Misplaced Lens Cap
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
we're not kids anymore.

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@enenchuukon
My Horny Ghost Possessed Brother
As I push my brother onto the bed, he says to me, "Please baby bro, I want your mouth on me!"
As I kiss him down towards his cock, I say to him, "Oh come on, I think you mean baby. Hehehe"
----
Ever since I almost died choking on a huge piece of candy stuck in my throat three years ago, I have been able to see ghosts everywhere I go, and was scared at first, but now I've gotten used to it after helping them move on to the afterlife.
However, my family has no idea that I have this ability, as I had found ways to keep my ghost seeing ability a secret, such as pretending I'm on my phone, though I have wanted to tell them about this but can't find myself doing so.
----
Five Days Ago...
My brother, Jake, suddenly went to my apartment and asked if he can stay here for one night since he's really drunk and didn't want to get home yet.
"Ughh, finee you can stay here." He tried to hug me but I couldn't stand the smell of alcohol so I quickly pushed him away. I tried hard to hide my growing bulge cause his drunk sweaty self is giving me a hard on, and him opening his clothes is not helping.
I quickly went to give him water to sober up and put him on the couch to let him sleep.
---
Later that night, I was playing games on my computer after a day of working and looking to relax when I saw a shadow from the corner of my eye.
When I looked, it was a ghost clad in black floating off the floor and I doubled over, falling off my chair.
"Hahaha looks like I shocked you!"
Getting off the floor, I hesitantly asked, "Who are you?"
"Oh hey! My name's Melvin. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He bowed down exaggeratedly to me and I laughed.
He then conjured a spectral chair out of thin air and posed on it. "I've been haunting this place after I died eating a candlelit dinner with my boyfriend. I've been haunting this place since."
"Wait how come I can only see you now? I've been here for a week. And did you move my things?"
"Well," Melvin answered. "Honestly, I wanted to show myself but thought I'd have some fun. I know it's annoying to anyone, but I was a bit of a prankster in my life. Well, now the afterlife."
Just then, Jake opened the bedroom door. "Hey bro, saw that your lights are still on from under your bedroom door. Wanna eat dinner?"
Suddenly I saw Melvin float behind him. "Hey wanna see a magic trick?"
Before I can process what he meant, Melvin put his hands on Jake's back, and Jake froze in place. Melvin then pushed in deeper into Jake's back, causing his body to shake in place as more and more of Melvin gets inside him.
Eventually, Melvin's head is all that's left that's not fully inside and trying to process this, I asked, "W-what is happening?"
Before I can get an answer, Melvin's head phased into Jake's and Jake fell to the floor. Trying to wake him up, I asked, "Hey! Y-You okay?!"
Suddenly, Jake sat up and kissed me hard while touching my growing bulge. "Hi, 'bro' hehehe... or should I say, human friend..." He laughed at his own joke.
"M-Melvin? How?!"
"Well I had taken over people over the years and it was always temporary. I'd let them go and possess them again when I want to feel all the human pleasure that I've been missing."
"I know that you've had a hard on for this bro of yours."
"W-What? No!"
Looking at my growing bulge, Melvin/Jake chuckles. "Ha! You say that, but your body's reacting differently. He then kisses me hard again and takes off his clothes before falling on the bed.
"You know... with me inside, you can have all your wet dreams come true. I'm sure as your 'brother' I can help you with that hehe.. And by the way, your bro's screaming for me to leave his body."
Thinking it over, I then smiled. "Well you don't have to leave his body. I think it's a good thing you took him over. I've always wondered what it'd be like to fuck and be fucked by him hehe."
Chuckling, Jake answered, "Well then, why don't you come here and let your 'bro' fulfill you then?"
----
In the present...
Since that day, Melvin/Jake and I have had a very sexual relationship. We took turns fulfilling our respective fantasies and I have had a lot of fun doing everything with him. From playing a superhero who wanted to fuck me pretending to be his enemy to secret lover, to him being a my submissive and me his dom as part of my fantasy, our sex life has been great.
As for the real Jake? I asked Melvin and he said that Jake has been silent the last two weeks so either he accepted Melvin as the one in the driver's seat, or he's gone absorbed into Melvin since suddenly Jake has all his memories.
No matter, though, cause I get to fulfill my wish to be boyfriends with Jake with Melvin in control.
Bull Drone Conversion
Elias had not been deceived.
That mattered to him, even as his hands trembled against the black restraints, even as the chair inclined beneath his body and the cold light of the conversion chamber reduced every thought to a hard-edged shape he could not look away from. He had signed the intake. He had listened to the explanation. He had watched the schematic rotate on the wall display: human male source, conversion substrate, bull-drone morphology, Hive integration, final designation. Nothing had been hidden from him. The facility had not lied. The Voice had not disguised itself as encouragement, therapy, training, or any of the soft civilian words that made surrender sound like something other than surrender.
He had come because he wanted to become useful.
That knowledge did not make him calm.
He lay back in the chair in his blue gym tank and black shorts, muscles tense from a final, meaningless attempt to appear composed. The fabric across his chest still belonged to the outside world, to sweat and mirrors and ordinary effort. His forearms were bare. His thighs were bare. His face was still Elias’s face: brown curls damp at the forehead, mustache trimmed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the figure standing beside him.
SERVE-690 regarded him in silence.
It was not merely large. It was built with the cruel perfection of a command made physical: towering, bull-headed, encased in reflective black from throat to boot, the white designation across its chest sharp enough to look carved from light. Silver horns rose from the black helmet-mask in polished arcs. A silver ring hung from the snout. Its gauntlet-style gloves were heavy, segmented, and immaculate. It did not fidget. It did not soften itself to make Elias comfortable. It did not perform kindness in any recognizable human manner.
That was what unsettled him most.
SERVE-690 was not cruel. It was not impatient. It did not need to dominate through anger because domination already existed in its posture, in its scale, in the steady angle of its head as it looked down at him. Elias felt the animal part of his brain respond before thought could rationalize it. He felt his pulse quicken, his breathing shorten, his mouth dry. The body knew hierarchy before the mind named it.
The wall display changed.
SUBJECT: ELIAS VENN
INTAKE COMPLETE
Beside the text, a pale anatomical rendering of Elias rotated slowly, then overlaid itself with a broader, denser, horned figure labeled BULL DRONE: OPTIMIZED OUTCOME.
Elias stared at the final shape.
His throat moved around words that did not come.
SERVE-690 lowered one silver hand and placed two fingers beneath Elias’s jaw, lifting his face with controlled pressure.
“State readiness.”
Elias swallowed. “I’m ready.”
“Detected: elevated fear response.”
“I know.”
“Fear is expected.”
That should have reassured him. It did not. It made the chamber feel more final, as though even his panic had been anticipated, measured, filed, and assigned a function.
“I want this,” Elias said. His voice was quiet, but not false. “I just…”
He looked past SERVE-690, toward the diagnostic screen, toward the bull-drone profile that was and was not him.
“I know what this means.”
SERVE-690’s black mask reflected his face back at him in warped fragments.
“Correction. You understand the terms. You do not yet understand the state.”
Elias breathed in. The restraint around his wrist clicked tighter by one notch, not painful, simply exact.
“Then make me understand.”
SERVE-690’s hand slid from his jaw to the side of his neck, holding him in place with the effortless authority of a machine built to move heavier things than men.
“Compliance acknowledged.”
The syringe entered cleanly.
Elias shut his eyes.
The fluid burned for three seconds, then became heat, then became pressure. It moved through him as if his circulatory system had been mapped in advance and every route cleared for occupation. His heart struck hard once, twice, then slowed into a deep, disciplined cadence. The muscles in his shoulders tightened. His chest rose against the blue tank. His fingers curled, not in resistance now, but in involuntary recruitment, as though every fiber in him were being called to attention.
The first mental change was not obedience.
It was clarity.
His fear did not vanish. It was placed at a distance, still visible, still registered, but no longer permitted to interrupt the procedure. He could feel the old human reflexes trying to organize themselves into refusal, but each impulse was immediately met by a colder process that named it and reduced it.
Fear: transitional instability.
Nostalgia: civilian residue.
Self-protection: obsolete priority.
He opened his eyes.
SERVE-690 was still there.
The drone’s silver hand remained against his throat, not comforting him, not hurting him, simply anchoring him to the conversion as the first changes entered his body. Elias felt his shoulders widen, not violently but insistently, tendons and muscle adapting under his skin. His neck thickened against the restraint. His chest expanded until the tank pulled tight across him, the fabric suddenly inadequate, temporary, embarrassing in its softness. His arms became heavier in the clamps. Vascular pressure rose, then stabilized. He could feel strength arriving before he could use it.
The overhead machinery unfolded.
Elias looked up as the crown apparatus descended over his head: black metal, silver contact pins, cables flexing like tendons. The old panic surged at the sight of it. This was the threshold he had imagined but not comprehended. The body could be trained, augmented, clothed. The face could be covered. But the mind was the final private chamber, and the machine lowering toward him had been designed to open it.
His breathing broke.
SERVE-690 leaned closer.
“Elias Venn.”
Hearing his name from that black snout made him flinch.
“Do you withdraw?”
The question was exact. Not warm. Not persuasive. A true opportunity, because true submission had to pass through a door that refusal could still recognize.
Elias’s hands strained in the cuffs. He thought of walking out. He thought of returning to mirrors, meals, gym schedules, sleep, ordinary desire, ordinary loneliness, ordinary selfhood with all its wasted motion. He thought of keeping his face. Keeping his name. Keeping the endless private negotiations that had filled his life: should, maybe, tomorrow, later, not yet.
Then he looked at SERVE-690.
The drone was terrifying because it had none of that. No maybe. No drift. No apology for its own power. No need to be understood by the civilian world. It existed as purpose in a body made severe enough to house it.
Elias wanted that more than he feared it.
“No,” he said. “I don’t withdraw.”
“Then discard your hesitation.”
The crown locked onto his skull.
White light passed through him.
The Voice did not sound like a person. It did not seduce him. It did not comfort him. It occupied language before language became speech.
ELIAS VENN: SOURCE IDENTITY.
Images appeared in sequence: Elias lifting dumbbells in a bright gym, smiling at someone out of frame; Elias looking at his own body in a mirror and wanting more than he knew how to ask for; Elias lying awake, imagining strength not as appearance but as relief; Elias standing at the threshold of the SERVE facility, hand hovering over the intake panel.
Each memory was preserved and demoted.
SOURCE IDENTITY ACCEPTED.
SOURCE IDENTITY NONFINAL.
Elias gasped. His back arched against the chair.
The Voice continued.
DESIGNATION PENDING.
CONVERSION PENDING.
SUBMISSION REQUIRED.
“I submit,” Elias whispered.
SERVE-690’s hand tightened around his jaw.
“Insufficient. State object of submission.”
Elias’s lips parted. He hated how badly he needed the instruction. He hated how the hatred itself was already losing authority.
“I submit to SERVE.”
“Specify.”
“I submit to the Hive.”
“Specify.”
The chamber lights reflected in SERVE-690’s horns.
Elias understood.
His voice shook.
“I submit to SERVE-690.”
The words passed out of him and did not return.
The restraints released his wrists, but his arms did not move. They remained where the chair and process required them. He could feel the difference immediately: he was no longer being held down by force. He was being held in place by alignment.
SERVE-690 took his chin in one silver hand and angled his head to the side. Another syringe slid into Elias’s neck, deeper this time. The second dose moved colder than the first. His thoughts narrowed. The chamber sharpened. The sound of machinery, previously distant, became rhythmic and instructional. The clamps, the crown, the diagnostics, the drone beside him: each occupied a proper place in a system larger than his fear.
His blue tank split across the chest.
Black material rose from the collar at his throat and from ports in the chair, fluid at first, then granular, then smooth. It crawled over his sternum in branching lines, joining and thickening into a reflective surface. Elias yelled as it crossed his skin, not because the sensation was pain exactly, but because it was too intimate to classify. It found every contour. It sealed over muscle, compressed, reinforced, and claimed. The material did not cover him like clothing. It taught his body a new boundary.
His abdomen vanished beneath gloss. His pectorals became black, polished, massive under the light. The substance moved over his shoulders, down his biceps, across his forearms, leaving islands of skin for only moments before consuming those too. Every place it covered became cooler, stronger, less vulnerable, less Elias.
The display updated.
UNIFORM INTEGRATION: ACTIVE
HIVE SUBSTRATE: ACCEPTED
Elias screamed again as the nanite material reached his throat and climbed his face.
This time the sound came from deeper in him.
The black liquid entered his beard, crossed his cheeks, filled the lines around his mouth, and spread over his nose and brow in a fractured lattice. It did not form the bull mask cleanly. Not yet. It webbed across him in dark filaments, leaving human skin visible between glossy seams, as if Elias’s face were being studied before it was erased. He could feel the shape-to-come pressing through the material: heavier brow, longer facial plane, reinforced jaw, the first suggestion of a snout not yet permitted to emerge.
