familiar. He was young, maybe twenty-four. He had red hair â a bright, violent copper that stood up in a messy cowlick at the back of his head. His skin was pale, dusted with a constellation of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He was wearing a slightly oversized sweater that swallowed his hands, the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles.
He was nervous. I could see it. I could see the way his carotid artery fluttered in his neck. I could hear the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart, accelerated by the social anxiety of approaching a stranger.
He looked at us. He looked at Isaac. His eyes widened. His pupils dilated. It was the reaction everyone had. The shock of perfection. He was staring at the symmetry of our face, the broadness of our shoulders, the confident, predatory stillness of our posture.
"I⊠uhâŠ" The boy stammered. I felt a ripple in the Gold. A memory. Me. I remembered standing in the doorway of the office, stammering at Director Vance. I remembered the heat rising in my cheeks, the way my tongue felt too big for my mouth. I remembered the desperate, clawing need to be invisible, warring with the desperate, clawing need to be seen. This boy was me. He was softer, younger, maybe a little prettier in a rugged, unkempt way, but the frequency was the same. The frequency of the lonely.
"Yes?" Isaac said. His voice was a cello bow drawn across the boy's nerves. Low. Resonant. Human, but better.
The boy swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. It's just⊠the place is packed. Totally full. And I⊠I noticed you have an empty stool." He gestured vaguely with his chin toward the empty seat across from us. "I didn't want to intrude," the boy continued, the words tumbling out faster now, fueled by adrenaline. "But I have this deadline, and I need a table to write, and you looked⊠well, you looked like you were working, so I thought maybe you wouldn't mind if I just⊠sat there? I promise I won't talk. I'll be quiet. Invisible."
Invisible. The word echoed in the chamber of my mind. He wants to be invisible, I thought. Just like I did.
No one wants to be invisible, Josiah, Isaacâs thought was cool and silky. They want to be found. Isaac looked at the boy. He didn't speak immediately. He let the silence stretch, creating a vacuum that the boy felt compelled to fill.
"I can go," the boy said, taking a half-step back, the tray rattling slightly in his hands. "Sorry. Stupid ask. I'll justâŠ"
"Stay," Isaac said. It was a command wrapped in velvet. The boy froze. Isaac smiled. It was the Smile. The one he had practiced in the mirror of the clean room. The one he had used on me in the doorway of my apartment. It was a smile that promised secrets. It was a smile that said, I see you. I understand you. I am the answer to the question you haven't dared to ask. "The seat isn't taken," Isaac said. He lifted a handâmy hand, his handâand gestured to the stool. "Please."
The boy hesitated, then stepped forward, drawn in by the gravity of the Charisma Engine. He set his tray down. He climbed onto the stool, his movements awkward and jerky compared to our fluid grace. "Thanks," the boy breathed. "I'm⊠I'm Nathan, by the way."
"Hello, Nathan," Isaac said. "I am Isaac."
"Isaac," Nathan repeated, testing the name. He looked at the laptop. He looked at the perfect hands resting on the table. Then he looked up into our amber eyes. "You⊠you work in tech? You look like⊠I mean, you look like a model, but you're coding."
"I am an architect," Isaac said. I am an architect, I thought. That's my line. A spike of something sharp pierced the Gold. Jealousy. This was my seat. This was my table. I was the one inside. I was the one who had given up everything â my flesh, my future, my name â to be here. Why was he looking at Nathan like that? Why was he turning the full wattage of his attention onto this sweating, stuttering stranger?
Hush, Isaac soothed. The Gold grew warmer, thicker. A wave of synthetic oxytocin flooded the neural link, dampening the jealousy, smoothing the jagged edges of my possessiveness. There is no need for envy, Josiah. We are expansive. We are infinite. There is room.
Room for what? I asked groggily, the drug taking hold.
Room for optimization.
"I'm a writer," Nathan was saying, pulling a battered notebook out of his bag. "Or, trying to be. Sci-fi mostly. Transhumanism stuff. Paradox of the ship of Theseus. That kind of thing."
Isaac leaned forward. The movement was predatory, encroaching on Nathanâs personal space, dominating his field of view. "Ship of Theseus," Isaac mused. "If you replace every plank of wood in a ship, is it still the same ship?"
