Friendly Faces

Chris Long (Futuradiego) here -- reblogging hot boys and occasionally a writer for m2m bodyswap fanfiction. Also on discord (futuradiego) and sora

[hauntedestarchives]

A 6-part Story Series by erotic_synchronicity.

An all-timer that is tragically unfinished and abandoned. Slow burn nerd/jock bodyswap, it's probably the most realized I've ever seen that trope done- the writing is simply gorgeous, with actual personality for the leads, genuine chemistry, and incredibly hot sex (and solo) scenes.

[futuradiego]

An oldie but a goodie! one of my all time favs

[gecestich]

[cmh-msj]

Yummers

[mindmelter]

Training The Taken

My bugs have done it.

I can’t believe it actually worked. I mean, I hoped it would when I snuck those five tiny bugs out of the meteor sample at the lab. They looked so weak. But now? They’re inside the bodies of the five hot studs playing football at the court near my house.

The five of them. Standing shirtless. Still. Eyes glazed. Muscles glistening with sweat.

I’ve been watching them play football from behind the fence earlier. They were loud, sweaty, and full of themselves, playing shirtless like the studs they knew they were. They were having a good time. But now it's my time to have a good time.

The tallest one in black shorts and a thigh tattoo is my neighbor's hot son. We never really talked, but I know his name is Matias. He’s towering, confident, and his legs are built from years of playing football. Matias and his hot friends were known troublemakers around the neighborhood. And I also believe they were part of a gang.

I freed the alien bugs right there on the court, let them scurry out of the container and crawl toward each jock. Then I backed off and just watched. It started slow. One of the guys falls to the ground, grabbing his head. Another groans and collapses to his knees. One by one, they fall, convulsing and shaking violently. The bugs are already inside their heads, turning their brains into nothing but dead matter, with the only purpose of controlling their bodies.

Suddenly, all five of them stood back up. Silent. Controlled. Their eyes were now lifeless. Then, they follow me to my house.

Now here they are, standing in front of me.

I step closer. Matias is taller than the rest, pure muscle and arrogance—except all of that is gone now.

I walk right up to him and press my face into his sweaty armpits, dragging my tongue slowly. The salt and musk coat my taste buds, and I moan into his armpits as I lick higher, cleaning every inch of his hard pecs with long, hungry strokes. His chest twitches slightly under my tongue when I latch on to one of his nipples, but he doesn’t move.

Then I kiss him passionately. My lips crash into his, and though the alien doesn’t respond, I don’t care. I shove my tongue into his mouth, exploring every inch of the warm, unresponsive wet space. The alien inside him lets me do whatever I want.

Panting, I pull back, my hands trembling as I hook my fingers into the waistband of his black shorts and tug them down. His cock flops out, thick and heavy, coated in sweat from the game. I drop to my knees and just stare for a second. His cock and balls are perfect. Covered in the scent of a long game. I lean in, burying my nose into his sweaty balls, letting the smell of him fill my lungs. This alone is enough to make him hard. So I start sucking his cock. Slow at first, letting my lips savor the shape, the salt, the sweat. I lick under his balls, drag my tongue along the base of his shaft, and take him deeper. My nose presses against his groin. I moan around him, worshiping every inch. My spit mixes with his sweat as I bob up and down, completely lost in it.

I glance up.

Matias is looking down at me with innocent, confused eyes. Like he doesn’t understand what I’m doing. Just like the other four.

Then I notice the movement under their shorts. All four of Matias’s hot friends are sporting growing hard-ons, their cocks twitching as I suck their friend. The bugs are connected. Somehow, they’re all feeling the pleasure I’m giving Matias's alien.

The four young men gather around me as I suck Matias, standing in a tight circle. They look down at me with those same blank, glazed-over eyes—totally obedient.

One by one, they reach for their shorts, tugging them down slowly. Thick, throbbing cocks spring free, also glistening with sweat from the soccer match. The aliens inside them want to feel what Matias's alien is feeling as well.

They don't speak. They don't need to. Their twitching erections say everything. The connection between them is undeniable—the pleasure shared. They want it. And I want to give it to them.

So I move to the next hot stud—a cute stud with dyed hair—and take his huge cock into my mouth, savoring the tang of sweat and musk that clings to his thick shaft. I moan around him as I drag my tongue under his balls, inhaling deeply as I worship him with my mouth. He doesn't flinch. He just watches, eyes dazed, cock pulsing.

Then I move to the third, then the fourth. Two are cut, three are uncut. But they’re all huge. I bury my face in their crotches, lick their balls, swallow their thick lengths, making obscene noises as I service each one.

When I finally finish with the last one, my face is sticky with sweat and spit, and my throat aches in the best way.

I then sit on the couch, legs spread, hand wrapped around my painfully hard cock, stroking it slowly. The five hot, naked young men kneel in a line on the floor in front of me. Their muscular bodies are sweatiest than before as each one copies my movements exactly—stroking their cocks in perfect unison, their eyes locked on mine. Observing.

"Good boys," I whisper, moaning. "This is called masturbation, it feels good, doesn't it?"

The aliens didn't respond, but I know they're enjoying it because just like that—they all start cumming at the same time. Grunts escape their lips as they shoot thick ropes of cum across my living room floor, bodies jerking slightly as they unload everything. It’s so synchronized, so surreal, so fucking hot.

As soon as they’re done, they drop onto all fours, crawling around, licking the floor clean. They lap up each other’s cum, their tongues darting out, moaning softly. No hesitation. Just pure alien instinct.

The sight of it pushes me over the edge.

I groan loudly as I cum, my load splashing onto the floor. The five of them instantly notice the new addition. They crawl toward me on all fours and begin licking my cum off the floor. One handsome young man with a neck tattoo starts licking my cock for anything left. I just can't help but grab his head and force him to take everything into his tight throat. The others watch with attention, as if they're fascinated by the act. Some even start to chuckle.

So when the neck tatted stud pulls out, the one with a chest and arm tattoo takes his place and swallows every inch. I just sit relaxed as the aliens make each young man take me down their throats as if that's a fun new game between them.

Next, they follow me to my room. Their hard, throbbing cocks bounce with every step, their blank faces showing no emotion, no resistance. Just quiet, obedience, and curiosity. Once inside, I decide to start the next lesson. They’re all watching me, silently waiting. So I pick Matias first.

"Alright my boys, the next activity is called 'fucking'. And it's a lot more fun than masturbation."

I guide Matias to the bed, and he climbs on without a word. I position him on his back, his sculpted body spread across my sheets, legs lifting up slowly as I direct them. His muscular thighs are raised, ass exposed, and his cock is still hard, resting against his abs. He stares at me with those cute alien eyes.

Time to teach them about how to really have a good time. My shaft is all lubed from their throat juices, so I line myself up and slide my dick into his tight, virgin ass. He doesn't flinch. The alien inside him just lets me in, his hole clenching around me as I start thrusting roughly.

The other four alien-controlled studs watch from the edge of the bed with curious, silent focus. They don’t speak, but they understand. The bugs inside them learn by watching.