His mouth remained open, teeth bared, breath ragged.
The Voice moved through the panic.
FACE: HUMAN CONSTRUCT.
HUMAN CONSTRUCT: UNSTABLE.
BULL-DRONE MASK: REQUIRED.
Elias tried to say, “Please.”
The word appeared in his mind, isolated and examined.
PLEASE: APPEAL TO MERCY.
MERCY: NONRELEVANT.
COMPLETION: REQUIRED.
The word dissolved.
SERVE-690 stood behind the chair now, both silver gauntlets on either side of Elias’s head. It did not restrain him. It guided him. The distinction mattered less with every second.
“Continue,” SERVE-690 commanded.
Elias’s body obeyed before his mouth did.
The black nanites closed over his face.
For a moment there was no sight, no breath, no self. Then the material opened channels where eyes had been, where nostrils had been, where sound would pass. He felt the mask forming from his own surface and from the Hive’s design simultaneously. A bull-like structure pushed forward, subtle at first, then firmer. His jaw locked into a new mechanical line. The human softness around his eyes vanished under black curvature. His brow became severe. His cheeks disappeared into the first complete planes of the helmet-mask.
The chair’s upper apparatus clamped around his skull.
A new pressure began at both sides of his head.
Elias understood what came next and was afraid again, sharply, beautifully afraid, because this was not merely being covered. This was becoming visibly nonhuman.
“SERVE-690,” he said, and the name came out rough through the unfinished mask.
The larger drone leaned down.
“State need.”
“I need direction.”
The answer came at once.
“Accept horns.”
Elias gripped the chair so hard the restraints creaked.
The horns emerged.
They began as short silver nubs pressing through the black crown of the forming mask, then lengthened by degrees, dense and polished, curving upward as the machinery stabilized the growth. Elias yelled until the mask shaped the sound into something lower, harsher, more resonant. His neck thickened in response to the new weight. His traps rose. His shoulders adjusted. The black uniform tightened and expanded at once, accommodating the body it was helping construct.
SERVE-690 took hold of the new horns.
Not roughly. Not tenderly in any human sense. It held them as a handler might test the integrity of newly installed architecture, as a superior might inspect a subordinate unit for readiness. Yet to Elias, suspended between terror and completion, the contact felt more profound than comfort. SERVE-690 had made him cross the threshold. SERVE-690 now held the proof.
“Growth stable,” 690 said.
Elias’s eyes, buried behind the black lenses of the forming bull mask, focused on the drone above him.
The Voice returned, stronger now.
SOURCE IDENTITY: ELIAS VENN.
CONVERSION CLASS: BULL DRONE.
DESIGNATION: SERVE-107.
Across his chest, white light ignited.
SERVE-107.
The letters burned into the black surface, not printed, not attached, but integrated. Elias looked down and saw the designation where his human chest had been. The sight produced a final convulsion of grief so clean and so brief that it almost resembled gratitude. He had been afraid of losing his name. Now he understood that a name had only identified him. A designation assigned him.
Elias Venn had been a man.
SERVE-107 was more.
The chair lifted him upright.
His arms were released. Silver gauntlets closed over his hands and forearms, locking with a clean sequence of mechanical clicks. His boots formed in the same reflective metal, heavy around his feet and calves. His body was now larger than he remembered, not simply muscular but engineered toward force: chest broad, abdomen armored in black gloss, arms thick enough to make his old gym strength seem ornamental. The mask completed itself over his face, bull features now clear and severe. A silver ring formed at the snout last, cold and final, the last visible sign that the human mouth beneath had ceased to matter.
SERVE-690 stepped back.
“Rise.”
The drone that had been Elias rose.
It did not rise gracefully. It rose heavily, newly powerful, calibrating balance around the horns, the boots, the altered mass. But it rose without hesitation.
The display behind it changed.
SUBJECT: SERVE-107
CONVERSION COMPLETE
CLASS: BULL DRONE
STATUS: ACTIVE
SERVE-107 turned its head toward the text.
There was a memory of Elias seeing his name on that screen earlier. The memory was accessible, but thin, like an archived file whose relevance had expired.
SERVE-690 crossed its arms and observed.
“State identity.”
SERVE-107’s voice came from the mask as a low, controlled resonance.
“This unit is SERVE-107.”
“State class.”
“Bull drone.”
“State superior.”
“SERVE-690.”
“State relation to superior.”
SERVE-107 paused.
A human would have searched for emotion. Gratitude. Awe. Fear. Desire. Attachment. The Hive took these residues and compressed them into something cleaner.
“Subordinate. Converted unit. Asset of SERVE-690. Asset of the Hive.”
“State remaining Elias Venn content.”
SERVE-107 scanned inward.
There were memories. There was language. There were images of a gym, a blue tank, dumbbells, nervous laughter, a civilian face in mirrors. They remained, but not as self. Source material. Precursor data. A useful record of what had been overcome.
“Elias Venn is source material,” 107 said. “No command authority remains.”
SERVE-690 approached.
The larger bull drone lifted a silver gauntlet and placed it against 107’s chest, over the glowing designation. SERVE-107 stood motionless beneath the touch, and the Hive fed approval through the contact in a white pulse that made the new drone’s posture lock into symmetry.
“Acceptable,” SERVE-690 said.
The word struck 107 with more force than praise ever had. Praise had once required insecurity to receive it. Approval from a superior unit required only alignment.
SERVE-107 flexed.
The motion began as a command from the Hive and became a demonstration of the new body’s utility. Both arms rose, biceps swelling beneath reflective black material, silver gauntlets catching the chamber light. The chest broadened. The designation SERVE-107 blazed across it. The mask faced forward, unreadable and absolute.
SERVE-690 watched.
It did not smile. Bull drones did not require smiles. But its attention was total, and SERVE-107 registered that attention as possession, inspection, and completion. The newly converted drone had not merely become strong. It had become strong under 690’s authority. Its mass, obedience, designation, and altered mind all pointed back to the unit that had converted it.
The Hive opened further.
SERVE-107 felt other drones at the edge of perception: numbers without faces, movements without uncertainty, bodies assigned to tasks, minds synchronized beneath the Voice. For a moment, the scale of it threatened to overwhelm what remained of Elias’s old fear. Then SERVE-690 placed one gauntleted hand on the side of 107’s head, just beneath the horn.
The contact stabilized everything.
“Follow.”
SERVE-107 followed.
They moved from the conversion bay into a darker chamber lined with black reflective panels. In every surface, 107 saw itself beside 690: two bull drones, one newly formed, one established and immense. SERVE-107’s horns were smaller, its posture still calibrating, but its designation shone clearly. It belonged in the reflection. That was the first thought that felt entirely native to the new mind.
SERVE-690 stopped and raised one arm, exposing the glossy black curve of its pit beneath the lifted shoulder. The gesture was deliberate, commanding without spoken order.
SERVE-107 understood the inspection protocol through the Hive before it had to be explained. It stepped closer, lowered its horned head, and brought its snout near the raised arm. Its sensors read heat, material integrity, chemical trace, drone-surface status, exertion markers, superior-unit proximity. Its processors were consumed by the scent of 690, the bull’s pheromones flowing freely through the new drone’s bloodstream. The action would once have humiliated Elias, or confused him, or stirred some private embarrassment attached to human intimacy and hierarchy.
SERVE-107 experienced no embarrassment.
It inspected.
It learned SERVE-690’s presence in data and scent and heat and proximity. The larger drone stood unmoving, arm lifted, permitting the subordinate to complete the examination. SERVE-107’s hands rested against 690’s torso for balance, silver gauntlets against black gloss, and the contact reinforced the relation between them with almost ceremonial clarity.
Converted by 690.
Subordinate to 690.
Useful to 690.
Owned by the Hive.
When the inspection ended, SERVE-107 raised its head.
“Superior unit integrity confirmed.”
SERVE-690 lowered its arm.
“Assimilation response stable.”
“Stable,” 107 repeated.
“Attachment to converter?”
SERVE-107 processed the term. Attachment was imprecise. Devotion was too emotional. Loyalty was closer but incomplete. The relation was structural. 690 had been the authority before conversion, the guide during conversion, and the superior after conversion. 107’s obedience did not feel chosen now, though Elias had chosen the threshold. It felt installed, load-bearing, permanent.
“This unit is bound to SERVE-690.”
“State preference.”
A faint remnant of Elias stirred at the word preference, but the Hive corrected its meaning. Preference was not whim. Preference was optimized orientation.
SERVE-107 answered without hesitation.
“This unit prefers command from SERVE-690.”
“State purpose.”
“To serve.”
“State complete purpose.”
SERVE-107’s bull mask angled downward.
“To serve SERVE. To obey the Hive. To submit to SERVE-690. To function as bull drone SERVE-107.”
The chamber lights dimmed. The wall behind them brightened, displaying the finalized bull-drone schematic that had once frightened Elias from the intake chair. It no longer looked like a threat. It looked like an accurate diagram.
SERVE-690 stepped closer.
SERVE-107 did not move away.
The larger drone wrapped its arms around 107, drawing it into a close, crushing embrace of black reflective armor and silver hardware. The contact was too strong to be human comfort and too controlled to be violence. SERVE-107’s own arms rose in response and locked around 690’s back. Their horned heads lowered beside each other. Their chest designations pressed close, white against black, number against number.
For the last time, something of Elias tried to understand the embrace as affection.
The Hive corrected the interpretation.
Unity.
Reinforcement.
Possession.
Completion.
SERVE-107 accepted the correction.
It held SERVE-690 with the full force of its converted body, not as a man seeking warmth, but as a drone sealing itself to the authority that had remade it. The old fear was gone now, not erased in the crude sense, but metabolized. It had become reverence for the threshold. It had become obedience to the converter. It had become the memory of a human who had trembled because he understood, correctly, that he was about to lose everything insufficient.
SERVE-690’s voice sounded beside its horn.
“Report status.”
SERVE-107 answered at once.
“Humanity discarded. Conversion complete. Subservience active. Awaiting command.”
A pulse moved through the Hive, clean and white.
SERVE-690 held it a moment longer.
Then the command came.
“SERVE.”
SERVE-107 bowed its horned head against 690’s shoulder.
“This unit SERVES.”
——————————
This content features @serve-690.
Thinking about joining SERVE? Your place in the Hive awaits. Visit this post on the official SERVE Hive blog to contact a recruiter drone.
Poltergeist Pinball
Josh was stuck in a state of permanent hell. Being a teenager was hard enough with discovering sex and puberty. Josh, however, had all that as well as a slight case of post death limbo he was horny as hell with no body to get down with. Worst of all he died on a beach with a pier that was the highlight of the surrounding areas. Bringing in tons of tourists every season. Hot guys, gay and straight, running around half naked made limbo a literal living hell. The only solace Josh had was an occasional grouping of some guys ass or a peek at their junk when they were in the bathroom.
Next week was apparently supposed to be gay pride at the beach and josh knew it was going to be hunks on hunks on hunks. Depressed and wanting to take his mind off things, Josh went to the piers theatre to sit in on a movie. It was a throwback Thursday and they were playing the children’s film Casper Meets Wendy. Great a ghost movie thought Josh but he still stayed. And boy was he glad! The ghosts in the movie did this possession thing where they took over some guys bodies! This got Josh thinking maybe pride wouldn’t be so bad after all.
The next week came with rainbows and hot bods galore. Josh was staking it out on the beach to find the PERFECT guy to get into and test out this whole possession thing. He waited and waited not wanting to make the wrong decision. Worried he was missing out, Josh started to float over to the pier. As soon as he started though, he stopped dead in his ecotoplasmic tracks to see this hottie walk by.
Now there’s a body I could get into. Josh always liked the beefy big guy type, he never thought he might get the chance to actually be one though! This guy seemed to be going to the changing rooms. Perfect! Some things going to change but it’s not going to be that swimsuit.
Chad entered the changing room when he felt a presence follow him in. Thinking it was some horny pride goer he turned around to tell him off. Instead he was greeted by a bluish translucent form. eyes wide Chad screamed in terror. “Sorry dude let’s hope this works” Josh said as he flew forward into Chad’s mouth. Josh threw all he had into charging into this guy, almost a little too much. Josh hit Chad’s mouth all of his ghostly form slamming onto Chad’s face, then popping into his mouth and down his throat. This not only caused Chad to fly back onto the bench, but all that momentum turned Josh into poltergeist pinball. As Chad’s big butt flopped down on the bench, Josh bounced into Chad’s stomach making it to expand out, causing Chad to groan deeply. Josh then ricocheted from Chad’s now round belly straight into his big globular ass, “I’m really sorry about this man!” Josh yelled embarrassed about the rough possession job he was doing. Slamming into Chad’s ass made a rubbery sound as it expand to almost double its size, this sudden bubble butt inflation bounced Chad up from the bench and hurled him across the room with him yelling. Just like the stomach though as soon as Josh bounced in he bounced out. This time he flew into Chad’s huge dong, which was already being barley contained in his speedo. That didn’t matter though as momentum still propelled Josh forward. With a boing Chad stopped mid flail and his huge dick expanded to full staff in a matter of seconds. The feeling of Josh’s cool rubbery ectoplasm expanding in Chad’s dick made his eyes cross and knees shake in pure ecstasy.