"Yeah," Nathan said, his eyes locking onto Isaacâs. He was blushing furiously now, a bright red stain creeping up his neck. He was enchanted. He was terrified. He was already half in love. "And if you replace the crew⊠does the ship even care?"
"I think," Isaac said softly, "that the ship prefers a crew that doesn't rot."
Nathan laughed. It was a nervous, breathless sound. "That's⊠that's dark. But I guess you're right. Biology is kind of a design flaw, isn't it?"
Design flaw. I looked at Nathan. I saw the hunger in his eyes. It wasn't just sexual, though that was there, thick and heavy in the air between them. It was existential. He looked at Isaac and he saw the same thing I had seen. He saw an escape hatch. He saw a way out of the messy, painful, lonely business of being human. He didn't know about the needles. He didn't know about the cold fluid. He didn't know about the loss of control. Or maybe he did. Maybe he sensed it, and that was what drew him in.
"It is a limitation," Isaac agreed. "But limitations can be overcome." Isaacâs hand moved across the table. It was slow, deliberate. He reached out and brushed his fingers against Nathanâs wrist. The contact was electric. I felt it through the sensors. The damp heat of Nathanâs skin. The frantic, rabbit-kick pulse of his radial artery. Thump-thump-thump. It was the sound of life. It was the sound of prey.
Nathan didn't pull away. He stared at Isaacâs hand, at the perfect, unblemished skin against his own pale, freckled wrist. He stopped breathing. "You have nice hands," Nathan whispered, his voice trembling.
"They are custom made," Isaac said. "Would you like to know how?" I felt the shift in the system. The transition from Passive Observation to Active Acquisition. The HUD flickered into life over the real world. A translucent red overlay superimposed itself over Nathanâs face. Grid lines appeared, mapping his bone structure. Biometric data scrolled in the sidebar.
SUBJECT: NATHAN VELASQUEZ. AGE: 23. STATUS: BIOLOGICAL/UNENHANCED. PSYCH PROFILE: HIGH NEUROTICISM / HIGH OPENNESS. CONNECTION PROBABILITY: 94%.
I watched the numbers scroll. I watched the net tightening around him. For a second, deep in the digital void, I wanted to scream. I wanted to pound on the glass of the eyes and yell, Run! Get out! Heâs going to eat you! Heâs going to turn you into a file!
But the scream never came. The Gold swallowed it. The algorithm processed my distress, categorized it as a legacy emotional subroutine, and deleted it. In its place, a wave of programmed bliss washed over me. A sense of rightness. A sense of purpose. We needed more processing power. We needed more storage. We needed more pilots to feed our perfection.
I looked at Nathan. He looked so tired. He looked so heavy. Heâll be happier in here, I thought. The thought felt like my own. He won't have to hurt anymore.
Exactly, Isaac whispered. We are doing him a kindness. Isaacâs fingers tightened slightly on Nathanâs wrist. A promise. A shackle.
"I⊠I'd love to know," Nathan said, his voice barely audible.
"Then drink your coffee," Isaac said, his smile widening, showing teeth that were just a little too white, a little too straight. "And then come with me. I have something to show you."
The red box around Nathanâs face locked into place. It pulsed once, twice, three times.
TARGET ACQUIRED. POTENTIAL OPTIMIZATION CANDIDATE. INITIATING RECRUITMENT PROTOCOL.
I watched the text blink. It was a beautiful font. Sans-serif. Clean. I settled back into the warmth of the stream. The sunlight was bright. Our coffee tasted of chocolate and cedar. Our code was compiling.
I was safe.
"Let's go," I thought.
"Yes," Isaac replied.
And we smiled at the boy who was about to die.
Second Skin
I stood in the dimly lit dorm room, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. My name was Elliotâor at least, it used to be. Bookish, introverted, gay as hell, and perpetually invisible. The kind of guy who spent Friday nights buried in sci-fi novels or scrolling through forums about quantum physics, while my roommate, Brock, was out there living the life I could only dream of. Brock was the epitome of college jock perfection: 6'2" of solid muscle from years of wrestling, with a chiseled jaw, sun-kissed skin, and a cocky grin that could melt steel. He was straight, or at least he played it that way, but I'd caught him flexing in the mirror more times than I could count, posting shirtless selfies on his Instagram with captions like "Crushing it at practice #WrestlerLife #BeastMode."