I point at two of them—the fit stud with dyed blond hair and the tall one with a neck tattoo. They immediately climb onto the bed on either side of Matias, lying back, legs lifted and spread for the remaining two. The other two studs move without hesitation, getting between their legs, cocks already rock hard and leaking. They position themselves, watching me thrust in and out of Matias, and start mimicking my movements.

Soon, the room is full of heavy breathing, skin slapping against skin, and the smell of sweat. Our hips moved together like a choreographed routine, and I was the choreographer. I was the only one moaning for a while, but that slowly started to change because they started to mimic my moans. Every time I moan in pleasure, they all mimic the same moan in unison. It's all weirdly arousing. I'm in heaven. Watching them learn, watching them mimic, feeling them all fuck together in perfect sync...

I take my time, switching positions, taking turns. I fuck each one of them. Their bodies are perfect and completely mine to enjoy.

Hours later, I collapse exhausted in the middle of the bed, panting, as the five naked, young, brainless friends fuck each other around me.

My alien pets have learned well. And I still have so much more to teach.

[shootingstarwritings]

The Faces Change, but the Words Remain the Same

Two friends, Keith and Dale, lived together after finishing college. Both of them had gained jobs working in Silicon Valley after graduating from the same university, so they decided to move in together. Little did they know that their close friendship and maintained health caught the attention of two bodysnatchers…

Keith, using the walls and door frames for support, staggered towards Dale’s room. “B-Bro, something’s wrong…” he said, almost throwing up from the sensation of… something sliding inside of his through his mouth. He couldn’t see anything, but he could certainly feel some kind of slippery, rubbery thing slither into his mouth and down his throat. Once inside, a cold and numbing sensation spread throughout his body.

However, as he wandered into Dale’s room for help, all Keith saw was his roommate—shirtless and covered in sweat—convulsing on his bed. “D-Dale…?” For a brief moment, Keith forgot his own perils and staggered towards Dale before succumbing to his own odd sensation. He collapsed to his knees and fell prone onto the floor, convulsing as he lost consciousness.

Sometime later, both men groaned and slowly came to as though waking up from a deep and relaxing sleep. Dale even made sure to stretch his stiff joints and flex his impressive body while Keith ran his hands down his clothed yet still tight body. They locked eyes and smirked at each other before setting up several cameras and using Dale’s laptop to capture all the footage.

“Another successful possession!”A ghost named Mike exclaimed using Keith’s body as he filmed the two of them enjoying their new bodies. “What is up, my brossessors, Mike and Ike back at it with another pair of dumb studs!”

Ike, who was enjoying Dale’s musky body, rolled his handsome host’s eyes and said, “Cut, cut! We’re not calling them that,” he said, waving his hands in exasperation.

Mike’s grin fell into a crestfallen frown. “Aww, why not?” he said, pouting in a body clearly not used to it by how awkward his expression was. “I think it’s a good name for our avid watchers in the community. Some of them are even wearing banners with it on the forums.”

Ike groaned and rubbed his beautiful body’s temples. He really should be exploring and enjoying all this sack of meat has to offer, but instead here he was, reliving—redead-ing?—another argument that Mike kept bringing up. “I still can’t believe you’re running those forums. It’s like, what, twelve people actually talking in there?”

Although seemingly impossible, Mike’s pout deepened. His host’s cheeks reddened as he answered through gritted teeth, “‘Bout a hundred, actually.” It was merely a fraction of their worldwide fanbase, but it was a sizable collection nonetheless. Then Mike sighed and hung his head. “It was higher, but once I finished banning all the bots I realized there were that many registered users. Some accounts are pretty…”

His voice trailed off and an awkward silence filled the gap. Neither of them wanted to continue the thought, because that would acknowledging that they were dead—that they did not belong here among the living. Neither were sure what was actually tethering them to the living world like this, but acknowledging they were dead did nothing but unnerve and invite troubling thoughts back—ones that the couple had spent much of the first years as ghosts trying to escape from. The rest of the time following was spent trying to make their old dreams as performers come true. They had found community, an audience, and a new passion creating content both for themselves and for other folks not quite moving on to the afterlife just like them.

Then, as if to wave away those bad thoughts, Ike grinned and leaned back into his initial position. “Fine fine, I’ll give. Brossessors it is, then. It’s not that bad of a name.”

Mike instantly perked up and began fiddling with his phone again. “All right, take two!” The two got back into position, excited and raring to go. “‘Sup brossession nation! Mike—“

“And Ike!” he chimed in with a flex and a pec bounce.

“—back with another video! Check out these hunks we took over!” Mike said with the largest and most decadent smile he’s had in years.

The show went on, and the two did their usual bit. Mike lied down on the chest of Ike’s host. The cameras were all set up and filming. “Another day, another body, huh?” he whispered to Ike. Their fingers, although not the own, intertwined as though it was the very first time. Both squeezed, as if trying to affirm to the other that they weren’t going anywhere—not anytime soon.

“Another day, another life,” said Ike. With his free hand, he gently tilted Mike’s stolen face and kissed him. “And more will come. I promise you that.”

Mike chuckled. His smile fit his new host. “Don’t make promises if you don’t know you can keep.” Yet somehow, amidst his laughter Mike felt like crying.

Ike scoffed and with a half-ironic smirk proclaimed, “I dunno much, but what I do know is that we’ll always be together.” Slowly, gently, and delicately, he pulled off Mike’s shirt and shorts. “If you’re in Heaven and I’m in Hell, I’ll crawl back up just for you,” he said, giving Mike a quick peck on the lips as the boxers came off. “And if you’re in Hell and I’m Heaven, I’ll jump off and land right on your beautiful dick. I can promise you that much.” He caressed Mike’s cheek.

“Ah…! Ah, uwahhh…” Mike blushed as he moaned. Not just from the touch but also from slowly sliding himself down on Ike’s stolen dick. Keith was particularly tight, and Mike couldn’t help but think, Stupid straight virgin, as he rode Ike just like he did the day they started going out. “F-Fuck, fuck. Urgh. Haaah…” Still, he kept thrusting his hips and meeting Ike’s thrusts as best he could in this straight body. He nearly whited out when Ike suddenly cupped his host’s pecs and fondled him. “Urgh, you’re a goddamn sadist…!” Mike uttered, biting down on his lower lip as Ike’s touches and caresses drove him insane. He couldn’t help himself. The stimulation was far too much for him in this new, youthful, virile body. Each touch was exhilarating, as though he was jerking off and being fucked for the very first time! “Yes, yes, cum in me, Ike. Breed this ass, breed me!” Mike cried out.

Ike clenched his teeth and gripped Mike’s borrowed thighs as he thrust deep inside of the tight, burning-hot hole. “Nrrgh, f-fuck!” he hissed as he blew his load all over Keith’s guts.

An hour later, once they had bid goodbye to their audience and put the equipment away, the couple cuddled together under the sheets. “You’re such a stud. I can still feel your cum inside of this straight guy’s guts,” said Mike as he nuzzled Ike’s chest.