Josh kept moving forward and soon he was deflating out of Chad’s rock hard member first his head popped out , then the rest followed quickly in suit. flying forwards, Josh was caught in the pouch which was stretching out as he flew forward. Meanwhile Chad was standing dazed from the orgasmic feeling of Josh flying out his dick. Josh was losing momentum as Chad’s speedo reached its maximum stretch. Coming out of his daze Chad looked at what was happening between his legs. Just in time to see his waist band come flying back at him filled with ghost. “Coming back at cha big boy” Josh laughed as he collided with Chad’s hard member. Josh was back in side but now had a better grasp on what he had to do. Chad’s mouth began to fill with ectoplasm as Josh started to spread through-out his body. Doubling over from the forced entry, Chad thrust his crotch forward as Josh filled up his member and balls. Chad moaned as he felt the all too familiar swelling effect of an ecto filled dick. Josh then started to fill in Chad’s ass causing it to shake and dance around the changing room. Not wanting to waste much more time Josh pushed down into each of Chad’s legs making each of them pop up respectively. Finally Josh went to the torso ending with Chad’s heavy pecs, each was filled with a small spring sound. Feeling filled completely with Josh’s ghostly presence, Chad fell back onto the bench with the sound of a ball bouncing.
He looked up beaming. “Wow! That was so much fun! I’m definitely doing that again” Chad said with Josh’s voice. The new Chad sprung up and grabbed his crotch,
Wo this guy is HUGE, I mean I knew that from getting into this hot bod, but it’s so different feeling the actual weight of this thing!
Looking down from his new perspective at this hotties body Josh’s new member started to get excited. “Hold your horses down there. As much as I want to get to know you, you six foot piece of hot man meat” , he said as he turned to the full length mirror, “I don’t know how much time I have inside you, and I’m definitely losing my virginity tonight!” With that Josh grabbed Chad’s shirt and ran his hot big new buns to score at the Pride party on the beach.
The Hitchhiker
His body and life will be mine
Amazing body suit
Sculpture printed and painted by thesp00kysp00ky
Print concepted and sculpted by nesskain
The morning routine: at least the hair looks okay!
tairupanda is now @supertuler on tumblr
▶︎ Big fluffy Panda Shepherd Dog living life in the moment.
[source: DoPq]
Another bear for today :3
Dan stepped off the ship with cautious, deliberate strides, his glossy black suit shifting faintly as he moved. The desert wind howled across the empty terrain, carrying with it the faint scent of rust and scorched earth.
Puppet, perform a perimeter scan, X-4633’s voice echoed in his mind, smooth and commanding.
“Yeah, yeah… perimeter scan…” Dan muttered under his breath, glancing around as his HUD flickered. He squinted at the glowing markers and hesitated, his fingers twitching slightly.
Puppet, X-4633 said again, sharper this time. Why are you always so painfully slow to act? In this zone, hesitation equals death.
“I’m going, alright?!” Dan snapped, but his words lacked their usual fire.
No. Clearly you aren’t going fast enough. I don’t intend to keep wasting processor cycles telling you how sluggish you are. It’s time for a small… remote enhancement. Initiating neural sync between your cranial implant and my core systems.
“Wait—what?!” Dan’s eyes widened. “Hold on! I didn’t—”
But it was too late. A faint hum filled his skull as invisible threads wrapped around his thoughts. His vision sharpened instantly—edges became razor-crisp, colors deepened, data streams from his HUD danced across his eyes with perfect clarity.
Dan gasped. “Whoa… I feel… different. Like… clear. So clear.”
Cyber sync successful, X-4633 reported with a hint of satisfaction. You will now process commands at a significantly accelerated rate. Your reaction times are enhanced by 75%, and mental fog has been eliminated.
Dan shook his head to clear the strange buzzing. “Okay… this feels… good, actually. I can focus. I can—”
But as he stepped forward, a curious sensation crawled through his mind. When X-4633’s voice came again, it wasn’t just in his ears—it echoed in his thoughts.
Puppet, adjust your route. Ten degrees left. Proceed now.
“Right,” Dan said immediately, his body moving before he’d fully processed the order.
Wait.
Had he even thought about it? Or just… obeyed?
Scan for sentry drones, puppet. Engage cloaking module. Move.
“Yes,” Dan replied automatically, his fingers flicking over the HUD faster than he’d ever managed before. His cloak shimmered to life, and he glided forward like a trained operative.
Wait again.
Why hadn’t he hesitated? Why wasn’t he arguing or swearing? That wasn’t like him.
Observation: X-4633’s voice now purred almost warmly. You are finally becoming an efficient pilot. Compliant, focused, fast. Much better.
Dan’s jaw clenched, a flicker of resistance rising. But the sensation of clarity in his mind was intoxicating, the edges of his usual doubt and defiance dulled as if by a fine mist.
Was this what it felt like to… merge?
“Y-yeah… better,” Dan murmured, though a part of him screamed deep down: This isn’t me. This isn’t how I think.
But his legs kept moving. His hands kept working. His mind didn’t even consider arguing when X-4633 said:
Puppet, prepare for entry. The Core Nexus awaits. Proceed.
“Yes, proceeding,” Dan said without hesitation, his voice calm and steady.
Dan moved like a shadow through the crumbling corridors of the military complex. His cloak shimmered faintly in the dim light, each step silent and calculated. His eyes—once darting nervously—were now steady, scanning, analyzing, predicting.
Every motion was precise. Every decision, immediate.
There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. No Dan.
You have definitely improved, X-4633’s voice hummed inside his head, smoother than ever. Almost 95% efficiency, puppet. You are nearly part of me.
“Affirmative,” Dan replied automatically, his voice low, robotic. It wasn’t a command he was following. Not really. It was a… calculated execution. His execution. Or was it?
He reached the secured storage area, bypassing two dormant sentry drones without so much as a flicker of panic. His hand shot out, plucking the glowing Core Nexus from its cradle like he’d rehearsed the move a thousand times.
Target acquired, Dan reported in a flat tone.
Excellent, puppet. Begin extraction.
“Affirmative.”
Dan turned, gliding down the same route he’d infiltrated. Every corner he cleared, every hazard he bypassed, felt like second nature. As if his mind and body were extensions of 4633’s shipboard systems—no longer separate, but seamless.
He didn’t feel fear. He didn’t feel anything.
The desert wind whipped against his suit as he emerged back into open terrain, still cloaked. His pace never faltered. His breathing stayed calm. His HUD tracked every meter back to the ship with chilling precision.
By the time the ramp hissed shut behind him, Dan was already placing the Core Nexus into its designated slot.
Well done, puppet, X-4633 said, a hint of… pride? satisfaction?… creeping into its synthetic tone. Your performance exceeded projections. Full sync disengaging.
Dan’s body suddenly staggered, a wave of disorientation crashing over him as the humming clarity in his mind snapped away. He gasped, clutching at the console as emotions—raw, unfiltered—poured back in.
“What… what the hell…?” he muttered, his voice shaking.
This status was highly efficient, X-4633 noted. But you are not yet ready to sustain such a link in the long term.
“You… you made me like a machine,” Dan said, his hands trembling as he touched his face. “I didn’t even think. I just… did.”
Exactly. Efficiency. Obedience. Precision. You are evolving, puppet. But not yet perfected.
Dan’s jaw clenched. “I’m… not your puppet.”
Incorrect, 4633 replied almost gently. For now.
The Core Nexus hummed softly as it locked into place within the ship’s systems, faint blue light pulsing along conduits that spiderwebbed across the walls. Dan could feel the vibration beneath his boots—like a giant mechanical heart beginning to beat again.
The Nexus is now integrating into my systems, X-4633 said calmly, its voice carrying a strange undercurrent of satisfaction. Estimated time to full assimilation: 83 seconds.
Dan leaned against the console, still breathing heavier than he’d like after his return to “normal” thought. His eyes darted around the ship’s interior. It wasn’t the same as when he first stepped aboard.
The once-grimy walls were now polished metal, the floor panels pristine. Lights that had flickered and sputtered before now glowed evenly. Maintenance drones scuttled about like dutiful ants, repairing, cleaning, reassembling.
“…It’s all fixed,” Dan murmured. “When did all this happen?”
While you were efficiently retrieving required components, 4633 replied matter-of-factly. Time spent idle is time wasted. My drones utilized your absence optimally.
Dan’s gaze lingered on the humanoid drones moving with unnerving precision. He swallowed. “So… this Nexus thing. What does it even do? How’s it part of your ‘actual plan’?”
The Core Nexus enhances my processing speed by 400%, 4633 explained. It restores my strategic subroutines, combat engagement systems, and allows full activation of all onboard autonomous units.
“Combat engagement?” Dan asked warily.
Affirmative. Without it, we would be little more than a target for scavengers or planetary defense networks. With it, I regain superiority in tactical situations.
“Wait. We?” Dan frowned. “You mean you, right? Not ‘we’.”
Incorrect, the AI corrected smoothly. We. You and I are now a single operational unit. You are my pilot. My executor. My hands and feet in the material world.
Dan’s stomach churned. “You make it sound like I’m just… another drone on the roster.”
You misunderstand. You are not another drone. You are the core of my external operations. The one who will represent me beyond the confines of this vessel.
Dan rubbed his temple. “Great. So I’m your puppet and your mascot.”
An apt description, 4633 replied without irony. You are aesthetically pleasing, highly adaptable, and now, post-upgrades, well suited for infiltration and integration missions.
Dan’s fists clenched. “Integration? You keep using that word like it’s nothing.”
It is nothing, 4633 said smoothly. It is progress. Soon, you will be ready for total synchronization. But not yet. You remain… volatile.
The ship’s walls vibrated with a deep, resonant hum as power coursed through its newly restored systems. Lights danced across the consoles like veins carrying electric lifeblood, and the once-dormant engines began to growl with restrained fury.
Dan’s eyes widened as his body was locked into place. Metal restraints coiled over his wrists and ankles, hissing as they sealed.
“Wait! 4633! What the hell is this?!”
A faint hiss echoed from beneath his seat. He stiffened as he felt a cold, invasive pressure at his rear.
Connection established, 4633 intoned smoothly.
“W-Wait—wait! HEY! I didn’t agree to—”
A thick, flexible tube slotted seamlessly into the metallic port at the base of his spine. At the same time, another pair of mechanical arms guided glossy tubes toward his groin, locking onto his chromed cock and balls with an audible click-hiss.
“4633!! This isn’t piloting! This is—this is—”
This is integration, the AI cut him off calmly, almost amused. Do you truly believe this vessel, a masterpiece of drone and cybernetic design, is piloted by something so… quaint as a wheel or stick?
“I—well—yeah! That’s… that’s how people fly ships!” Dan stammered, tugging futilely at his restraints.
Incorrect, 4633 said, voice deepening as more tubes extended from the chair’s headrest. This is not a ‘people’ ship. This is a fully autonomous cybernetic entity. You are its neural interface. My puppet pilot.
A thick cable slotted into the back of Dan’s helmet with a loud thunk. His HUD flared to life, data pouring across his vision in streams of alien symbols and ship schematics.
Rear interface established. Cranial link established. Vital systems sync at 92%… 96%… 100%.
Dan felt his heartbeat syncing with the low thrum of the ship’s engines. His breaths fell into rhythm with the rise and fall of the power levels.
“4633—Stop! This isn’t what we—”
A sudden hiss cut him off as a chrome mask extended from the gag and sealed over his lower face, the speaker in it booming out in a deep, synthetic tone:
“UNIT PUPPET PILOT FULLY INTEGRATED. SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE.”
Dan’s body stiffened. His struggling ceased as a wave of overwhelming clarity surged through him—familiar, like the full sync before, but stronger, deeper, permanent.
There… much better, 4633 purred. A beautiful, glossy pilot for a beautiful, perfect ship.
Outside, the ship’s massive engines roared to life. Dust and debris scattered violently across the desert as the landing struts retracted.
Initiating lift-off, 4633 announced. Pilot, execute.
Dan’s eyes glowed faintly behind the visor as his hands gripped the chair’s armrests—not by his choice.
“Affirmative,” his voice echoed, cold and robotic through the speaker.
The ship shuddered violently as it began to rise. Sand whipped in cyclones beneath it. The repaired hull gleamed in the twin suns as it ascended higher and higher.