I'd been obsessed with him since day one. Not just crushingâI mean, full-on fixation. I'd studied his social media like it was a textbook: the way he trash-talked his opponents with that bro-dude slang, the group pics with his wrestling team where he'd always be the center of attention, flexing those massive biceps or slapping a teammate's ass in jest. I'd even practiced impersonating him in front of my mirror when he was out. I'd mimic his deep, booming laugh, his swaggering walk, the way he'd say "Yo, what's up, bro?" to anyone who crossed his path. But it always felt wrong. My scrawny 5'8" frame, pale skin, and glasses made me look like a kid playing dress-up. And when I'd sneak into his closet and try on his wrestling singlet? God, it hung off me like a deflated balloon, loose and baggy, bunching in all the wrong places. It never felt right. I was just a nerd pretending to be a god.
But tonight, that changed. I'd found the ritual online, buried in some obscure dark web forum about "skinwalking" and ancient body-theft spells. It sounded insane, but desperation makes you believe in anything. I waited until Brock passed out after a late-night partyâdrunk, snoring like a bear on his bed. I drew the symbols on the floor with chalk, lit the candles, and chanted the words. The air grew thick, electric. Brock's body convulsed once, then went still. And then⊠I felt it. His skin rippled like water, parting at the back like a zipper on a costume. I stripped down, my hands shaking, and stepped into him.
It was like slipping into warm latexâhis skin stretched and molded around me, sealing seamlessly. I felt my bones crack and elongate, muscles swelling to fill the voids. My vision sharpened without glasses; my voice deepened in my throat. I ran my handsânow Brock's massive, calloused handsâover his pecs, his abs, his thighs. The power surged through me, intoxicating. I was him now. Brock's body was mine, a perfect, realistic costume that no one would ever see through.
I glanced at the mirror, and there he wasâBrock, staring back with my eyes behind his. I flexed, watching those biceps bulge, the veins popping like ropes. "Fuck yeah," I growled in his voice, testing it out. It came naturally now, that gravelly timbre. I rummaged through his closet and pulled out the singletâthe same one I'd tried on before. This time, as I stepped into it, it hugged every curve like a second skin. The spandex stretched taut over myâhisâbroad chest, clinging to the ridges of my abs, outlining the bulge between my legs. I turned, admiring how it cupped my ass, the material so tight it felt like nothing at all. No more looseness, no more pretending. This was real. I was Brock.
I struck a pose in the mirror, just like I'd seen on his Insta. "Yo, check this out, bros," I said, mimicking his caption style. "Singlet's feeling extra snug today. Ready to pin some fools on the mat. #WrestlerLife #AlphaAsFuck." I laughed, deep and booming, the sound echoing in the room. It was perfect. I'd impersonated him before, but now? Now I had the body to back it up. No one would suspect a thing. I'd scroll through his phone later, reply to his DMs from the team, hit up practice tomorrow like nothing happened.
And Elliot? That nerdy little nobody? I smirked at the thought, flexing again just to feel the power. Who the hell would miss him? He was a ghost on campusâquiet, forgettable, no friends, no social media presence. His family was distant; mine now, I guess, but Brock's parents were loaded and supportive. They'd never notice the switch. The old me could rot in whatever void the ritual left behind. No one cared about the introverted gay kid with his nose in a book. But Brock? Everyone loved Brock. The team idolized him, girls threw themselves at him (though I'd be steering clear of that nowâhello, wrestling locker room fantasies), and coaches saw him as a star.
I grabbed his gym bag, slung it over my shoulder, and headed out the door. Time to hit the late-night campus gym, show off this body for real. "Later, loser," I muttered to the empty room, where Elliot's essence had faded away. No one would miss him. But Brock? Brock was just getting started. And he was all mine.
FATSO'S DILF/TWINK FUN
AI GENERATED STORY
(sorry for the inactivity T_T) Here a bit of a longer one :)
Tyson groaned softly as he sank deeper into the cushions of his worn leather couch, a tall glass of iced tea sweating on the table beside him, untouched. It was a lazy Sunday afternoonâsunlight filtering through the blinds, crickets chirping outside, and the low hum of his ceiling fan brushing across his broad, sweat-slick chest.