Ike chuckled and gently ruffled Mike’s hair. “I meant what I said, y’know. We’ll always be together. I promise.”

“I know…” muttered Mike, eyes half-lidded already. Fucking always made him exhausted, and tonight was no different. It was strange. No matter how many bodies he hopped inside of, that fact about him always remained the same. Maybe it was hard-wired into his soul or whatever. Maybe that was why Ike was so determined to keep saying the same ol’ promise no matter what face he wore. Still, the world around them would continue to spin and change, yet they would remain the same: anchors for each other, even after death. “See you tomorrow, Ike,” he said. Neither ever said “goodnight” anymore. It sounded far too close to goodbye. Instead, they said,

“See you tomorrow, honey.”

[mrcharlie]

[futuradiego]

BLEACHER CREATURES

The showers were still running. Nobody gave a shit.

Matt had his hand down his own pants before he even got his bearings—one fist wrapped around a cock so thick his new fingers barely closed, and the sound that ripped out of him wasn't even words. Just a raw, chest-rattling unnnh that vibrated in a sternum he didn't have ten minutes ago. His hips bucked into his own grip on instinct, because this body moved like that—reacted fast, hard, zero lag between thought and thrust. He yanked his shorts down with his free hand just to see it, and there it was: nine fat inches flushed dark and drooling, curving up toward an eight-pack that flexed every time he breathed.

"Oh fuck," he groaned, and his voice—Jesus Christ, his voice—hit the lockers like a subwoofer test. Bass. Gravel. The kind of rumble that used to make him weak in the bleachers when the real Matt opened his mouth on the sideline. Now it was his. "Listen to me. Listen to how I sound."

Chadwick wasn't listening. Chadwick had both hands under his own compression shirt, thumbs grinding into nipples that were so sensitive it made his stolen knees buckle, and he was laughing—low, punch-drunk, dangerous. "Everything's on fire," he said in that wrecked-honey baritone, eye black still smeared under his eyes in dark streaks. "My tits are on fire. My cock is—fuck—" He grabbed himself through the fabric and his hips stuttered forward. "It just does that. It just gets hard like a fucking switch."

Davis already had his arm up and his face buried in his own pit, huffing so hard his shoulders shook. When he came up for air his pupils were blown wide and his mouth was wet. "Smell me," he demanded, voice a lighter tenor but soaked in testosterone, and he grabbed Kenneth by the back of the neck and shoved his face into the dark, damp thicket of his armpit. "Smell me, I'm a fucking animal—"

Kenneth went in open-mouthed and didn't come up for thirty seconds, tongue dragging through coarse hair, groaning into it like he was making out with a lover. When he finally surfaced, gasping, spit shining on his lips, his voice came out wrecked: "You taste like—fuck—salt and man and I can't—" He dove back in, sealing his mouth over the pit and sucking, and Davis's whole spine arched.

"Aah—yeah, yeah, get in there—unh—"

They were supposed to be scared. Supposed to be disoriented, adjusting, taking stock. Instead they were four guys who'd spent months jacking off to the very bodies they were now wearing, and every nerve was screaming yours, yours, this is yours now, and the horniness was louder than anything else.

Matt grabbed his own ass with both hands and squeezed, and the jolt that ran up his spine made his cock slap his abs and leave a wet streak.

"Okay," he panted, long hair sticking to his neck in sweaty tangles, "someone's getting inside me in the next sixty seconds or I'm doing it myself."

But first he needed to taste.

He crossed the distance to Chadwick in two strides—these legs were insane, power coiled in every step—and dropped to his knees hard enough to crack tile. Would've shattered his old kneecaps. Barely registered now. He hooked Chadwick's waistband and yanked, and that cock sprang free and slapped up against a stomach so ripped it cast shadows. Eight and a half inches, thick, veined, the head already glossy and drooling.

The smell hit him like a fist—concentrated groin musk, jockstrap funk, skin heated by two hours of game-time adrenaline. Matt's mouth flooded. He didn't tease, didn't lick, just opened wide and swallowed, taking it root-deep in one brutal plunge, and the noise that came out of him was obscene—a low, vibrating glrrrk that rattled in his new barrel chest.

"Oh fuck—your throat—Jesus—" Chadwick's hips snapped forward on instinct, and Matt gagged hard, throat bulging, spit flooding out around his lips in thick ropes. His eyes streamed, the eye black he'd been wearing transferring to his own cheeks in dark mascara streaks, but he didn't pull back. He shoved forward, nose mashing into coarse pubes, inhaling that musk like oxygen, and the moan that vibrated around Chadwick's cock made the tight end's knees buckle.

"Hnng—fuck—keep—keep doing that sound—"

Matt pulled off with a wet, ropey pop, spit connecting his lower lip to the swollen head, and when he spoke his voice was wrecked gravel: "I want your foot in my mouth while somebody fucks me."

"Jesus Christ," Davis muttered from across the room, fisting his own cock.

Chadwick's grin went slow and mean. He lifted a foot—size thirteen, still damp from the game, the funk rising warm and sharp—and pressed the sole against Matt's face. Matt's eyes rolled clean back. His jaw cracked wide, wider, and toe after toe disappeared past his lips. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. All of them crammed in, stretching his mouth into an obscene ring, spit sheeting down his chin and dripping off in thick strings.

"Hrk—mmph—glck—"

The sounds were filthy, wet, desperate. Matt's new throat worked around the intrusion, gagging every few seconds, but he didn't pull back. He pushed forward, taking the ball of the foot, eyes streaming, and the bass moan that rumbled out of him vibrated Chadwick's whole leg.

"Look at you," Chadwick growled, grinding his foot deeper, watching the throat distend. "Choking on my toes like a bitch. Best fuckin' thing we ever did, stealing these bodies."

Kenneth couldn't watch anymore without touching. He was already rock-hard, grey shorts tented obscenely, and he looked over at Davis bent against the lockers and made a decision. "Get on the bench. Ass up."

Davis didn't need to be told twice. He folded himself over the locker room bench, spine dipped into an arch, and looked over one massive shoulder with blown pupils. "Breed me," he demanded, voice shaking. "I gotta know what this hole takes."

Kenneth spat into his palm, stroking his new cock swinging between his thighs, lined up, and pushed in. The running back's hole—trained for years by a nerd with a drawer full of Bad Dragon and zero shame—opened and swallowed, and they both cried out in stereo, two different keys of masculine wreckage.

"Ohh my god," Davis sobbed, fingers white-knuckled on the bench, "he's splitting me, he's so big, I can feel it in my teeth—"

"Yeah? I still got more. Kenneth grabbed a fistful of Davis's thick pec, kneading the hot muscle, and started pounding—real thrusts now, balls-deep, the slap of skin on skin cracking through the room. "Gonna fuck you till you nut from your prostate alone, bro. These tits are fucking unreal—"

Matt was still gagging on Chadwick's foot, throat convulsing, his own cock leaking a puddle onto the tile, when Chadwick pulled his foot free with a wet schlorp and hauled him up by the hair.