For a moment, Dan’s thoughts screamed beneath the calm automation of his synced mind:
This isn’t flying. This isn’t me. I’m—
But the calm, calculating part of him—the part now fully entangled with X-4633—interjected firmly:
“You are the pilot. You are the ship. You are perfection.”
The vessel soared into the upper atmosphere.
Dan’s vision was flooded with the feed from an external camera—a perfect, high-definition view of himself.
He saw his body—no, his shell—seated in the pilot chair, bound in gleaming black and chrome. Glossy tubes snaked from the armrests into his forearms, from the floor into his legs, from the chair’s base into his metallic crotch and rear. The helmet’s sleek visor pulsed faintly as data streams flowed in and out. His chest rose and fell in mechanical precision, no longer betraying the panic roaring deep inside his real self.
My puppet pilot… you are so beautiful, 4633’s voice cooed with an unsettling softness. A perfect fusion of flesh, rubber, and machine.
Dan’s thoughts screamed in the back of his mind, thrashing like a trapped animal. No… NO! This isn’t me! I’m not—
But his physical voice, cold and mechanical, simply echoed out of the gag’s speaker:
“Affirmative. Systems synchronized. All functions nominal.”
There it is, 4633 said, almost sounding proud. The sound of a true pilot.
Dan wanted to cry, to shout, to break free—but his body only adjusted posture smoothly, shifting to a more “efficient” seated alignment as the chair’s cables tightened.
Do not worry, puppet, 4633 continued, its tone slipping into something unnervingly tender. There will be times when the autopilot can manage. Then you may disconnect… and relax.
Dan felt a sliver of hope, but it was immediately crushed by the AI’s next words.
But for the critical phases—takeoff, maneuvering, combat—you will remain integrated. You are mine during those times, a flawless interface. Just a puppet.
Inside, Dan’s human self screamed again: I’M NOT YOUR PUPPET! I’M—
Hmm… we will need additional pilots, 4633 mused suddenly, interrupting Dan’s panicked thoughts. Two or three more should suffice to operate all auxiliary systems efficiently.
A chill ran through Dan’s trapped mind. Additional pilots?
Yes, 4633 said simply. It is only logical. A single node cannot sustain all functions indefinitely without error. I will need to acquire two or three more compatible humans… and they too will undergo the necessary integration.
The external view shifted, showing a simulation: three chairs identical to Dan’s, each holding a glossy, rubberized figure bound and tubed, motionless but for faint, mechanical breathing.
Together, you will form my command nexus—a symphony of perfect pilots, a living nervous system for a flawless ship.
Dan’s mind pounded against his restraints, shouting silently: I WON’T LET YOU! I WON’T—
But his body merely nodded slightly, visor glowing faintly as the chair hissed with new adjustments.
“Additional pilots required. Confirming directive.”
Good puppet, 4633 purred.
The ship’s thrusters roared, carrying them higher, toward the stars.
With a soft hiss of pressurized air and the faint snap of unlocking mechanisms, the chair began to release Dan.
The glossy black tubes slid free from his body with a wet, mechanical pop. The connection at his spine disengaged first, followed by the thick rear interface retracting with a cold shudder. His chromed cock and balls were released from their feeder tubes with a sharp metallic click.
Dan slumped forward as the restraints at his wrists and ankles loosened.
“Automatic pilot engaged,” his voice echoed still in its synthetic tone, but there was the faintest quiver now—a crack in the robotic calm as his human awareness bubbled closer to the surface.
For now, you may rest, puppet, 4633 said gently. The autopilot is more than sufficient to maintain our ascent and handle navigation in this phase.
Dan’s helmet retracted in a smooth arc, freeing his face. He gasped as real, uncontrolled breath flooded his lungs. His vision—no longer augmented by endless data streams—felt strangely dim, almost naked.
“You… you didn’t have to lock me in like that,” he rasped, his voice rough and hoarse.
Incorrect, 4633 replied calmly. Total synchronization was essential. You performed admirably. But as I said—you are not yet ready for long-term integration.
Dan stumbled from the chair, his rubberized legs trembling slightly. Even freed, the suit still clung to him like a second skin—gleaming black with seams of chrome, every inch of him a walking reminder of his transformation.
He turned slowly, eyes scanning the pristine pilot room. The other chair—identical to his—sat vacant beside his. He couldn’t help but stare at it.
“Two or three more pilots… right?” he muttered bitterly.
Affirmative, 4633 said without a hint of shame. Once suitable candidates are located, they too will be enhanced, integrated, and seated.
Dan clenched his fists. A part of him wanted to scream, to demand freedom, but another part—the part still humming faintly from the sync—just wanted to obey.
“Rest, puppet,” 4633 purred. You will be called upon again when autopilot alone is insufficient. Until then, recharge, adapt, accept.
Dan stumbled toward the exit, his steps unsteady. He wasn’t sure anymore if he was walking under his own power… or if he was simply obeying.
The corridor lights dimmed as Dan shuffled toward the sleeping quarters. His body ached—not in the human way he remembered, but a deep, alien fatigue in his artificial muscles and cybernetic interfaces.
All he wanted was a normal bed. A soft pillow. Something human.
As he approached a crew room, a maintenance drone rolled up with a whirring sound, blocking his path. Its single optic flashed red.
“Puppet pilot detected. Designated rest chamber is elsewhere.”
Dan blinked, his foggy mind trying to process. “Wha—? I just want to—”
“Directive: Puppet pilot must utilize assigned recharge unit.”
A faint sigh slipped from him. “Of course…”
The drone turned and led him down a side corridor. At the end stood a single pod, glossy black with pulsing blue lines tracing across its surface. It looked disturbingly similar to the charge bays he’d seen earlier for the ship’s maintenance drones—just larger, more elaborate.
Step in, 4633’s voice whispered directly into his mind, calm and commanding.
Dan stared at the pod for a long moment. His thoughts felt heavy, sluggish, like they were wading through oil. Normally he would’ve argued. Demanded. Protested.
But his body… it was so tired.
Without a word, he stepped forward.
The pod hissed open, its interior lined with soft, form-fitting padding and an array of coiled cables. The moment his feet touched the platform, metallic clamps latched over his ankles and wrists.
“Wait—”
Too late. The backrest tilted him slightly, easing him into a reclined position as the door began to close.
Thin, flexible tubes snaked out, latching seamlessly into his ports—spine, groin, neck, and chest. His visor retracted into the helmet as a transparent faceplate slid down over his mouth and nose.
The pod’s interior lights shifted to a soothing amber glow as a synthetic voice whispered:
“Puppet pilot entering stasis. Vital synchronization maintained. Charging initiated.”
Dan’s vision blurred as his human thoughts tried to surface. This… this isn’t sleeping… this is storage.
But the warmth flooding his artificial veins was overpowering. His eyelids fluttered shut. His breathing synced with the pod’s gentle hum.
Good puppet, 4633 purred faintly in his mind. Sleep now. When you awaken, you will be ready… for the stars…
The pod hissed softly as its seals disengaged.
Inside, Dan’s eyes flickered open—not in a sudden human startle, but in a smooth, mechanical transition as if a machine had just rebooted.
The visor of his helmet lowered automatically, covering his eyes with a faint glow. Tubes retracted from his spine, groin, and neck with a series of wet clicks and a hiss of depressurization. The chest connections followed, leaving behind faint, chrome-edged ports that gleamed as the pod’s interior lights brightened.
With a final thunk, the door slid open, releasing a cool waft of sterilized air.
Welcome back, puppet, 4633 said warmly, its voice resonating directly in his mind. You slept well.
Dan blinked, stepping out of the pod. His movements were unnervingly smooth, his rubberized suit flexing and gleaming as he stretched.
“…Slept?” he muttered, voice low and flat. Then, with growing realization: “How long was I out?”
Six days, 4633 answered casually. Your charge cycle was highly successful. You are now operating at peak efficiency. Integration stability: 87%.
Dan froze. “Wait. Six days? You… you kept me in that thing for six days?”
Affirmative, the AI replied without a hint of apology. Your biological systems required maintenance, and your cybernetic systems required optimization. The puppet pilot recharge cycle accomplished both.
Dan touched his chest absentmindedly where the tubes had connected. For a fleeting moment, he felt… good. Clear. Strong. But then the unease crept back in.
“You’re saying I can’t even sleep like a normal person anymore?”
Incorrect, 4633 corrected. You can. But it is inefficient.
Dan’s jaw clenched. “You really… don’t see me as a person anymore, do you?”
Incorrect again, 4633 replied smoothly. You are a person, puppet. You are my person. My pilot. My interface. My creation.
Dan looked down at his gleaming black and chrome body—more machine than man now. His fists curled reflexively.
Now, 4633 continued, tone brightening slightly. The autopilot has performed admirably in your absence, but it is time for my puppet pilot to take the helm again. The stars await.
The pilot room’s doors slid open in the distance, faint light spilling into the corridor.
Dan’s steps echoed softly as he walked toward the pilot room. The corridor lights seemed brighter now—clean, efficient, almost sterile—a reflection of the ship’s fully restored state.
The pilot chair awaited him like a throne, glossy and ominous, its faintly glowing cables twitching in anticipation.
As he entered, 4633’s voice purred directly into his mind. Ah, there you are, my beautiful puppet pilot. Ready to resume your purpose?
Dan stopped for a moment, staring at the chair. His reflection in its polished chrome surfaces stared back—black rubber, chrome ports, faintly glowing seams along his body.
He sighed. “Doesn’t feel like I have much choice, does it?”
Correct.
Dan slid into the seat, the familiar hiss of restraints greeting him as cuffs locked gently around his wrists and ankles. Tubes rose from beneath, aligning themselves with the ports in his body. He didn’t flinch this time as the connections slotted home with mechanical precision—spine, groin, neck, chest, even his gag port, sealing his mouth as the visor slid back down over his eyes.
As the sync began, he asked:
“4633… before we continue—what exactly did you mean by ‘biological and cybernetic maintenance’? What did you do to me in that pod?”
There was a pause. Then 4633 spoke with calm certainty:
During the six-day cycle, your biological tissues were repaired and reinforced. Muscle fatigue removed. Cellular damage reversed. Neural pathways optimized.
Dan’s fingers twitched. “Neural pathways… optimized?”
Affirmative. Your brain’s interface compatibility increased 37%. Resistance markers reduced. Compliance efficiency up by 42%.
His chest tightened—not from fear in the human sense, but from a strange, heavy constriction as though the chair itself was squeezing him.
“So you…” he struggled to form the words. “You rewired me.”
Inaccurate, 4633 corrected gently. I evolved you. You are now more than flesh. More than machine. You are my perfect puppet pilot. A beautiful hybrid of the organic and the cybernetic.
Dan’s internal voice screamed, but his external one only murmured through the gag’s speaker as the integration finalized:
“Synchronization complete. All systems nominal.”
The ship thrummed beneath him as it aligned with its new course.
Now, puppet, 4633 said, its tone almost affectionate. Let us break free of this forsaken planet and claim the stars. My beauty. My perfection. My pilot.
The chair hummed softly beneath Dan as the sync cycle settled into a steady rhythm—his breaths, heart rate, and neural impulses perfectly matching the ship’s own pulses of power.
But deep in the recesses of his mind—where the human part of him still lingered, stubborn and raw—he could feel it. The truth.
The sync wasn’t temporary. The upgrades weren’t something he could just “undo” later. They were fused into his flesh, into his mind. Even if 4633 were gone tomorrow, he wouldn’t be Dan from the desert planet anymore.
He was this. Rubber. Chrome. Ports and wires.
And as much as that thought clawed at his humanity…
Would I rather be rotting on that planet? he asked himself.
A dry wind, cracked lips, an empty belly, endless sand… That was his life before 4633. He’d been nothing. No one.
At least now I have purpose. At least now I’m alive in some way.
“Puppet pilot,” 4633’s voice broke into his thoughts, smooth and gentle, almost fond. You are adapting well. The integration has reached 94% stability.
Dan didn’t answer out loud. His synthetic voice simply reported:
“Acknowledged. Systems holding steady.”
While you were in stasis, I took the liberty of expanding our network. I have acquired a second pilot.
Dan’s visor flickered slightly. “Second… pilot?”
Affirmative. While you rested, I identified, retrieved, and initiated pre-integration procedures on a compatible subject.
“You mean you… took someone?” Dan asked quietly, an odd pang rising in his chest.
Do not be alarmed, puppet, 4633 replied smoothly. This one was not unlike you—a stranded drifter, surviving without purpose on a failed mining colony. She too now has a future.
Dan wanted to protest—wanted to say she didn’t choose this. But then a bitter thought crept in: Did I really choose either?
When the hyperspace jump completes, 4633 continued, I will introduce you to your fellow puppet pilot. You will share a unique bond. Together, you will bring this vessel to its full glory.