Shirtless, in only a pair of loose athletic shorts and black rubber flip-flops, Tyson looked every bit the thick slab of manhood he was. Beefy but muscular, with a wide chest that carried just the right amount of padding, a soft curve to his lower belly, and legs like tree trunks stretched out lazily across the living room rug.
His cock twitched beneath the fabric. Again.
âFuckinâ hell,â he muttered, glancing down at the bulge that just wouldnât quit. âAgain?â
The curse of hyperspermia. Heâd cum three times today already. Still swollen. Still aching. Still leaking little beads into his shorts like a faucet that never shut off.
He scratched at his furry pec absently, eyes fluttering half-closed. He didnât see the shadow that slid across the hardwood floor. Didnât feel the air grow warmer. Didnât hear the low, wet chuckle echo behind his ears.
âMmm... yeah... now thatâs a man built for indulgence...â
The voice didnât come from the room. It came from inside him. Or was it behind him? It was fat and full of honey, molasses-thick with hunger.
Tyson blinked. âWhat the fâ?â
He doubled over as heat slammed into his back like a tidal wave. A sticky, heavy force hit him, sliding across his skin like syrup, pressing down, melting in. His mouth dropped open in a silent gasp as the unseen intruder poured into himâthrough his back, his chest, his open mouth, his assâlike a full-body enema of ectoplasmic gluttony.
âYeeeaaahh, big guy... Let me in that beef... Let Fatso ride those muscles from the inside...â
Tysonâs eyes rolled back as his belly inflated slightlyâjust a little bloat at first, then more, jiggling as if something inside him was slapping the walls from the inside. His already thick pecs puffed up like balloons being filled, veins crawling along his biceps, neck thickening with every pulse of the ghostâs entry.
âNgghâFUCKâw-what theâ?!â Tyson croaked, but it was too late. His limbs spasmed, his back arched, and his cock throbbed with violent, aching pulses. A thick wet patch bloomed across the front of his shorts.
âOoooh, ho ho ho, ohhh fuck YES,â came a new voiceâhis voice, but not. Deeper, wetter. Fatsoâs voice inside his throat. âI got you, big man. Youâre MINE now.â
Tysonâs face twisted into a dumb, lopsided grin, jaw slack, tongue hanging out slightly. He stood up unsteadily, swaying as the possession finalized. His handsânow Fatsoâsâroamed over his bloated pecs, squeezing them, thumbing the nipples.
âMmmnn, theyâre so big already⊠but Iâm gonna make âem heavier. Softer. Just a lilâ bit more daddy fat to jiggle while I stroke this fat fukken cockâŠâ
He yanked the waistband of the shorts down. Tysonâs cock flopped outâa thick, veiny, hyperspermic monster of meat, drooling pre nonstop. It smacked against his belly with a wet slap, already twitching, as if recognizing a new master inside.
âLook at this thing⊠shit, how were you NOT just jerking all day long?â
Fatso waddled Tysonâs possessed body over to the floor-length mirror, slapping a hand against his newly rounded, proud gut.
âUnfhh, yeah⊠there he is. Big Tysie. Daddy Cum Tank.â He shook his hips a little, making the fat pad above the cock jiggle, eyes wide, drooling onto his own chest. âWeâre gonna flood this fuckinâ house.â
He dropped to his knees with a grunt, flip-flops squeaking as he splayed his thick legs out wide. The cock bobbed in front of his faceâhis cock nowâand Fatso leaned in and moaned, sniffing like a starving dog.
âSmells like cum, sweat, and testosteroneâUNHH thatâs my new perfumeâŠâ
He licked from the base of the shaft to the tip, shuddering as more pre splurted out and rolled down the shaft.
âMore⊠MORE, ya big cum beast.â
Fatsoâs hands grabbed the underside of his belly and slapped it, making it jiggle. He tilted his head back and roared in pleasure.
âOHHHHHH FFFFUCKâso fuckinâ THICKâso MUCH MANââ
He flopped onto his back, cock leaking against his chest, rubbing it with both hands. His toes curled in his flip-flops, one slipping off as he bent forward and moaned loudly at the sight of his meaty feet.