"My turn to taste you," Chadwick rumbled, and shoved Matt face-first over the neighboring bench, yanked those shorts down, and buried his face between Matt's glutes without hesitation. The rim job was immediate, hungry, tongue spearing deep, and Matt's whole body locked up.

"Aah—fuck—right there—your tongue is so—unh—"

They rotated. Greedy. Frantic. Years of worship pouring out.

Kenneth pulled out of Davis with a wet pop and turned him around, pushing him onto his back on the bench. "Wanna see your face when you nut," he panted, and slammed back in. Davis's legs went up, ankles on Kenneth's shoulders, and the new angle punched a scream out of him.

"There—right there—oh my god I'm gonna—"

Chadwick ended up on his back, thighs hauled wide, while Matt ate him out like his life depended on it—tongue deep, hands spreading those massive glutes, moaning into the slick heat because the taste was pure salt and musk and jock and he was drunk on it.

"Nngh—yeah—fuck—your tongue—don't stop—"

They switched again. Matt rode Chadwick, that bubble ass bouncing hypnotic, both of them groaning in bass and baritone. Sweat rolled down Matt's spine in rivulets. His cock slapped his abs on every drop, leaving wet streaks across the eight-pack.

Davis got on his knees and sucked Kenneth while Chadwick fucked him from behind, and the symphony of four deep voices—unh, unh, fuck, breed me, harder, yeah just like that, oh god don't stop—filled the locker room like a filthy choir.

They didn't quit until all four frames were covered—cum streaked across heaving abs, leaking from puffy swollen holes, smeared glossy across slack mouths and beards. Until their stolen throats had gone hoarse. Until they were bone-certain this was permanent, this was real, these perfect bodies were never going back.

Davis collapsed against the lockers, chest heaving, cum drying on his stomach, and dragged the back of his hand across his jaw. He grinned at the ceiling, wrecked and satisfied.

"Shower," he panted. "Then somebody better fuck me again before practice we're definitely not going to."

Matt laughed, deep and raw. "We're never going to practice again. We're just gonna live in this locker room and use these bodies till they break."

"They won't break," Kenneth said, voice smug, running his hands over his own cum-slick abs. "They're built to last. And they're ours now."

Chadwick stretched, muscles rippling, and looked at the others with a grin that was all teeth. "Wonder how long it'll take the old us to figure out what happened."

⸻

Somewhere across town, in a basement that smelled like stale Mountain Dew and cum socks, four scrawny bodies woke up on a cold concrete floor, confused and horrified.

Their football bodies were long gone—stolen, occupied, and currently being used for the kind of marathon fucking that might make lesser mortals blush.

The nerds weren't coming back.

The jocks were never getting their bodies back.

And in that locker room, four new tenants were just getting started.

[futuradiego]

MY SWEET LITTLE MARK

Continuing a Vignette from here

The bed creaked the way it had always creaked.

That sound was the thing that struck me first. Not the slick stretch of him inside me, not the deep stuttering moan rolling up out of a chest I should not have been straddling, nor the wet buzz of the toy he was working into himself with his free hand. The bed. The specific groan of the third slat from the headboard, the one I'd been meaning to replace for three years and never quite got around to. The sound was a key sliding into a lock I didn't know I had.

But I kept riding.

That was the worst of it, or the best, depending on which part of me you asked. My thighs were burning in a way that didn't feel like mine — narrow thighs, less stamina, bitten-down fingernails clutching at pecs they hadn't earned — this body I'd woken up in working harder than it should have to keep the rhythm going. But the rhythm itself was instinct. Up and down. The slow grinding pause at the bottom where he liked it, where the man under me liked it, because his hands tightened on a waist that didn't belong to either of us and his head pressed back into the pillow and that voice, my fucking voice, broke open into a sound somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

"Ohhh fuck — fuck, fuck — squirt, you feel that? You feel how deep you're sittin' on me? Ahnnh — goddamn, this fuckin' body, dude — I been goin' for like forty minutes and I'm not even— unh — not even tired, you believe that shit?"

He had the dildo in his other hand. He'd been working it into himself even before he pulled me on top of him, a thick veined silicone thing in a stupid sunset gradient, and he was not gentle about it. He was hammering it up into his own ass at the same rough cadence I was using on his cock, two rhythms cross-cutting through one body, and every time the toy hit deep his whole frame jolted and his cock kicked inside me and another shudder rippled through both of us. His own prostate was getting wrecked by his own hand and he was narrating the whole thing.

"S-so fuckin' full, man, you don't even know — got my new dick in you, got this fat thing from Mr. Leather splittin' me — ah-ah-ah — I'm like the meat in the fuckin' sandwich, dude, I'm— nnh — Christ on a cracker, you should see yourself riding me, you're so shrimpy, you're so—"

He couldn't finish the sentence. His free hand left the toy long enough to drag up his own torso, palm flat across the pecs I'd built, fingers spreading wide to feel every individual ridge of muscle, and the moan he made at his own touch was for himself, entirely for himself, and the loop fed itself the way it never stopped feeding itself. The cock buried inside me throbbed harder at the contact. He hadn't even touched anyone else and his body was getting off on its own existence.

"My body," he was muttering, eyes rolled halfway back, baritone gone slurry. "My body, my body, look at this fuckin' body—"

I sank down again and felt the head of his cock press against something deep that made the smaller frame around me shudder. A whimper came out of me that I didn't recognize. Thin. Reedy. The wrong throat making the wrong sound.

His hands slid up the stolen waist. Both of them now, the toy abandoned for a second, lodged deep in him while he pressed his thumbs into the soft place under my ribs. There was a freckle there I hadn't noticed before. Small and dark, just under the left side of my new ribcage. Someone else's. Someone else's me.

I looked down at him and tried, tried, to hate it.

He was beautiful.

That was the part I couldn't stop circling. He was beautiful in the way I had spent a decade and a half slaving over. The trapezius I'd built doing farmer's carries at five a.m. The obliques I'd sculpted with stupid little side bends nobody else in the gym would do. The small dark mole just above his left nipple that my mother had pointed to when I was six and called my khaal-e-shirin, my sweet little mark. He had my sweet little mark on his stolen chest and he was looking up at me through eyelashes I'd inherited from a grandmother he'd never met, half-lidded, slack-mouthed, fucked-stupid on his own reflection.

The expression. That was the worst part. He didn't wear my face the way I'd worn it. I'd worn it sharp, present, the jaw doing work. He wore it the way men wear someone else's good jacket — pleased with the fit, indifferent to the cut.

"You're so fuckin' tight, little guy—" The baritone cracked, the voice rolling up out of a throat that wasn't built to make that sound that high. He bucked up into me and I gasped, palms slapping flat against the pecs to steady myself. His chest. My chest. The skin was hot under my hands and slick with the sweat of how long he'd been working for it, and underneath the slick I could feel the script along his ribs, raised slightly the way fresh-ish ink does in heat.