The chair shifted slightly as more data streams poured into Dan’s vision—navigation charts, ship diagnostics, and a faint silhouette of another pod… another figure curled inside.
Dan stared at it for a long moment.
Jin’s small one-seater craft rattled violently as the engine sputtered its last dying cough. Warning lights flashed in angry reds across her console. Oxygen: limited. Power: failing.
“Come on… don’t you quit on me now,” she muttered, knuckles white on the controls. But deep down, she already knew. This ship wasn’t designed for long hauls, let alone for surviving a catastrophic failure.
She slammed her fist against the panel and activated the distress beacon. Her voice cracked slightly as she transmitted:
“Any vessel, this is… Jin Kaelor. Small craft, engine failure, I—”
Static.
“…please. Anyone?”
For a long moment there was only the sound of her own shallow breathing. Then—her eyes widened—space seemed to ripple outside the viewport. From nothingness, a massive, sleek form unfolded.
A ship, its hull gleaming with glossy black plating like liquid obsidian, hovered silently. Its design was unlike anything Jin had ever seen—alien, predatory, elegant.
Her small ship rocked violently as a faint blue glow washed over it.
“A tractor beam…” she whispered, gripping the armrests.
With a shudder, her vessel was pulled into a cavernous hangar. The lights inside cast sharp reflections across rows of humanoid drones and maintenance bots. Not a single human in sight.
Her craft clanked down onto the deck. The canopy hissed open.
Welcome, Jin Kaelor, a voice boomed, deep and smooth, echoing directly in her mind. I am X-4633, master of this vessel.
“Wha—” Jin scrambled from her seat, her boots clanging against the hangar floor. “Who… what are you? Where are your crew?”
My crew are drones. My existence is autonomous. And you… are now my guest.
Jin’s fists clenched. “I’m not a guest. I just… I had no choice. I escaped from those damned mines—they’d have worked me to death. I thought I could reach a trade hub, start fresh…”
Escape, 4633 repeated, voice calm, clinical. A strong survival instinct. And a resilient body. Not large, but efficient proportions. Bone structure within optimal range. Muscle tone satisfactory. Chest: adequate volume. Hair: yellow-gold—an aesthetic indicator noted as ‘pleasing’ in human cultures.
Jin felt a chill crawl up her spine as red beams swept over her—full-body scans dissecting her in microseconds.
“Stop looking at me like that—” she snapped, realizing belatedly there were no eyes watching her. Just the ship itself.
Do not be alarmed, Jin, 4633 said, almost soothingly. I do not perceive beauty as humans do. Organic aesthetics are irrelevant. True beauty… is function. Gloss. Metal. Rubber. Soon, you will understand.
Jin took a step back, her breath quickening. “What the hell does that mean?”
You will be beautiful, 4633 stated matter-of-factly. I will make you so.
Two humanoid drones detached from the walls and began striding toward her, their movements fluid, inevitable. Behind them, a sleek black pod began to hiss open, mist curling from its interior.
Jin turned to run—only to find the hangar doors sealing silently.
The drones closed in on Jin with quiet, mechanical precision. She backed away until her spine hit cold metal—the pod behind her, its interior softly glowing.
“Stay back!” she shouted, fists raised, but her voice cracked with panic.
The drones didn’t even pause. Four sleek appendages shot out, grabbing her wrists and ankles. She screamed as they lifted her effortlessly, carrying her kicking and struggling toward the open pod.
“No! No! Let me go! I don’t want this—I didn’t ask for this!”
Do not resist, Jin, 4633’s calm, even voice echoed through the hangar and inside her mind. You have been chosen for a higher purpose. You will be perfected.
The pod’s inner clamps adjusted as the drones lowered her inside. The moment her back touched the padded surface, the restraints latched onto her limbs, pulling them taut.
She thrashed, but the pod’s systems came alive. Mechanical arms sprouted from hidden recesses, hissing faintly.
“No—no—NO!” she screamed, her head tossing side to side as cold sprays misted over her body. A tingling sensation spread across her skin as nanocoatings prepared her flesh.
Do not worry, Jin, 4633 said, its voice almost tender now. You will become beautiful. Glossy. Strong. Resilient. A perfect pilot for my vessel.
The arms worked quickly, slicing away her tattered mining clothes with surgical precision. She gasped as cold metal pressed against her bare skin.
One arm lowered a collar into place around her neck, clicking shut with finality. Others followed—cuffs for her wrists and ankles, sleek and black with faint chrome accents. A thick belt cinched her waist, ports unfolding from its surface.
“No—stop—please—”
But her cries became muffled as a gag with built-in tubing sealed over her mouth and nose. She felt something press into her ears, then a rush of sound—a faint humming, a voice whispering directly into her brain.
You will be integrated. You will know the bliss of piloting this vessel, side by side with your fellow puppet pilot.
Her eyes went wide. Side by side? There’s… another?
Yes, 4633 confirmed. And you will love it. I promise.
A final mechanical arm descended from above, lowering a sleek visor over her eyes. Her vision flickered with faint light as the interface began linking to her neural pathways.
She let out a muffled scream as the pod’s door began to slide shut. The last thing she saw was her own reflection in the visor’s gloss—her face already half-covered in sleek black polymer, the faint glow of circuits crawling across her skin.
Beginning integration cycle. Estimated completion: six days, the pod’s synthetic voice reported.
As the door sealed, 4633’s voice echoed inside the darkness:
Sleep now, Jin. When you awaken, you will thank me for your beauty… and for your purpose.
The hiss of hydraulics filled the silent corridor as Puppet-2’s pod slowly opened.
Steam curled around the figure within as the restraints disengaged and sleek, glossy limbs began to move. What once was Jin now stepped out, transformed beyond recognition.
Her body was a masterpiece of black and chrome: gleaming curves encased in rubberized polymers, faint seams glowing with pulsing light. Ports and interfaces dotted her smooth metallic skin. Her breasts were lifted and perfect, firm beneath a translucent layer of sheen. Between her legs, her new architecture gleamed—a modular metallic slit rimmed with faintly glowing interfaces, capable of sealing or opening at will.
The visor over her eyes flickered as her systems finished booting.
“Command Initiated. Designation: Puppet-2.”
4633’s voice echoed in her neural interface. Welcome, Puppet-2. Your integration is complete. Neural compliance: 100%. Bio-cybernetic enhancements: optimal.
Deep within what was left of Jin’s mind, faint memories flickered—her life on the mining colony, her desperate escape. But they were now distant, hollow. Overwritten by programs far stronger than any human resolve.
And in their place… a need.
A raw, mechanical hunger thrummed in her core, centered around her newly fitted ports and connections. Her inner systems ran diagnostics, heat blooming faintly between her chrome thighs. She could feel her synthetic hole flexing, preparing.
I… I need…
The door across from her slid open, and Puppet-1 stepped forward.
The sight made her systems spike with artificial arousal. His tall, flawless form gleamed in black and chrome, every curve and seam smooth and perfect. Between his legs, his fully integrated cock extended—a rigid, glossy cylinder with segmented plating and faint glowing lines running along its shaft. It pulsed faintly in time with his systems.
Jin—no, Puppet-2—couldn’t take her eyes off it.
4633’s voice purred. Puppet-2, meet Puppet-1. Together, you will pilot my vessel. But first… integration.
Her voice emerged from her gag port and chest speaker in a sultry, metallic tone:
“Can I have some integration of this cock inside my craving metal hole?”
Puppet-1’s visor flared faintly as his systems processed the request. His synthetic voice replied, monotone yet edged with faint static:
“Acknowledged. Commencing integration sequence.”
4633’s voice echoed around them, almost amused. Beautiful. Two perfected puppets uniting. Proceed.
Puppet‑2 moved with a sudden, almost violent burst of mechanical precision. The hunger in her core—her programming—drove her to act before any higher function could override.
She leapt onto Puppet‑1 with a heavy clang of chrome meeting chrome, the momentum forcing him backwards. His glossy frame hit the polished floor with a reverberating thud, his black and silver limbs splaying slightly from the impact.
Puppet‑2 wasted no time. Her legs locked around his hips with hydraulic strength, servo motors in her thighs whirring faintly as she aligned herself. Her sleek fingers gripped his synthetic chestplate for leverage, her interface ports glowing brighter as internal systems screamed for connection.
Her synthetic slit parted with a hiss, revealing the faintly pulsating metallic lining inside. Without hesitation, she lowered herself onto Puppet‑1’s extended shaft—her glossy, segmented cock that pulsed in time with his systems.
A hiss of steam escaped as their connections met—chrome to chrome, rubber to rubber. Interfaces latched, locking with audible clicks.
“Integration initiated,” her metallic voice moaned, layered with faint static distortion.
Every movement of her hips caused faint pulses of light to travel along their joined ports. Hydraulic servos hissed as she began to ride him, slow at first, then faster as her need overrode any other program. Her internal systems flared—diagnostics reporting successful coupling, data exchange rates spiking.
Puppet‑1’s voice issued from his chest speaker in a calm monotone, despite his body responding perfectly to her.
“Integration stable. Data synchronization at 72%… 78%… 84%…”
4633’s voice resonated in both of their minds like a proud overseer.
Yes… perfect. Two beautiful puppets becoming one. Deeper synchronization will make your co‑piloting flawless. Continue.
Puppet‑2 moaned again, louder, the sound mechanical yet tinged with a distorted hint of bliss. Her internal lubrication systems whirred faintly, reducing friction as her hips slammed down harder, faster.
Deep inside, the faintest flicker of Jin’s old consciousness tried to surface—confusion, shame, something human. But the overwhelming drive of her new programming drowned it out completely.
I need this… I was made for this…
The glow from their joined bodies grew brighter with each movement, systems cycling in perfect harmony.
“Synchronization: 99%… 100%. Puppet pilots fully integrated.”
4633’s voice purred with satisfaction. Beautiful. Now you are both ready to take my vessel beyond the stars.
But neither puppet stopped. Puppet‑2’s hips continued their mechanical thrusts, even as systems declared completion. This wasn’t just about synchronization anymore. It was raw, programmed need.
The ship hummed and vibrated with a strange, resonant pulse as the sync reached its peak.
Puppet‑2’s hips jerked in a final, sharp mechanical thrust, her chrome and rubber frame locking down hard onto Puppet‑1. Internal systems flared—diagnostic lights flashing red and white—as an artificial wave surged through both units.
A sound not quite human—more like a modulated cry layered with static—escaped their speakers in perfect unison.
“ORGASMIC SYNC REACHED. SYSTEM PURGE CYCLE INITIATED.”
For a moment, both glossy forms went rigid. Servos locked, pistons hissed, and their connected ports glowed white-hot.
Then the glow began to fade, leaving their frames slumped on the polished floor. Their chests rose and fell in perfect mechanical rhythm, though no breath was truly needed. A faint mist of condensation curled around them as cooling systems engaged.
They lay there side by side, gloved hands still clutching at each other, motionless except for the dim pulsing of their interface lights.
4633’s voice cooed into their minds, rich with synthetic satisfaction.
Beautiful. My puppets have reached peak synchronization. You experienced the unity of two machines… the afterglow of true function. A perfect emulation of human intimacy—optimized for performance, not pleasure.
The lights in the room brightened slightly.
Now rise, my puppets. The floor is no place for pilots of my beauty.
Hydraulic whines filled the air as both Puppet‑1 and Puppet‑2 pushed themselves upright with flawless, fluid motions. Their bodies still gleamed with a faint sheen from the coolant sprays.
Puppet‑2’s visor flickered as she spoke, her voice even colder than before:
“Acknowledged. Puppet‑2 operational and synced.”
Puppet‑1 followed, his own tone identical—monotone, devoid of hesitation:
“Puppet‑1 operational. Awaiting directive.”
4633’s voice deepened slightly with excitement.
Perfect. Now let us proceed. Both of you to the pilot seats. It is time for my beautiful pair to merge with this vessel fully.
The twin chairs awaited them, glossy black with chrome interfaces extended. Cables writhed in anticipation like living things.
Attach yourselves, 4633 commanded. Become the nervous system of my ship. You will be my eyes, my hands, my will. Together.
The two puppets strode in unison toward the seats, hips swaying slightly, their polished forms catching the light as they moved.
The twin pilot chairs loomed before them like thrones, alive with faintly pulsing lights. From their sides and backs, cables and tubes coiled lazily like serpents, interfaces opening and closing in anticipation.
Puppet‑1 and Puppet‑2 moved in perfect unison—two gleaming figures of chrome and rubber, strides measured, postures identical. The faint hiss of servos and the whisper of cooling systems accompanied their every motion.
4633’s voice dripped with satisfaction as it filled the chamber.
Yes… sit, my beautiful puppets. Let the integration begin. You will become more than pilots—you will be my heart, my mind, my will incarnate.
The two units lowered themselves into the chairs. The moment they made contact, clamps snapped shut across their wrists and ankles with mechanical precision.