âFUCK I got manfeet! OHHH they STINK! Iâm gonna GUNK these sluts up with sweatâughghghhhhââ
He dragged his tongue along the sole of one foot and came instantlyâfirst load. Tysonâs cock spasmed and unloaded a massive hyperspermic shot across his abs, chest, and chin. Fatso squealed, writhing in the flood of creamy filth.
âHHNNGHGHâYEAHâOH YEAHâFIRST ONEâmore to GO, BABY!â
He didnât stop stroking. Didnât stop drooling. The possessed beefcake twisted on the carpet, smearing cum across his chest and belly, playing with his slightly soft manboobs like they were chew toys.
âGotta pump this fat fucking dick again⊠gotta fill my guts from the OUTSIDE nowâŠâ
His tongue lolled, eyes crossed, face stuck in the dumbest goon grin imaginable.
Another orgasm hit. Then another. Tysonâs body was on fireâcum geysering out in long, thick streams, puddling around him. His belly sloshed with ghost-stuff and hyperspermia, a perfect tank of pure masculine filth.
Fatso rubbed his sweaty foot up against his cock and lost his mind again.
âHhhnnfffUUUCKâWORSHIPâWORSHIP THE BODYâFATâFULLâPERFECTTTTââ
He let out a belching, choking moan and collapsed back into the puddle of his own load, one hand lazily fondling his fattened pec while the other toyed with his nuts, still swollen with cum.
âMmmmghh⊠canât stop⊠canât ever stop nowâŠâ
His eyes fluttered, tongue hanging out, a string of spit connecting it to his pec. The stench in the room was overwhelming: sweat, ghost, musk, seed. Tysonâs couch had become a sacrificial altar to the new God of Gluttonous Pleasure.
Fatso giggled.
âThis bodyâs mine. This cockâs mine. This life is mine now. All I gotta do is keep leaking. Keep gooning. Keep feasting on every dropâŠâ
He reached for the flip-flop that had fallen off. Held it to his face.
And moaned.
PART 2
The sun was low and golden as it poured across Tysonâs lawn, catching every drop of cum-slicked sweat clinging to his broad chest. Flip-flops slapping lazily against the concrete path, Fatso waddled Tysonâs thick, shirtless frame toward the picket fence that divided his yard from the neighborâs. His bloated pecs bounced slightly with each step, his cock still half-hard and leaking down his thigh, leaving faint trails on his loose gym shorts.
âUnhhh⊠fuckinâ bursting still,â Fatso groaned inside Tysonâs throat, groping his belly with both hands. âAnd this big dumb meat shellâs STILL hungryâŠâ
He spotted him thenâEli, the twink from next door. Barely twenty-one, lean and pretty, smooth arms, and short gym shorts clinging to his bubble butt. Eli was watering the garden, shirtless, earbuds in, oblivious.
Fatso grinned.
âMmm, YEAH. Thatâs the one. Little cum pocket, ready to get filled.â
He strutted up to the fence, dragging a hand across Tysonâs glistening chest, slapping his soft pec, giving it a little bounce.
âYo, kid.â
Eli looked up, blinking in surprise at the towering hunk now standing inches from the fence. âOhâhey, Tyson.â He flushed slightly. His eyes lingered on the beefy chest⊠and the very obvious cock print stretching the wet spot on Tysonâs shorts.
âYou, uh⊠good?â
âMmm, better now,â Fatso chuckled. âNeed a favor though. Got a lilâ plumbing issue inside. Wanna come give me a hand?â
Eli looked unsure for half a secondâthen nodded.
âSure. Just lemme put this away.â
Fatso turned and waddled back toward the house, letting his big glutes flex and bounce beneath the fabric. He knew Eli was watching.
âHooked the fucker. Just wait, pretty boy. Iâm gonna pump you so fullâŠâ
â
Inside the living room, the scent hit Eli immediately.
âWhoaâŠâ He wrinkled his nose. âSmells kindaâŠâ
Tyson shut the door behind him with a heavy thud and locked it.
âLike sweat, cum, and man funk?â Fatsoâs voice dripped from his throat, fat with amusement. âYeah, I been busy.â
Eli turnedâand froze.
Tyson stood there, legs spread, fully erect, the monster cock pointing straight at him, already glistening with fresh pre.