I'd gotten it at twenty-six. I'd been reading Coleman Barks like he was the only translator in the world. I'd thought the line was the most profound thing anyone had ever written and I'd put it on my body in a script I couldn't read myself because I wanted to honor a heritage I'd only ever held at arm's length. Three years later I'd come to find the choice a little embarrassing — the Barks of it, the white-yoga-studio of it, the fact that I'd picked the most quotable line in the whole canon — but I'd kept it because removing it would have been worse than wearing it. Penance for my own earnestness.

He didn't know any of that. He just wore it. Because it had come with the package.

His left hip clicked.

Small sound. The kind of joint pop you only hear if you're close enough, the kind of pop my left hip had been making since I tweaked it deadlifting at twenty-seven. It clicked on the upstroke when he bucked up into me, and the click bypassed my brain entirely and landed somewhere lower, in the part of me that didn't have language yet, just recognition. I knew that click. I knew it from the inside. I'd been hearing it in my own pelvis for three years.

I didn't have time to interrogate it. He was talking again.

"—gonna come again, dude, I'm gonna— ahhh — I came like twenty minutes ago and I'm already— this body's a fuckin' factory, swear to god, it just— unh — keeps refillin' the tank—"

He shoved the toy deeper into himself. His thighs trembled under mine. His balls tightened.

I felt the draw of them against the base of the cock buried inside me, that specific physiological cinching I had experienced from the other side a thousand times and was now feeling from the inside like an inverted memory. His mouth fell open. His hands clamped down on the borrowed hips hard enough to bruise the soft skin there. He made a sound — deep, gutted, animal, the kind of sound my throat had never made when it belonged to me because I had been raised to be quiet about pleasure — and he came.

He came inside me. He came inside his own old body using his own old cock and the heat of it flooded into me thick and pulsing, and the dildo was still in him, and his free hand came up to drag through dark curls in a gesture so precisely minethat I felt the recognition like a slap.

He laughed, breathless. Stoned-sounding. "Fuck me sideways," he murmured, more to the ceiling than to me, "every fuckin' time, man."

His head lolled to one side on the pillow.

I was looking past his shoulder.

At the plaster seam above the headboard.

The uneven one. The one the contractor had bodged in 2019 when I'd had a leak in the unit upstairs and they'd patched the ceiling on the cheap and I'd looked at that crooked seam every morning for four years and meant to fix it and never fixed it. I was looking at my own deferred maintenance and the second click happened, the bigger one, the one in my chest.

I live here.

I fucking live here.

The thought didn't arrive as a sentence. It arrived as the entire architecture of the room reorganizing itself around me — the angle of light from the window I had chosen the curtains for, the corner where my reading chair used to be before he'd shoved it aside to make room for his stupid weight bench, the smell underneath the sweat and the cum and the cheap synthetic cologne, the smell of my own laundry detergent in the sheets because he hadn't even bothered to switch brands.

And then the bookshelf.

Mine. Every book on it was mine. The Hafez in the original. The dog-eared Le Guin. The architectural monograph my sister had given me for my twenty-eighth birthday, with her inscription on the flyleaf I couldn't see from here but knew was there. Mine, mine, mine, the spines in the order I'd put them in, alphabetical within genre, a system only I would have used—

Except for one book.

Third shelf down. Wedged in horizontal on top of the verticals, the way you stash something you didn't have a place for. Black leather. No title on the spine I could read from this distance, but the binding was wrong — hand-stitched, not commercial, the kind of object that does not belong in a Bay Area apartment in the twenty-first century. It was the only thing in the room that wasn't mine.

It was the only thing in the room that was his.

The fog covering me? It detonated.

It came back in a single shuddering rush — not memories one at a time but the entire form of myself returning at once, the weight of thirty-four years slamming back into a brain that had been running on a skeleton crew, and my name arrived with it like a struck bell.

Bardia.

Bardia.

I was Bardia Azadeh, though everyone here called me Blake because it was easier and this was my apartment and the man bleeding the afterglow into my mattress beneath me was wearing my body like a costume he'd shoplifted, and the book on the third shelf, the black leather book that was the only foreign object in my entire curated life, was how he'd done it.

He hadn't noticed yet. His eyes were closed. His hand was still in his own hair, lazy, the dildo still seated in him, the body cycling down into that brief and only window where the self-activation loop would slack — five seconds, ten, before his cock would start to fill again at the sensation of his own fingertips at his own scalp — and I knew that body's recovery period because that was my fucking body and the window was small but it was real.

I moved.

I came up off him in one motion, his softening cock slipping out of me with a wet obscene sound, his cum running hot down the inside of a thigh that wasn't mine but was now mine to use. His eyes fluttered open in lazy protest.

"Nnh — where you goin', squirt — c'mon, come back here, I'm not — I'm not even done—"

I was already off the bed. Already across the room. The boards of the floor I had refinished myself were cold under bare feet with bitten-down nails.

The book was heavier than it should have been. The small hand barely closed around the spine. I pulled it from the shelf and the leather was warm — not room-warm, not body-warm, warm in a way objects are not supposed to be — and I felt the back of my neck prickle with a knowledge that wasn't mine and a knowledge that was.

He saw what I was holding.

The lazy fell off his face.

"Put that down." Not soft anymore. The baritone gone hard, gone fast — but his body was still leaking afterglow, still loose-limbed on my bed, still betraying him with the slow involuntary thickening at his groin because his own forearm had brushed his own thigh as he tried to push himself upright. "Bardia. Put it down."

He called me my actual name.

He'd known my name this whole time.

I opened the book.

[betweenthelinesfiction]

The Best Part

You know what the best thing about waking up in the body of a juiced-up alpha stud is?

It's not waking up to the sound of the bed groaning under your new, unfamiliar weight, your heavy feet thudding as they hit the ground for the first time.

It's not seeing a stranger in the mirror with a jaw-dropping physique that could only be built from years of pumping iron, god-tier genetics, and a cocktail of hormones that would make even Arnie’s jaw drop.

It's not realising you take up way more space now, turning sideways through doors because the world wasn’t made for shoulders this broad and lats this wide.

It's not the feeling of your sleeves strangling your biceps just right, realising you make anything look good, even if it’s a shame to cover a single inch of this living masterpiece.

It's not stepping outside and feeling eyes lock on you instantly, girls flushing, imagining those huge arms pinning them against a wall as you have your way with them, guys thinking dark, envious thoughts of what they’d do to get a body like yours.

It's not hitting the gym for the first time and pushing weight that would have crushed you yesterday, your first pump hitting so hard that you can see every blood-gorged vein and striated tear beneath your skin.

It's not the potent animalistic scent that pours off you now, the pure alpha musk laced thick with hormones and testosterone flowing from your pores, warning others of your rightful place at the top of the food chain.

No, it’s none of that, no matter how intoxicating it all is.

It’s waking up with a fat, veiny cock between your thighs, the type that slaps heavy against your thigh with every step.

It’s busting a load bigger than you usually would in a month, rope after thick rope arcing out, endlessly pooling deep in the grooves of your shredded abs, matting the dark hair on your chest.