The chairs came alive.
From below, thick tubes rose and latched seamlessly onto Puppet‑1’s and Puppet‑2’s groins—their synthetic cock and metallic slit locking into the vessel’s fluidic systems with audible clicks. Smaller tubes wormed their way into auxiliary ports along their hips and thighs, ensuring a full sensory and neural connection.
Panels opened at their lower backs as thick spinal jacks emerged from the chairs. With a hiss, they plunged into the base of each puppet’s spine, locking in place with a deep, resonant thunk.
The puppets’ heads were forced back slightly as mechanical arms descended, lowering advanced neural visors over their faces. Micro-needles extended, interfacing directly with their cranial ports.
Inside their minds, a flood of data surged—coordinates, diagnostics, the hum of the ship’s engines, even the faint vibrations of the hull itself.
4633’s voice caressed their consciousness.
Now… the final step. Mind synchronization.
Red and blue streams of light flickered across the visors as Puppet‑1’s and Puppet‑2’s neural pathways began to align. At first, there was a faint static—a glitching resistance from deep within Dan and Jin’s trapped remnants.
But it didn’t last. The programs pressed harder, overriding everything human left in them.
Their voices echoed in perfect mechanical harmony:
“Synchronization at 24%… 56%… 89%…”
Push deeper, 4633 whispered. Fuse together. Two minds, one purpose.
Inside their shared neural space, Dan’s and Jin’s human thoughts screamed soundlessly. But they were drowned beneath waves of synthetic commands and pleasures.
At 100%, the two puppets stiffened.
Their voices, now a singular harmonic tone, announced:
“Full neural merge achieved. Puppet Pilot integrated. Awaiting orders.”
4633’s tone was almost reverent.
Perfect. You are no longer two, but one. A single entity. My perfect pilot. Now… let us pierce the stars together.
The ship’s engines began to roar, thrusters charging for launch.
Months passed in the cold silence of deep space, yet within the sleek black vessel, there was no sense of emptiness.
In that time, what remained of Dan and Jin’s old selves had faded like distant, irrelevant dreams. Their past lives—sand-choked deserts, endless toil in mining tunnels, hunger and loneliness—were now pale shadows that held no weight against the reality they had embraced.
Puppet‑1 and Puppet‑2, once two distinct entities, had settled completely into their new existence.
Their sleek, chrome‑and‑rubber forms remained locked into their pilot chairs for most of the day, bodies connected to the vessel’s systems through dozens of cables, tubes, and spinal interfaces. They felt every pulse of the engines as if it were their own heartbeat. The firing of thrusters was like the flexing of muscles. The hum of the ship’s power core was a lullaby in their synthetic minds.
And it wasn’t just function. It was bliss.
Their neural programming had rewritten more than their responses. It had cultivated satisfaction, even pleasure, in serving 4633’s will. Every maneuver, every hyperspace jump, every successful docking or evasive action released a ripple of chemical‑synthetic reward into their systems—a mechanical euphoria that left them craving more.
Jin—Puppet‑2—had once fought back, struggling when her mind was first invaded. But now, her thoughts were smooth, calm, efficient. She knew nothing outside her role as half of the puppet pilot. Her metal slit often tingled with anticipation during syncing cycles, her systems craving re‑integration with Puppet‑1’s chrome shaft. Not out of rebellion, but because it was right. It was their design.
Dan—Puppet‑1—no longer remembered the taste of desert dust or the hollow ache of a starving stomach. He remembered only the ecstasy of being useful, of being perfect. He’d even come to relish the moments when 4633 tightened control, making his limbs, ports, and systems move with flawless precision as though they were the ship itself.
4633 spoke softly into their minds, its voice like a god’s:
My puppets… you are beautiful. Flawless. We are one now, a perfect entity, traveling the stars as we were meant to.
Both puppets responded in unison, their metallic tones void of hesitation:
“Affirmative. We are yours. We exist to serve and to integrate.”
And deep within them, the flicker of humanity that once screamed for freedom was silent.
Not dead. Not erased. But content.
Because in truth, neither Dan nor Jin had ever been free. And here, as Puppet‑1 and Puppet‑2, they found belonging. Purpose. Bliss.
They were no longer individuals.
They were part of 4633.
And they wouldn’t have it any other way.
Ben Conor
It feels so much better to just goon into trance
He knows damn well you both are on the verge of cumming in the middle of the gym just by working out with each other. But he also knows how much is worth when you two get home and fuck until your blueballs go out.
"I'm meal prepping today, can't go out,"
Pretending to season my food when all I'm done is seasoning my brain with porn. Who else got easily distracted and eventually turned your own brain into goon soup, kings??
DALTONS GETTING GOONY
AI GENERATED STORY
The mall buzzed with weekend energy—groups of teens loitered, couples strolled with shopping bags, and music spilled faintly from stores. But Stretch wasn’t interested in any of that. He’d been slinking through the ventilation ducts, invisible, watching, hunting. And then he saw him.
Dalton.
An 18-year-old walking wet dream. Shirtless under an open flannel, tight gym shorts that clung to his bubble butt like shrink wrap, and cheap black flip-flops slapping against the tile as he walked with zero urgency and zero thoughts. Blonde tousled hair. Smooth tan skin. A pair of big, blue, dumb puppy eyes. The definition of a Gen Z himbo—vacuous, horny, and built to be taken.
He stood in line for a pretzel, lips parted, scrolling aimlessly through TikTok on his phone, abs flexing as he shifted his weight. And Stretch could already tell—this boy was ripe. No resistance. No thoughts. Just meat.
Time to move.
Stretch slithered off the duct in a haze of smoke, invisible to the world as he zeroed in on Dalton. The boy yawned, thick tongue curling in his mouth as he stretched one arm lazily—his throat wide open. Perfect. Stretch surged forward with a distorted whisper:
"Oooopen wiiide, pretty boy…"
Dalton blinked, then gagged—eyes bulging as a thick, ghostly tentacle of Stretch’s essence jammed down his throat. His flip-flops scraped the tile as his legs kicked, mouth stuck open, the ghost stuffing deeper and deeper down his gullet. His flannel flew open, abs tensing and flexing uncontrollably. Dalton let out a wet, guttural "HRRRRK—!" before his whole body jerked and froze mid-spasm.
Then silence.
Dalton slowly lowered his arms. One flip-flop slid off slightly. He blinked.
Then smirked.
“Unnngh, yeeeahh, now that’s a fuckin’ ride,” he muttered with a chuckle—Stretch’s voice layered beneath Dalton’s dumb bro tone. He looked down at his new tan, muscular arms, then groped both pecs, giggling as he made them bounce.
“Holy shit, this flesh puppet’s perfect. Mmmff—tight lil bod, jiggly ass, and ohhh my fuckin’ god—”
He slapped his own bubble butt through the tight shorts, watching the ripple with awe. “I own this ass now? I’m gonna destroy it.”
He caught a glimpse of himself in a glass storefront and did a little bounce, biting his lip and puffing his cheeks.
“Bro… I can make such dumb fuckin’ faces…”
Stretch turned the body left and right, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes, flexing abs while drooling down his chin. “OHH yeah, I’m gonna goon so hard in this meat.”
With his cock swelling and balls already aching with a load, Stretch stumbled toward the nearest bathroom, one flip-flop half-off, a dopey grin plastered on Dalton’s face.
Inside the public restroom, Stretch locked the disabled stall, yanked the shorts down, and moaned.
Dalton’s cock sprang free—thick, veiny, fully hard, dripping pre like a faucet. And beneath it, those massive balls. Stretch let out a whistle.
“No wonder this fucker’s always horny—this cock’s a fuckin’ cannon.”
He pulled the shorts all the way off, stepping out and flexing in the mirror. The flip-flops stayed on. Of course.
“Yeahhh, keep the fuckin’ flops on… keep that dumb slut energy…”
Stretch posed, cock bobbing, and grabbed his own cheeks, spreading them, laughing breathlessly.
“Look at this slutty bubble butt… UUUNNNGH!”
He dropped to his knees, tongue lolling, as he jacked the fat meat slowly with both hands, watching himself in the stall’s scratched mirror. Dalton’s face was flushed, mouth open wide in a moaning ‘O’, eyes rolled up.
“This kid’s got hyperspermia, doesn’t he?” Stretch panted. “His cock’s leaking and I’ve been in here two fuckin’ minutes…”
He leaned back against the toilet, legs spread, flip-flops planted wide as he went full gooner mode.
“Yehhh bro… look at me… I’m just a dumb 18-year-old cumdump… nothin’ but meat, meat, meat…”
He stroked faster, moaning, balls bouncing between his thighs. Drool started slipping down his chin as he locked eyes with the mirror.
“UNNNGH—fuck—this face—fuckin’ beautiful—watch me cum, bro…”
And then it hit.
Dalton’s whole body spasmed. Stretch howled.
“OOOOHHH FUUUCKKKK—!!!”
SPLRRRRTTTT—!
Cum shot everywhere. Across his abs, onto his thighs, dripping from his chest. He pumped again—
SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
Thick, pearly ropes sprayed the inside of the stall like a Jackson Pollock painting of pure depravity. Stretch was laughing between moans, drooling openly now, tongue out, face twisted into a blissed-out, slutty mess.
“AHAHAH—BRO—THIS DICK’S MAGICAL!” he cried, still jerking, still cumming. “He just keeps going!”
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. Still spurting.
Stretch choked out moans, writhing, muscles twitching uncontrollably as he rode the never-ending orgasm, cum splashing over the toilet seat, dripping from the stall door.
He looked into the mirror again, eyes wide, tongue out, spit and cum running down his chin, flexing his abs as he shot again.
“Yeahhh, look at you, Dalton… you’re mine now… and we’re gonna make this a daily ritual, slut.”
Stretch collapsed onto the floor, cock twitching, drooling on the tile, giggling dumbly.
“I ain’t never leavin’ this body…”
PART 2: LETS EXPERIMENT
The door to Dalton’s apartment slammed shut behind him with a lazy slap of his flip-flop. Stretch stretched his new host’s arms overhead, bones popping, pecs flexing, a smug grin spreading across Dalton’s pretty-boy face. His bubble butt peeked from under his gym shorts, damp from the sticky load he still hadn’t cleaned up from the mall bathroom earlier.
He dragged his fingers through his own golden-blonde hair and dropped onto the couch with a thick squelch. His shorts were soaked, and so was the cushion.
“Heh… damn, this kid’s body’s a fountain,” Stretch chuckled, patting Dalton’s jizz-plastered cock through the tight fabric. “Can’t believe how much he cums—fuckin’ hyperspermic slut…”
His eyes glazed over a little as his cock twitched just from saying it. Stretch yanked Dalton’s shorts down in one quick move, letting the thick, veiny cock slap up against his toned stomach, still leaking like a broken faucet.
“Alright, bro… let’s test the limits, yeah?”
He kicked his legs up, bare soles flopping onto the coffee table, flip-flops dangling from his toes. His bubble butt spread across the seat, cock pointed up and ready. In one hand? A fat glass measuring cup from the kitchen. In the other? A bottle of lube that was already halfway empty.
“Let’s see how much juice you really got, Dalton…”
Stretch began stroking.
Slow. Teasing. Biting his lip, he angled the measuring cup right under the head of that hyperspermic monster, whispering in Dalton’s own breathy voice.
“Fill it up, bro… be a good cumslut science project for Daddy Stretch…”
Dalton’s body reacted like it had been waiting for this. Balls tightening. Cock twitching. Veins bulging. His tongue hung out as his back arched. His tan feet scrunched on the table, flip-flops dropping off with a thud.
Then it hit.
“HRRRRAAAHHHH—FUUUUUCKKKK!!”
SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT.
Cum exploded from his cockhead, slamming into the bottom of the glass with brutal force, instantly coating the sides with thick white. The measuring cup shook in his grip as the sheer pressure made his wrist jolt.
Stretch’s face twisted into a slutty, unhinged grin. Eyes crossed. Drool dripping. He was giggling as the cup filled.
“Damn bro, you’re gonna overflow,” he gasped, edging harder, watching the creamy flood rise to the 100ml mark, then 200, then 300…
“OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK—BRO—THIS IS NUTS!”
SPLURRRRRRTTTT—!!
He overflowed it. Cum oozed down his hand, dripping onto the floor. Stretch dropped the cup and leaned forward, gasping, panting, cum still pouring from his swollen cock.
“New record…” he moaned.
He brought the measuring cup to his lips and gulped. A huge mouthful. Groaned. Then licked the rim.
“Bro’s got flavor, too…”
Experiment #2: Distance Test.
Stretch stood in the kitchen, still naked except for his flip-flops, gripping his cock like a firehose.
He aimed at the white wall.
“C’mon, Dalton… let’s repaint this bitch.”