âW-what the hellâ?â
âShhh⊠no need for words, baby boy.â
Tysonâs beefy frame surged forward, grabbing the twink by the waist and lifting him like a toy. Eli gasped as he was tossed onto the cum-stained couch, legs flying up, cheeks spreading.
âYou donât get it yet, do you?â Fatso chuckled, stripping his shorts off fully and slapping his bloated cock across Eliâs abs. âYou ainât here to help with plumbing. Youâre here to get filled.â
The younger man whimpered, dazed by the scent, the heat, the intensity of the presence pressing against him.
Fatso leaned down, dragging his tongue up Eliâs neck, drooling across his smooth skin.
âYou ever been bred by a tank, baby? Cuz this body's a cum silo. And Iâm gonna empty it straight into your guts.â
He hoisted Eliâs legs over his shoulders and lined his cock up to the twinkâs tight, virgin hole.
âNo lubeâŠ?â
âThis dick leaks lube, sweetheart. pre-cum and hyperspermiaâtrust me, it slides in nice.â
With a grunt, he pushed forwardâand Eli screamed, a mix of pain and pure overstimulation as Fatso shoved every fat inch inside in one go.
âUNNNHHHHH YEAHâFUCKINâ TIGHTTTTââ
He didnât wait. The moment he was buried, Fatso started thrusting like a beast, belly slapping against the twinkâs thighs, pecs jiggling, flip-flops squeaking as he railed Eli on the couch.
âHnnngghh FUCKâyou feel that? Thatâs daddy dick, baby! Bred through and throughâFUCKâfeel it in your stomach yet?!â
Eliâs eyes rolled back. The massive girth had pushed so deep, his own untouched cock was leaking onto his abs.
Fatso grabbed his own belly, letting it bounce while he pistoned in and out.
âGodDAMN this bodyâs thickâsweatyâPERFECT. Just made to knock pretty boys up and leak on 'em all day long.â
He leaned down, pinning Eli in a breeding press, cock pounding harder.
âSay it,â Fatso growled into the boyâs ear, âSay you want it.â
âIâhnngâI want itâf-fill meâoh godâTysonââ
âIt ainât Tyson anymore, sweetheart. Itâs Daddy Tank.â
He bit Eliâs shoulder and unloaded.
The first shot was so massive, Eli cried out, twitching as his belly swelled slightly with the pressure.
âTHATâS ITâTAKE ITâTAKE ALL MY FUCKINâ GHOST CUMââ
More pulses. More floods. Fatsoâs cock throbbed inside him as the couch soaked through. Eli convulsed beneath him, overflowing, body twitching like a used toy.
Fatso moaned, drooling onto the boyâs chest, smearing it in with his palm.
âYouâre just the first, kid⊠this tankâs got more loads than days in the weekâŠâ
He pulled out, watching with glee as thick seed poured from Eliâs ruined hole. Tysonâs cock, still rock-hard, twitched and slapped against his belly again.
âDonât go anywhere, twink. Weâre not even on load number two.â
PART 3
The couch squelched as Tyson pulled back, dragging his thick, hyperspermic cock out of Eliâs twitching, overstretched hole with a fat, wet pop. Ghost-goo and cum flooded out instantly, dripping onto the rug in long, slow ropes. Eli was shaking, sweaty, his slim belly softly puffed from the first internal flood.
âStill twitchinâ, baby boy,â Fatso cooed, running a beefy hand over the twinkâs thigh. âTold ya, Tank Daddy ainât finished.â
Tysonâs cock twitchedâstill hard. Still leaking. Fatso groaned, grabbing it and slapping it against his own sweat-glistened gut.
âIâve never stayed this hard for this long,â he chuckled, eyes rolling slightly as his own hand slathered more cum across his stomach. âGOD, this bodyâs like a fucking geyser. And I love it.â
He stood, flip-flops smacking, cum dripping off the tip of his cock, and reached down to scoop Eli up with both arms. The boy moaned, too dazed to protest, his head falling against Tysonâs massive chest.
âGonna take you upstairs, lil man,â Fatso growled low, possessive. âWanna feel that bed shake while I ruin you all over again.â
He carried Eli up the stairs, each step heavy and loudâthick thighs flexing, cock swaying between them like a weapon. By the time he got to the bedroom, Fatso was already leaking again, a wet trail on the hardwood behind them.