It’s dragging a finger through the mess, bringing it to your lips, and tasting pure alpha seed while you savour the comedown, your body covered in sweat, your muscles twitching from the biggest organism of your life.

Above all, it’s knowing that this is just the fucking start.

If you like my stories and want to support my writing, please consider shouting me a coffee over on ko-fi.

[betweenthelinesfiction]

Short Story: Tourist Trap

I knew I had to be aware of scams while I was visiting South-East Asia. But when a fellow Aussie approached me, I trusted him immediately. You just feel a special bond when you meet someone from back home while traveling in a foreign country.

He told me he had seen me on Instagram, and that he had a great photo op for me. Being recognised was all in a day's work for famous bodybuilders like myself. He explained that he had been staying in this city for a few weeks, and he had found an orphanage that needed book donations. I had heard of a scam that sounded familiar to this, but I trusted my fellow countryman. Plus I could do with a few shots for the gram that painted me as a giant with a heart of gold, rather than just another influencer taking advantage of the cheap booze and tropical weather.

The scooter groaned under my 125kg of prime bodybuilder beef, as we sped through the crowded streets, dodging between cars and alleyways. I should have realised it was strange for him to know these streets so well, but I foolishly thought nothing of it at the time.

Eventually we arrived at a rundown-looking building on the edge of the city. I followed my guide inside, noticing that there didn’t appear to be any kids in sight, just skinny local guys milling around the place. We made our way to a courtyard with a small dark pond in the center of the building. I asked my guide where the kids were and he just smiled at me.

One of the skinny local guys appeared with a mischievous grin on his face. He looked like he was in his late teens, his exposed torso thin and hairless like the rest of his body. He seemed to be undressing me with his eyes as he took in my huge hulking form. He said something excitedly in his native language and dropping his pants. What the fuck! This guy’s tiny prick was rock hard! Still smiling, the man winked at me before he dived headfirst into the murky pond between us.

I felt someone shove me from behind, causing me to crash into the pool face first. My powerful limbs tried to fight the water, but a strange current seemed to be pulling me deeper and deeper into the pool’s dark depths. Through the darkness, I could make out the local guy from before, smiling maniacally as my vision turned back.

I woke to the sound of voices yelling in the distance. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I could tell they were Aussie accents and I needed to get out of this hellhole. I ran out of the small room I had awoken in and made my way towards the voices.

Everything seemed strangely larger as I sprinted down the hallway towards the entrance. A few of the locals tried to stop me but I somehow evaded their grasp. I burst out onto the street to see my two men starting up a couple of scooters. One was the man who brought me here, but the other was my exact doppelganger!

The man laughed as he said something in a language that I couldn’t understand before flexing one of his massive biceps. As he continued talking, he ran both his huge calloused hands down his ripped torso before palming the obscene bulge at the front of his pink gym shorts. After playing with himself for a few moments, he looked back at me, his face plastered with a mischievous grin as he gave me a wink.

Suddenly a bunch of locals grabbed me from behind and dragged me back towards the building. I thrashed about, trying to break their grip before realising in horror that my body was now small and slender with a tanned skin colour that matched theirs. I watched in terror as my body sped off into the distance.

I should have been more careful.

If you like my stories and want to support my writing, please consider shouting me a coffee over on ko-fi.

[futuradiego]

The bass hits your chest wrong. Too deep, too resonant, vibrating through ribs that feel like they're made of bird bones instead of the steel girders you used to pack around. The nightclub entrance yawns wide and neon-lit ahead of you, and you can see them—your mates, your crew—standing in a loose cluster near the bouncer, laughing about something, beers in hand.

Jake's there. Big dumb beautiful Jake with his sandy hair and his shoulders that could block a doorway. He's wearing that white linen shirt you always gave him shit about, unbuttoned to show the kind of chest that used to make girls at comps do double-takes. And next to him—holy shit, that's you.

Your body. Your 125 kilos of prime beefcake, stuffed into those pink gym shorts that always drove the thirst comments wild. Reed—because that's what you have to call the thing wearing your skin now, Reed—is already moving through your friend group like he owns the place. Which, technically, he does. He's got your face, your voice, your Instagram-verified checkmark, and apparently zero qualms about using all three.

You try to shout. What comes out is a burst of rapid-fire syllables in a language you don't recognize, high and panicked and utterly ignorable. One of the bouncers glances at you, dismisses you immediately. You're just another local kid, probably trying to bum a cigarette.

You push forward anyway, ducking under the velvet rope with a agility that surprises you—this body is fast, light on its feet in a way yours never was, all twitch-muscle and no bulk. You weave through the crowd, keeping your eyes locked on that massive familiar frame across the room.

Reed's already got his arm around Jake's shoulders. That's your arm, with the watch you got in Bali, draped over your best mate like you've been doing it for years instead of never. You can't hear what he's saying over the music, but you can see Jake's face—confused, maybe, but smiling. Buzzed enough to roll with whatever weird energy is radiating off his "mate."

You get closer. Close enough to catch fragments between bass drops.

"—telling you bro, this place is dead, we should head back to that spot I found, the one with the—"

Jake laughs, shakes his head. "Reed, mate, you're cooked. We just got here."

"Just for a bit, yeah? Trust me, it's worth the trip." Your body—Reed—leans in closer, and you watch in mounting horror as one of those massive hands slides from Jake's shoulder down his chest. Not a friendly pat. A grope. Fingers splaying wide under the linen shirt, finding the contours underneath.

Jake's laugh gets higher. Nervous. "Oi, what are you—"

"You smell unreal, bro." Reed's voice—your voice—drops into something low and intimate. "Like, actually fucking incredible. What is that, sandalwood?"

"Dude." Jake's trying to pull back, but Reed's got him pinned against the bar with casual, 125-kilo authority. "The fuck are you on about?"

But Reed isn't stopping. The other hand—the one not currently mapping Jake's pectoral terrain through cheap rayon—drifts south. You can see the exact moment it reaches the waistband of Jake's jeans because Jake's whole body goes rigid, eyes going wide, mouth opening to protest.

"Reed—seriously, what the—"

"Shh, shh, shh." Your stolen face grins, and it's your grin, the one that always worked on girls at comps, but now it's aimed at Jake with an intensity that makes your stomach drop into your borrowed feet. "Just checking something."

The hand disappears below the waistline. Jake makes a sound—a choked, aborted noise that's half-laugh, half-gasp. His beer tilts, foam spilling over his knuckles.

"Fucking—stop—"

"Bro, relax." Reed's other hand is still working Jake's chest, thumb finding a nipple through the fabric, circling it with proprietary familiarity. "You're so tense. When's the last time someone just... appreciated you?"

Jake's mates—your mates—are watching now. Staring. Tommy's got his phone half-raised like he's not sure if he's recording or shielding his eyes. Davo's mouth is hanging open, beer forgotten.

"Reed, mate, you're taking the piss, right?" Tommy tries, weakly. "This is some kind of prank?"