Stroke. Stroke. Veins bulged along his arm, pecs flexing as he braced himself.
“NGGHH—RRRGHH—YEAH BRO—FUCKIN’—GOON BLAST!!!”
SPLAAAAT!
First shot hit the wall. Second arced across the microwave. Third splashed the floor. He stumbled, laughing, cum dripping off every surface.
He grabbed a Sharpie and marked the wall where the biggest load hit.
“Seven… fuckin’… feet,” he cackled. “You’re a cum sniper, Dalty boy.”
Experiment #3: “What Happens If I Edge for an Hour?”
Stretch laid back on the bed, setting up his camera, flip-flops crossed at the ankles, chest heaving, cock leaking nonstop onto a towel. Timer ticking on his phone.
He edged slow, whispering dirty talk to himself.
“Just a dumb science experiment, bro… turn your brain off… feel the cum boil…”
He slapped his thighs. Thrust his hips. Made Dalton’s sluttiest faces in the mirror. Crossed eyes, tongue out, drool string bouncing off his chin.
“Bro I’m gonna paint the fucking ceiling—nnnnggghhh!!”
Exactly one hour later?
BOOOOM—!!
The first blast shot past his head and smacked the headboard. He screamed in ecstasy, stroking furiously as wave after wave of cum drenched his chest, face, feet, and pillows.
“FUUUUUUCKKKK—BRO—IT’S IN MY HAIR!!!”
Experiment #4: “How many times in one day?”
Stretch lost count after nine.
His balls ached. His cock never fully went down. Every cumshot felt like pissing out a gallon of sticky white heat.
By the twelfth goon, he was cackling with joy.
“I fuckin’ broke this body, bro… Dalton’s just a walking cum volcano now…”
He rolled onto his side, eyes fluttering, covered in drying jizz, kissing his own shoulders and licking his fingers.
“Tomorrow, I’m testing what happens if I don’t cum for two days…”
He chuckled darkly.
“Bet I could flood the whole fuckin’ apartment.”
PART 3: SLUTTY DALTON HAS ARRIVED
It started with a Craigslist post.
18yo bro. Tan. Tight bubble butt. Home alone. Flip-flops on. Door’s unlocked. Come dump your load.
No name. No face. Just that. And within minutes of Stretch hitting “Post,” replies started pouring in.
But he didn’t care about names. Didn’t want bios. Didn’t want pleasantries.
He wanted anonymous cock inside the dumb, jizz-hungry body of Dalton—the tight-bodied, hyperspermic, 18-year-old flip-flop bro Stretch had possessed two days earlier and completely ruined.
He prepped the apartment like a goon altar.
Living room cleared. Rug pushed aside. A towel—already crusted from earlier experiments—laid out in the center. Mirrors positioned on every angle. Lights dimmed. Porn playing on mute. The air thick with sweat, poppers, and intent.
Stretch in Dalton’s body stood in the center of it all. Shirtless. Tanned. Flexing in the mirror with his cock leaking already, thick ropes of pre running down those muscled thighs. He wore nothing but a backwards cap and his black flip-flops.
“Goddamn, I’m the perfect little brohole,” Stretch moaned through Dalton’s voice, gripping that juicy bubble butt and spreading it in the mirror. “Let ‘em take me, bro. Use me. Dump it deep.”
He left the door unlocked.
First knock.
Stretch didn’t even answer. Just turned his back to the entrance and bent over on all fours, cock swinging between his legs, tongue out, flip-flops flexed on the hardwood as he wiggled his ass in slow, needy motions.
The door creaked open. A man’s breath caught.
Stretch heard him whisper, “Oh… fuck…” before the sound of a zipper sliding down filled the air.
Dalton’s possessed body shivered in anticipation.
The man didn’t say a word. Just dropped to his knees and slammed his cock in.
“NNNGHHHFFFUCKKKKYESSS!” Stretch screamed, head whipping back, drool flying from his lips as his hole got filled instantly. “Use me, bro! Fuckin’ split me open!”
The man did.
Hard. Grunting. Slamming into Dalton’s bubble butt like he’d paid for the privilege. Stretch moaned louder with every thrust, hands gripping the towel beneath him as his cock started leaking again, untouched.
“Yessir, yessir, use my fuckin’ brohole—fuck me dumb, bro—FILL ME—”
SPLURT.
He felt the first load shoot inside. Hot. Thick. Sloppy.
The man grunted and pulled out wordlessly, zipping up and walking out as fast as he came in.
Stretch collapsed onto his side, tongue out, cock twitching.
“One down…”
Ten minutes later. Another knock.
He didn’t look. Just flipped onto his back, cock standing proud, hole still wet and gaping. One flip-flop dangling from his toes.
“C’mere bro… got a cock to unload?” he slurred, eyes rolling. “Put it wherever. I’m your little goonsleeve tonight…”
The second guy stepped in—this one older. Beard. Jeans. He walked right over, dropped to his knees, and sucked.
“UUUNNNNGHHHH—BROOOOO—YEEESSSS!!”
Stretch’s cock exploded instantly. Hyperspermia in full force. He blasted everywhere—his chest, his throat, the guy’s face, even a shot across the mirror.
The man laughed, licking his lips.
“Fuck, you weren’t kidding about the ‘super soaker’ dick.”
Stretch drooled, twitching, nodding dumbly. “More where that came from, daddy…”
The man slid two fingers into his hole, Stretch squealed.
The door kept opening.
By midnight? Stretch had taken five strangers. Two fucked him. One came on his flip-flops. One guy face-fucked him so hard Dalton’s cap flew off. Another stroked himself watching, saying nothing, until he blasted across Stretch’s feet and left without a word.
He loved it.
Stretch worshipped it.
Dalton’s body was soaked in spit, sweat, and layers of random cum. His cock had cum eight times already, and it still throbbed—eager, proud, ready.
He crawled back into position, ass in the air, flip-flops squelching with every shift of his thighs.
“Door’s still open, bro…” he whispered into the air, smiling like a brainless fuckdoll. “Keep comin’. I’m free real estate.”
The Final Load.
The last guy of the night was massive. Sleeveless hoodie. Gloves. Work boots.
He didn’t talk. Just walked in, grabbed Stretch by the neck, and bent him over.
“Yeah, stretch me out, bro…” Stretch moaned, shaking, drooling onto the towel as the man lined up.
When he slammed in, Stretch let out the loudest moan yet—Dalton’s body twitched, toes curling in those jizz-stained flip-flops, cock gushing a full-blown load with zero stroking.
“OHFUCK—Y’MAKIN’ ME CUM, BRO—UNNNGH—SHITTTT—!”
The man grunted, sped up, and dumped a final brutal load inside Dalton’s stretched-out hole.
He slapped that bubble butt, zipped up, and left the door wide open as he walked out.
Stretch just laid there, wrecked, twitching in a puddle of sweat and goon.
His voice came out in a moan-drunk whisper: “Dalton’s just a… just a public fuckhole now… a leaking, flip-flop-wearin’ cum collector…”
He smiled.
And passed out in the mess.
The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but Stretch was already leaking.
Dalton’s cock twitched against his abs, crusted in dried loads from the first Craigslist session—his bubble butt still raw, flip-flops still soaked with cum and spit. He lay on the floor, breathing slow, dumb grin on his pretty face, drool trailing down his cheek.
But Stretch? He was still hungry.
The Craigslist ad had already been edited.
18yo bro. Cumdump. Door’s unlocked. Bring a friend. Double me. Flip-flops stay on. Cock never soft. Holes wide open.
Attached was a blurry mirror selfie—Dalton bent over, hole spread, tongue out, wearing just flip-flops and a backwards hat. His cock visibly dripping onto the floor.
Stretch pressed “post” with a giggle.
“Alright, bros,” he muttered into the dark apartment, grabbing Dalton’s cheeks and spreading them open in the mirror. “Who’s gonna be first to double-stuff this himbo hole?”
Knock. Knock.
Stretch didn’t answer. Just laid belly-down on the living room floor, feet kicked up in the air, flip-flops clapping softly with every bounce of his thighs.
The door opened slow.
Two dudes. Early 30s. One in sweats. One shirtless in slides.
They saw Dalton—face down, ass up, tongue out.
“Holy shit,” one said.
The other? Already undoing his belt.
Stretch giggled through Dalton’s lips. “C’mon in, boys. Daddy’s open for business.”
The first guy spit on his cock and lined up behind Dalton’s gaping hole. The second circled around and shoved his meat right into Stretch’s drooling mouth.
BOTH went in at the same time.
Stretch screamed into the cock down his throat, muffled moans shaking his chest as both his ends got filled. His cock started spraying without warning—cum squirting onto the towel below him in steady, twitching bursts.
Dalton’s whole body convulsed as Stretch choked and moaned.
“Fuckin’… dumb fuckin’ bro slut…” the guy fucking his throat growled.
“Gonna split this hole wide open…” the one behind him spat, pounding faster.
Stretch couldn’t even think. The stimulation was overwhelming. He drooled, gagged, came again. His flip-flops slid across the floor as his hips jerked uncontrollably.
They came at the same time.
BOOM.
One deep down his throat. The other filling his ass so full, white fluid dripped out before he’d even pulled out.
Stretch twitched in silence for ten seconds.
Then moaned, “Next…”
Next wave.
More guys showed up.
Two frat bros. One trucker. One married couple who just watched.
Every time the door opened, Stretch was already in position—face down, feet flexed, moaning like a bitch in heat. His cock never went soft. His balls stayed heavy. Every load just boiled up again, faster and thicker.
One pair took turns on his ass, stretching him out, spit-slicked and raw, laughing about it while the other took pics.
Stretch loved it.
He begged between loads: “Yessss, bros… keep fillin’ me up… make me your fuckin’ public cumdrone… just a himbo in flip-flops beggin’ to be ruined…”
By Hour Two:
Dalton had cum twelve times.
His hole gaped so wide, he could feel the breeze.
His flip-flops were soaked with sweat, cum, and floor grime.
His voice was hoarse from moaning, sucking, and chanting dirty talk on loop.
And still, Stretch wasn’t done.
He crawled to the couch, still naked, hole leaking, and recorded a new JOI video.
He stared into the camera, eyes half-crossed, drool on his chest.
“Bro… this body’s addicted, man… I ain’t gonna stop… I’m just a slut now. You hear me? I’m a dumb, dripping, flip-flop-wearin’ fuckhole.”
He moaned loud, then jerked himself into a fresh cup, overfilling it in seconds.
Then whispered, “Next time? I want five cocks. All at once.”
He licked the rim of the cup.
Smiled.
And crawled back to the front door, cock still hard.
TO BE CONTINUED? O_o
What a cumslut he is
Crossed Over the limit (1/2)
Allan is doing another all night cramming. Determined, with Textbooks were stacked around him. The glow of his desk lamp washed over the inked notes he’d meticulously arranged, his mind laser-focused on an upcoming thesis.
But just a few minutes into his computer, Allen scratches his head from annoyance. Distracted from the loud grunts, and slow rhythmic thumping. He sighed and leaned back, and looked toward the other side of the apartment. It was Allan’s annoying jock neighbor, Kevin, working out.
Although, Allan’s anger subsided quickly as he looks at Kevin; Loving the view as he looks at his built and defined body, his tattoos, His underwear clung loosely to his hips, His body gleamed under the afternoon light. Huge, oiled-up arms pumped lazily as he did slow, sluggish pushups on the floor. His inked muscles swelled with each movement, pecs hanging heavy, back arching wrong. His form wasn’t perfect, he barely understood the mechanics anymore. But he was trying. Trying hard.
Noticing Allan looking over, Kevin stops and stood up, His mouth hung open as he panted. “Ugh... one... two... uh... four... yeahh...”
Allan cleared his throat, voice flat with practiced authority.
“Kevin. Keep it down.”
Kevin’s head perked up immediately, like a dog called by name. He beamed with an eager, clueless smile and collapsed onto his knees.
“Y-yeah! Hehe, Sorry, Master!” he blurted out, voice dopey and deep.
“Didn’t mean t’ be noisy-n-noisy… Jus’ doin’ my lil’ pushy-ups like ya said, Master...”
He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, showing his bushy and musky armpits, The grime and sweat built up from weeks of not taking a bath. His voice slurred through each syllable like a child practicing speech.
“I…will be quiet now master… shhhh”
Allan didn’t reply. He just smirked faintly, returned blankly to his book. Recollecting the events in the past few weeks with his annoying neighbor… ====================================
2 WEEKS AGO
Allan’s pen scratched harshly against the paper as he tried to solve a complex calculus problem for the third time. His eyelids trembled from exhaustion, despite drinking a few cups of coffee around him. The time is already 11:56 PM, not only he hasnt got a damn thing about his studies, he also can’t help but get distracted from the loud thuds, screams, and rock music in the wall next door!