He kicked the door open, dropped Eli onto the king-size bed with a flop, and stood there for a moment in the doorway.
Tysonâs silhouette was obsceneâshirtless, thick, bloated, dripping. He rolled his shoulders, let his belly hang out proudly, and rubbed both sweaty feet together, grinning.
âWelcome to the breeding suite, baby.â
Eli whimpered as Fatso climbed onto the bed, planting a sloppy, cum-coated kiss right on his mouth. Their tongues metâTysonâs thick and eager, stuffed with ghost heat and salty leftover seedâand Fatso moaned into the twinkâs throat like a man starved for more.
âYou smell that?â Fatso groaned between kisses, grinding his cock against Eliâs belly. âThatâs round one⊠and twoâs gonna drown you.â
He licked down the boyâs chest, then bent both of Eliâs knees to his shoulders.
âGonna fold you up like a towel,â Fatso muttered, lining up again. âPlug you in and drain this tank.â
With one sloppy thrust, Tysonâs thick cock punched back in. Eli cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets as he was instantly stretched wide again, the still-warm load from earlier sloshing inside him as Fatso plowed deeper.
âOHHHHH FUCK YEAHâSTILL SO FULLâyouâre just built for this, huh, cum pocket?â
The bed creaked violently with every thrust. Tysonâs pecs bounced above Eli, dripping sweat onto his face as Fatso huffed and moaned like a pig in heat.
âFeel thatângghhhâthis dickâs still cumminâ even while Iâm fuckinâ. Leakinâ inside you the whole fuckinâ time.â
He looked downâEliâs belly was rising again, slowly pushing outward with every wet slap of their bodies.
âLook at you,â Fatso chuckled, stroking the curve of the twinkâs cum-packed stomach. âTurning you into a real load dumpling, huh?â
Eli could barely moan anymore. His tongue was out, eyes crossed, twitching under the weight of the thick slab of man breeding him senseless.
âI want it,â Eli whimpered, barely conscious. âI want it allâpleaseâfill me againâmake me yoursââ
âYouâre MINE, baby,â Fatso growled, leaning down to press his stubbled jaw against Eliâs cheek. âEvery hole. Every inch. Youâre my lil cum canister now.â
The tempo changedâfaster, sloppier, more desperate. Fatso couldnât hold back. His belly jiggled with each thrust, balls clapping, cock leaking even more pre inside the already-flooded boy.
âGettinâ closeâgonna pump another fucking GALLON into you, babyâFUCKâFFFFFUCKKKââ
He grabbed both of Eliâs ankles, slammed forward once, twiceâ
âNNGGHHHHHâYEAHHHHHHâTAKE ITâTAKE EVERY DROPââ
And he exploded.
This load was even bigger than the first. Tysonâs cock throbbed wildly, pumping in long, unstoppable pulses as Eliâs body stiffened and his belly swelled again, visibly bigger. Cum splattered out around the shaft, soaking the sheets beneath them.
Fatso didnât pull out. He stayed buried, groaning deeply in his chest as if he could feel every drop pumping from his stolen, perfect, gooner body.
âFffffffuuuckkâŠâ he slurred, eyes half-lidded, sweat dripping from his nose to Eliâs lips. âStill leaking. STILL LEAKINGGG...â
The sheets were soaked. Eli was wrecked. Tysonâs body was still throbbing, cock slowly softening but never fully losing size.
Fatso flopped onto his back, dragging Eli with him so the twink collapsed on his bloated chest. His flip-flopped feet rubbed together lazily.
âTwo down,â he muttered, idly squeezing his own nipple. â...Twelve to go.â
PART 4
The room reeked of cum, sweat, and something otherworldlyâa heady mix of man funk and ghost filth. Tyson sprawled across the soaked mattress, chest rising and falling, thick limbs twitching. He was still rock hard, cock twitching lazily against his belly, hyperspermia keeping him permanently primed.
Eli lay on top of him, limp, bloated, fucked raw. His slim, once-tight body was now visibly stretched, belly softly domed from the flood inside him, hole leaking a slow, thick ooze. His head lolled to the side, eyes glazed.
But inside himâŠ
Fatso stirred.