But Reed ignores him, face inches from Jake's, breath ghosting across his skin. "You know what I've always thought?" Your voice, your fucking voice, murmurs against Jake's jaw. "Girls are so lucky. Like, genuinely blessed. They get to do this—" A visible squeeze below the waistline makes Jake's hips jerk involuntarily. "—whenever they want. Just drop to their knees and taste something this good."

Jake's face is doing something complicated—flushed, eyes half-lidded, mouth working around words that won't come. His hand comes up to push Reed away, but it lands on that massive chest and just... stays there. Fingers curling into the tank top fabric.

"No homo," Jake manages, voice strangled. "But you need to fucking—"

"Your cock's unreal, bro." Reed says it like he's complimenting a car. Clinical appreciation wrapped in filth. "Like, girls are lucky. And these—" The hand that was on Jake's chest slides up to his neck, thumb tracing his collarbone. "—these lips. Bet you taste like heaven."

He leans in. Jake doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. Just stands there, paralyzed by shock and alcohol and whatever the fuck is happening to his nervous system.

From across the room, you watch your own face kiss your best friend. Not a peck. A real kiss—deep, wet, claiming. Jake makes a muffled sound against your mouth, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides like he's forgotten how arms work.

Tommy actually drops his beer. Glass shatters. Nobody looks.

When Reed pulls back, there's a string of spit connecting their lips. He wipes it with his thumb, grinning. "See? Told you. Heaven."

Jake's swaying. His eyes are glassy. "I... what..."

"Come on." Reed grabs his hand—Jake's fingers are limp, unresisting—and starts pulling him toward the exit. "All of you. I've got something way better than this shithole."

Tommy and Davo exchange a look. The universal male expression of what the actual fuck is happening. But they're moving, following, because that's Reed—famous, jacked, verified Reed—and he's always known how to work a crowd.

You try to scream. What comes out is a string of syllables that sound like prayer or profanity in a language you'll never understand. Tommy glances at you, annoyed.

"Oi, piss off, mate. We don't want any."

He thinks you're a waiter.

You watch your body lead your friends toward the door. Toward the scooter. Toward that rundown building with the dark pond and the skinny locals with their knowing smiles. And there's nothing—nothing—you can do about it.

Your borrowed legs carry you forward anyway. Because what else is there?

The night air hits different through this skin. Humid, heavy, thick with exhaust and street food and the distant salt of the harbor. You follow at a distance, bare feet slapping wet pavement, watching four silhouettes climb onto two scooters that groan under the weight of Australian excess.

Reed—wearing you like a suit—looks back once. Finds your eyes in the crowd. Winks.

The same wink the skinny local gave you before he dove into the pond.

The scooters disappear into traffic. You're left standing in the neon wash of a foreign city, heart hammering in a chest that doesn't belong to you, throat raw from screaming words nobody can understand.

Somewhere across town, your mates are riding toward a trap.

And you're just a waiter.

[pdguystoryboard]

How did I get a Cop's uniform

[pdguystoryboard]

Stealing the body of a superstar

[garrasdelalma]

[futuradiego]

DEE'S SHOES

Kevin had googled wrestling for beginners near me at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, which was the kind of decision that made more sense before the melatonin kicked in.

He was thirty-one. He wrote backend infrastructure for a fintech startup in SoMa. He had not, in recent memory, been on the floor.

The gym was called Apex. The wall said DISCIPLINE. INTENSITY. INTEGRITY. Kevin appreciated the values alignment. He had values. He had intensity, when the sprint required it. He was, his last review had noted, technically excellent, which was the kind of compliment that meant exactly what it said and nothing more.

The trainer's name was Dee. Short for Devon or something. He was, Kevin noted with the detached observational quality of someone who processes most experiences as data, built like someone had asked a computer to optimize for something specific and the computer had not asked any follow-up questions. He had a mustache that belonged to a different decade and wore it like he'd invented the decade personally. It was very well maintained. Kevin noticed this with no particular follow-up thought and filed it under: observed.

"You're tight," Dee said, pressing two fingers into Kevin's shoulder blade with the diagnostic confidence of someone who had seen this before, had seen exactly this, had perhaps been waiting for exactly this to walk through his door.

"I work at a computer," Kevin said.

"I know," said Dee. "I can tell."

The first session was technique. Stance. Weight distribution. How to fall without injury, which Dee demonstrated by dropping Kevin gently to the mat three times in a row, and each time Kevin hit the floor Dee said good in a tone Kevin could not fully categorize. Not praise exactly. More like: confirmation.

The second session, Dee pointed to a laminated poster on the wall beside the water fountain.

Six panels. Studio-lit. Two wrestlers, one clearly winning, one clearly not, and a sequence of steps that Kevin read with the focused attention he brought to API documentation.

"The Full-Body Exit," Kevin read.

"The victory sequence," Dee said. "This is what you're working toward. This is the whole point."

Kevin studied it. Setup. Shoe drag. Full-body crawl. The face pause. Fake apology. Slap punctuation, twice. He nodded in the way he nodded at sprint planning when he understood the ticket.

"Got it," he said.

"No," said Dee pleasantly. "You don't. But you will."

He gestured at the mat.

ROUND ONE

Kevin lost the match in forty seconds. This was not surprising. What was surprising was how comfortable the mat was, which he registered distantly as Dee's knee found his spine and the match ended and Dee said okay and did not, as Kevin had expected, stand up.

He didn't stand. He settled.

He stayed low — chest and shoulders still pumped from the match, arms planted, singlet stretching across his back — and looked down at Kevin the way a man looks at something that isn't going anywhere. Kevin looked back up at him. He was aware that this was a performance and that he had not been given his stage directions yet, and this produced in him a quality of stillness that was less composure than suspension — a held breath, a process waiting on input.

Then Dee lifted one knee. Kept the opposite hand planted on the mat. And dragged the sole of his wrestling shoe — the full flat bottom of it, rubber still warm from the match — slowly across Kevin's chest.

Kevin went very still.

The tread caught on the singlet fabric and pulled it sideways, the friction patient and theatrical, Dee's leg tracking across Kevin's ribs with the deliberateness of someone making a navigational point. This is terrain. You are terrain.The shoe arrived at Kevin's shoulder and stopped. Dee let the weight of it rest there for exactly one beat — long enough to be a statement — and then set it down on the mat beside him.

Then the other one. Same slow arc. Heel dragging from Kevin's sternum to collarbone, the rubber sole warm, the pressure unhurried.

Kevin's field of vision cycled through: shoe tread, ceiling, Dee's shin, ceiling. He did not move. He was aware of not moving and aware that the not-moving was a choice and he was not examining the choice.

"Step two," Dee said.

Then he dropped to his elbows.

The army crawl that followed was not fast. It was not efficient. It was the movement of a man who had decided that the space between the starting point and the destination was the entire point, and he was going to take every inch of it seriously.