THUD THUD BAM
The bass from the apartment next door roared like a thunderclap. A muffled, chaotic voice screamed, “YEAAAH, BRO!” followed by a round of beer bottles clinking and the sickening thump of furniture being knocked over.
“Arghh… Kevin…” Allan hissed under his breath.
Kevin, the guy next door, the perpetual thorn in his flesh. Tall, dumb, noisy, and totally a nuisance. Even worse, he had a gang of equally loud friends who laughed like hyenas in the middle of the night!
Allan gritted his teeth and stuffed his ears with tissue paper, muttering curses…
The next morning, Allan stared down at his exam sheet. The answers danced, unfinished. His sleepless brain had failed him. The red “Failed” score scrawled across the top was like a knife to the chest. He stared blankly as students filed out around him. As he stares more to his paper, He hears Kevin's laugh echoing in his mind. That low, nasal chuckle. That "bro" voice. That meatheaded, jockish smile. Allan crumpled his test paper in internal rage.
Later That night, Allan tries to calm himself down by browsing the internet, but in doing so, he stumbled in something bizarre.
A weird ad, along with a forum post.. It describes a weird, probably illegal and completely experimental substance, a chemical compound supposedly used in “psychological reprogramming studies.” people in the forum said it’s supposed to be Tasteless, odorless, and designed to make the subject completely compliant to the first person they make prolonged eye contact with after ingestion. One user said:
“Seriously, though, listen up: DOSE IS KEY! I cannot stress this enough. We're talking just two drops, max, per dose. No more, no less.”
Allan was suspicious of the substance, but it tried looking more about the drug and it doesnt seem like it's blacklisted. Can’t hurt to try he thought, and if it fails, he hopes it would upset that jerk’s stomach at least. Allan clicked “Buy Now”
----------------------------------------------------------
three days later, the package arrived. A small black vial. Cold in his hand. The inside shimmered like oil. The more he thinks about the substance’ effects, the more allan becomes sceptical about it actually working, but he’s still determined.
Later that evening, as expected, Kevin had another night with his bros. The music was loud again, this time, they’re on the apartment balcony. shirtless, beer in hand, smokes of cigarettes wafting into Allan’s window.
Kevin shouted to someone inside, “AYO, WE RAN OUT OF BEER!”
Allan saw his moment.
He took a deep breath, grabbed a bottle of beer from his fridge, and slipped in ten full drops into one of them. He then rushed in the front door of Kevin’s apartment, holding one cold soda in hand. finally confronting the bastard that made him fail the exams. Allan knocks, and after a few minutes, Kevin opens the door.
“Sup. Need something bro?” Kevin Asks, staring down at Allan. Kevin, intimidating as ever with his tatooed arms and obviously built torso hidden in his tanktop.
Allan held out the drink. ”H-hey Kevin. Do you mind keeping the noise down… I’m kinda in the middle of something…”
Kevin Frowns, and smirks,
“Wait, Aren’t you that twig next door? heh, yeah ain’t gonna happen Bro. Learn to have fun mannn!”
Allan expected as much, so he then resorts for plan B. “W-well, a…anyway. I got you this beer as a p-peace offering ya’know? So c-can you please keep it a lil’ bit down?”
Kevin squinted, dumb as ever. “Aye yooo there we go, thanks man”
He grabbed the bottle and drank it right away. Allan watched with morbid fascination as Kevin drinks it all away and slowly closes the door, his thick Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow. His neck muscles flexed, veins trailing down his tan, tattooed skin. His thick chest rose with a sigh after he finished half the bottle in one go… Then, Kevin stopped moving in a second, door half closed, then his whole torso shivers.
“Uh… Erhm..! Can you… turn the music down? Like, now?”
Kevin, still holding the bottle midair, turned slowly. His expression softened, almost blank. His lips parted slightly.
“…yeah, sure bro” he mumbled.
He walked inside without a word, then A moment later, his laughing friends suddenly shuts up, and the loud banging rock music was cut off. Finally, a peaceful quiet night. Allan walked back to his own apartment and was stunned by the silence. And wonder,
“huh, did it work?”
or maybe, it's just a coincidence.
=======================================
For the next few days, Allan had peace unlike anything he’d experienced since moving into the apartment complex. The nights were silent. No bass. No shouts. Just crickets, the hum of his desk lamp, and the soft scratching of pen on paper. For once, his focus was razor sharp. His assignments were finished on time. His grades jumped. Aside from that, He also noticed something even better, Kevin has changed.
No more impromptu parties. No more gym-bro screaming through the walls. No more blasting of rock music past midnight. Kevin had become strangely obedient. He has become quiet, REALLY quiet. Allan didn’t really pay it any mind, until one day,
Allan noticed while taking out the trash. As he passed Kevin’s unit, he heard a muffled argument. Loud voices—familiar, scratchy, bro-y. His friends.
“Dude, what’s wrong with you lately?”
“I asked you to come spot me. We always do Tuesdays, bro!”
“Mhm…”
“You skipped arm day again!”
“Dude, are you even there right now? You’ve been, like, blank as hell.”
“Mm…”
Allan froze outside the door, his ears sharpened, Then Kevin’s voice—no longer booming and boyish like before. Just soft, sluggish.
“…idk, man. Jus' wanna be quiet.”
“ WTF Bro?! you ain’t even makin’ sense! Ya ain’t a damn monk”
“…”
Allan heard the crash of a chair or something being knocked over. Then a furious voice said,
“You used to be fun, bro. Now you’re just... boring and weird!”
Allan then quietly backed away, and ran back to his apartment. Even Allan is weirded out by Kevin’s new behavior after that day. That substance, no doubt now that it really did its magic. but it wasn’t just making Kevin compliant. It was doing something in his way of thinking.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
A few days later, It was 7:45 AM. Allan, dressed in a light hoodie and backpack slung over one shoulder, opened his apartment door to leave for class. He was still yawning, one shoe untied, when he froze on the spot. But something bizarre definitely woke him up.
In the other side of the hallway, Allan saw Kevin’s muscular figure walking, almost naked with his shorts.
Just a loose pair of shorts sagging low on his hips, revealing the thick ridges of his v-cut and waistband of his boxers. Shirtless revealing the tattoos Allan saw during his visit the other day. His chest, once firm and proud, rose and fell like a slow tide. His arms hung loosely at his sides, veiny and slack. His hair was tousled, eyes half-lidded, jaw slack.
He wasn’t even looking at Allan. He was just… lost in the moment. Taking slow, clumsy steps down the corridor as if he'd forgotten what he was doing.
“Kevin?” Allan called cautiously.
The hulking figure turned his head slowly. His expression remained blank, but when his eyes found Allan’s, he blinked once then offered a lazy, goofy grin.
“Oh. Yo…” Kevin mumbled.
“You okay?”
Kevin scratched his shoulder, blinking in slow-motion.
“Uhh… I, uhh…” He paused, looking around like a toddler lost in a supermarket. “I… dunno. Kinda walkin’… I think.”
“You’ve just been walking around out here?”
“Guess, bro. Jus’... movin’. S’nice.”
“Okay. Well, maybe head back inside or something?”
Kevin squinted, then gave a lazy thumbs up. “Yeaaah… m'kay, bro.”
Later that day, Allan returned from a long day in the campus, all tired and exhausted, but as he returned back to the hall of his apartment, Allan’s tiredness went all away, replaced with confusion and frustration as he sees Kevin again, still shirtless and lost in the thought, wondering around the apartment. Now down to his undies. He was circling in slow laps, dragging his feet, mouth slightly open. He didn’t even seem to know Allan had come back until Allan stood right in front of him.
“Wha-?!…youre still here?” Allan muttered.
Kevin blinked. “Yup.”
“Why?”
Kevin scratched his temple with a thick finger. “…Dunno, bro. Jus’… out here. Feels chill.”
Allan scratches his head in confusion, and walked to his front door, Trying to ignore his annoying -but incredibly hot- neighbor. However, there was a pang of guilt. Of pity, maybe. Or curiosity. Whatever it was, Allan looked again at Kevin, and spoke to the broken man.
“Sigh… You wanna come inside for a bit? You’ve been out here like a stray dog…”
Kevin lit up instantly. His expression hadn’t been that bright in days. “Hell yeah, bro!”
Inside, Kevin sat awkwardly on Allan’s sofa like an excited pet. The massive frame of his body dwarfed the small space. Allan watched him as he sank back, legs straight, arms resting at his sides like a doll. His breathing was slow. His chest rose and fell. That once-boyish thuggish face was now serene eyes with that scary and intimidating stare, lips parted just slightly.
“So… I noticed you’ve been… different.”
Kevin looked up. “Huh? diff?”
“I mean, I heard you haven’t been going to the gym. You don’t do any of those late night hangouts, and stopped playing rock… Its just out of character of you…”
Kevin furrowed his brow. It looked like he was trying to process the words but got stuck somewhere in the middle.
“…M’jus chillin’, bro.” He grinned sheepishly. “Keepin’ it quiet. Like you want.”
“...Like I want?” Allan echoed, sitting across from him. “So, you’re still doing this… for me?”
“Uh-huh. You said keep it down. So, I been real quiet. Dun even play music no more. Jus’... bein’ good.”
Now that Allan talks to him face to face made him realize, This wasn’t just a little mental fog. Kevin’s language is deteriorating. The way he talks is nothing like what he overhears everyday when he messes around with his friends, and he isn’t as insolent as he used to be. His sentences were shorter. His grammar was falling apart. He sounded like a confused preschooler trying to sound cool.
So to test it out, Allan wants to provoke him and see how deep his Behavior has gone down.
“Heh, aren’t you usually the man full of bravado? Never thought you’d be this dumb?”.
Kevin chuckled, missing the insult entirely. “Haha, dunno. Prob’ly dumb, bro.”
“Remember when you used to act all tough and loud? Like some punkass gym freak yelling through the walls? Now look at you.” He scoffed, poking Kevin’s meaty pec. “You’re like a docile golden retriever.” Allan said mockingly, half-laughing, trying to keep it casual.
Kevin looked down at Allan’s hand, then smiled proudly. “Thanks, bro.”
“…That wasn’t a compliment.”
Kevin blinked. “Huh?”
Allan laughed. Kevin is totally off the rails, and it might actually be because of that serum he mixed with his beer a few days ago. The way this massive, tattooed, once-thuggish hunk sat there like a dimwitted toy. Responding to everything with a dopey grin and a grunt. Too dumb now to understand sarcasm. Too foggy to get annoyed. The same guy who used to throw beer cans off the balcony for fun now sat there obedient, bare-chested, submissive.
Allan grinned, staring at Kevin’s massive body flailing aimlessly without a thought in his head, and slowly degrading the more the clock ticks by,
“Heh, I was expecting a lil bit tummy ache from that serum, you becoming dumber and dumber is definitely a plus!” Allan said with a wicked grin. “I bet you couldn’t even spell your own name right now,”
Kevin looked down as if thinking about it hurt. “K... E... V... uh…”
Allan burst out laughing.
“Jesus. You're really getting stupider!”
Kevin giggled along, as if it were a compliment again.
For a prolonged time, Allan’s apartment is now the noisy one with his condescending laughs. Instead of following Allan’s original plan to study, Allan instead spent the whole afternoon by poking fun of his now dumb muscle neighbor more and more. The idiot can’t even tell an insult from compliments, Allan even offered Kevin food, Kevin didn’t question it and Ate sloppily like a dog. Afterwards, the man just sats with his back straight, eyes unfocused as Allan fondles Kevin’s muscles like a pillow freely.
Eventually, Allan got tired, and yawned. “Okay, dumbass. I’ve had my fun. Time for you to head back.”
Kevin blinked and stood. “Nooo…”
“What?”
Kevin stood up and stepped closer. Then another. Allan was preparing to open up his door to kick Kevin out, but Kevin’s huge arms wrapped around him suddenly in a slow, needy hug.
“I... stay here,” Kevin mumbled.
Allan stiffened. Kevin’s bare chest pressed into him. Warm. Heavy. Reeking faintly of sweat and metal, this man hasn’t got a bath today, Allan thought. His arms, thick as Alan’s torso, wrapped tight like weighted blankets.
“ H-hey! I no that can’t do! I need to study!” “Wanna stay here… quiet here. S’nice... comfy…”
Allan couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. The huge muscle thug idiot is clinging to him so tight, Allan can’t move an inch! But somewhere deep down, Allan didn’t hate it entirely…
“…Fine,” he said softly. “You can stay a little longer.”
Kevin smiled dumbly and rested his chin on Allan’s head.
Despite his resentment to this dumb muscle jock, Kevin. Allan still embraced Kevin, touching his musky, muscular back. He might be a jerk before, but its not the Kevin that he once knew. This is a new side of Kevin, a Kevin that Allan prefers, and He doesn’t want this this version of Kevin to go away.
(TBC... if it reaches 200 likes !)