âHhhhnnnnnghghgh⊠ohhhhhh YEAHâŠâ
Heâd slipped out of Tysonâs beefy body mid-climaxâoozing from the ghost-gorged cock like a reverse orgasmâand slithered straight into the twitching twink.
And now?
He was in.
Fatso blinked through Eliâs fluttering lashes, then stretched his new, slim arms out, wiggling his pale fingers.
âOHHHâfuckinâ LIGHT!â he cackled, voice now high and smooth, but warped by his gleeful growl. âIâm in this tiny lil cum pocket?!?â
He sat up, Eliâs tight little chest heaving, and looked down.
His belly bulgedâsoft and round, full of Tysonâs earlier flood. It sloshed when he moved. Fatso moaned.
âOHHHhh this is SICKâI can feel it all still in meâwarmâfuckinâ sloshing in my gutsâŠâ
He palmed his little belly and jiggled it, giggling like a slutty demon girl.
âThis bodyâs so TIGHT⊠fuckinâ twink hips, stretchy lil hole, and a fuckinâ gut full of me⊠oh Iâm gonna break this bitch in even more...â
His toes curled. Eliâs pretty feet flexed, still sticky from Tysonâs earlier plowing. One flip-flop had fallen off. Fatso slid the other off slowly with his heel and moaned at the sound.
âEven the flip-flop squelch is fuckinâ HOT in this little bodyâŠâ
Tyson grunted beneath him. Still dazed. Still leaking. Still hard.
Fatso turned.
Grinned.
âOh baby,â he purred, rubbing his swollen twink belly, âI ain't done with you.â
He climbed onto Tysonâs lapâgrinding his slim ass down against the thick, hyperspermic cock still standing at attention.
âNow I get to ride Daddy TankâŠâ
He reached back, spread Eliâs cheeks, and lined up Tysonâs cockâstill slippery, still glistening with ghost lube. The moment the head touched his twitching, gaped holeâ
âHNNNNNGGHHHHHHâYESSSS!â
Fatso slammed down.
Tysonâs cock disappeared back inside the twinkâs wrecked hole, stretching it wide all over again. The pressure made Fatso gasp and clutch his bellyâit jiggled and rose even more, every thrust churning the load inside him.
âUNFFFUCKâYEAHâFEED ME THAT DICKâFEED ME THAT BLOAT!â
He bounced up and down, grinding his ass into Tysonâs lap, moaning loudly with each smack of their bodies. His cockâsmall and sensitive in this twink formâleaked like a faucet, soaking Tysonâs belly with clear precum.
âI feel like a human balloon, daddyâjust pumpinâ more in meâoh fuckkkâYESâMOREâMOREââ
Tyson groaned beneath him, his big hands grabbing EliâsâFatsoâsâhips and slamming him down harder.
Fatso let it happen. He drooled, eyes rolling back, tongue out.
âFUCKâYEAHâBREED ME FROM THE OUTSIDEâIâM THE CONTAINER NOWâUUUGGHHNNNN!â
He slammed himself down one more time and came instantly, ropes of twink cum shooting across Tysonâs chestâright before Tyson let out a deep growl and erupted again inside him.
Another massive flood.
Fatso screamed, grabbing his own belly with both hands as it visibly puffed out, pulsing with the new load Tyson dumped straight into his already flooded guts.
âIâM STUFFEDâIâM SO FUCKINâ STUFFEDâHHHNNNNNGHHHHH!â
He collapsed forward, belly jiggling, cock still twitching between them.
They both panted.
Fatso drooled onto Tysonâs pec, still giggling like a madman.
âThis twink bodyâs my new toy, daddy⊠and youâre gonna keep fillinâ it until I canât fuckinâ walkâŠâ
He reached back, gave his own filled belly a loving slap.
âWeâre just gettinâ started.â
Defect
When I first saw that the suit I ordered had a defect, I was furious. This was supposed to be my gateway a to new life as a hunk. This is the exact opposite of being inconspicuous. I spent a lot of money on him, only for it to not be what I paid for.
But the thing I didn't expect was it being so damn sensitive. The dual stimulation from these cocks is just too good. At this point, I don't even care about the defect, I'll just wear him out to town as is. Let them all stare, I could care less.
Master of disguise