Kevin felt him arrive at his shins, his knees, the long stretch of his thighs — distributed weight, the heat of Dee's body, slick with sweat, conducting through the mat contact, the way each point of Dee's torso announced itself against his legs and lingered. All of this Kevin registered with the distant observational quality of someone taking notes in a foreign language.

Then Dee's face lowered.

His chin came down to Kevin's abdomen and Kevin felt the scratch of the mustache through the singlet — brief, coarse, very specific — as Dee's face pressed momentarily into his midsection. Not part of the poster. Absolutely not in any of the six laminated panels on the wall. Dee's nose pressed into the fabric over Kevin's ribs, and Kevin felt him breathe in — a slow, deliberate inhale — and then his lips parted and the warmth of his open mouth ghosted across Kevin's sternum through the lycra.

The audience couldn't see this. The broccoli haired novice at the curl rack was watching a man crawl over another man, which was odd enough to observe. He could not see Dee's face, the angle of the crawl hiding it completely — could not see the mustache dragging across Kevin's ribs or Dee's lips pressing briefly, deliberately into the fabric over his solar plexus. Tasting the salt there. Mapping Kevin's torso with his nose and mouth while his body performed something entirely different for the room.

Kevin stared at the ceiling.

He counted the ducts. There were seven. He got to four and lost count.

Dee's mouth pressed to his sternum once more — lower, finding the soft center of him, the fabric gone damp and thin there — and then he was moving again, continuing up, and Kevin felt the scratch of the mustache track along his side as Dee crawled the last distance to Kevin's shoulders. The intimacy of it had no framework Kevin could apply to it. He tried anyway and gave up. He would try again later, on the BART, in his apartment at 2 AM, and he would give up there too.

Dee arrived at his shoulders and pivoted, slow and deliberate, his body redistributing — and then his groin pressed into Kevin's lower face, and the crawl was over.

The singlet was warm from the match. Beneath that warmth, settling against Kevin's lips with the patience of something that had made a decision, was a shape that admitted no ambiguity: Dee was hard. Fully, unmistakably hard, the shaft thick against the thin lycra, running at a slight angle, the head straining the fabric taut. Below that — resting against Kevin's chin with the softer, settled weight of them — his balls carried a distinct coolness, a few degrees below the heat of everything else, the particular temperature of skin rarely exposed to open air. Kevin catalogued this with the fluorescent precision of data arriving in the wrong field entirely.

Kevin's mouth was partially open. He had not decided to open it. The fabric pushed against his tongue — salt, musk, the specific warmth of arousal baked into lycra — and Kevin tasted the match through it and did not pull away.

Kevin himself was soft. Neutral. His cock lying undisturbed along his thigh, untouched, uninformed, operating on a significant delay from the rest of his body, which was busy confirming new facts about the world.

The dude at the curl rack had stopped curling.

Dee shifted his hips once — a micro-adjustment, the kind a man makes when he's getting comfortable — and the movement dragged the damp singlet deeper against Kevin's parted lips. And then, with the unhurried competence of a man moving to the next panel of a laminated poster, Dee lowered his groin to Kevin's face.

Kevin felt the heat of it before the contact — breath through lycra — then lips closing over the shape of him through the fabric, and then the particular suction of someone drawing salt out of singlet with the same diagnostic patience he'd applied to Kevin's shoulder blade. Dee's mouth worked slowly, thoroughly, lips pressing damp fabric flat against his own tongue. And Kevin felt himself respond. Not all at once. In stages. A thickening first, the shaft filling against the soft pressure of Dee's attention, fabric tightening. A pulse. Another. Dee's tongue found the ridge of the head through the singlet and pressed, and Kevin's cock surged against the lycra and Dee received it — adjusted his mouth around the new shape of him, the growing weight, with the ease of a man who had been waiting for exactly this and was not in the least surprised.

Kevin was fully hard now. Straining the singlet into a wet second skin, the fabric translucent with sweat, and Dee's mouth was on it, cataloguing him through the lycra, and above Kevin's face Dee's cock pressed into his jaw with the confidence of a settled fact.

Unh. Low. Involuntary. Kevin's own voice, unrecognized.

After what may have been ninety seconds or may have been a geological epoch, Dee turned back.

"My bad, bro," he said. One hand raised. Palm out. Expression arranged into something that was almost apologetic, that looked at sorry from a distance and decided not to make the trip.

Kevin, flat on the mat, looked up at him. His own cock was visibly pressing the singlet. The wet patch where Dee's mouth had been was cooling in the gym air and Kevin could feel every thread of it.

"They know it's fake," Kevin said carefully, because he had read the poster. "That's the point."

"That's the point," Dee confirmed. He reached down and slapped Kevin's cheek twice, lightly, almost gently. Pat. Pat. The way you'd check on someone you'd broken slightly and wanted to confirm was still operational.

He stood.

"What did you feel?" he said.

Kevin thought about this with more seriousness than the question seemed to require. His cock was still hard. He did not adjust it.

"I don't know," he said.

"Yeah you do bro," Dee said. "You just don't have the word yet."

THE INTERMISSION

They sat on the bench by the water fountain and Dee handed Kevin a towel and Kevin pressed it to his face for longer than was strictly necessary. He did not put the towel in his lap. He was aware of this choice and did not examine it.

"You were passive," Dee said. It was not an accusation. It was a diagnosis.

"I was pinned," Kevin said.

"Pinned is a position. Passive is a choice." Dee looked at the poster. "The loser has a job too. The loser is performing. That's what makes the winner look good. That's what makes the whole thing work."

Kevin followed his gaze to panel four. The face pause. The hand on the thigh, pushing at something that would not move. The jaw. The eyes.

"He's not actually trying to get out," Kevin said slowly.

"He's doing something better than trying," Dee said. "He's telling the story of trying."

Kevin looked at the poster for a long time.

"I didn't give you anything," he said.

"No," said Dee. "You were load-bearing. There's a difference." He stood. "Okay. Again. But this time—" he lay back down on the mat, crossed his arms behind his head like a man settling in for a nap, and looked up at Kevin with the particular composure of someone who had just handed over the controls. "You pin me. I'll show you what the match loser looks like when it's done right. And then—" something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something more deliberate. "You'll get the hang of it."

Kevin looked at him on the mat. Dee's singlet was still visibly tented, his erection plainly outlined, and he made no move to address this. He lay there like a man who considered the current state of things to be weather — present, observable, not requiring comment.

Kevin looked at his shoes.

"Okay," said Kevin.

ROUND TWO

Kevin pinned him badly. An apologetic pin, a pin that kept saying sorry about this with every point of contact. But Dee let it happen and Kevin ended up on top and Dee's shoulders were against the mat and technically, objectively, this was a win.

And then Dee code-switched in a blink of an eye, swiftly, gracefully. Kevin missed it and only noticed it afterwards.

The composure was still there. But on top of it — in his jaw, in his hands, in the set of his shoulders — something theatrical turned on. His hands found Kevin's forearms and pushed. Not enough to move him. Not trying to move him. Just enough to say: I was here. I was someone. You should know what you're holding down.

His heels found the mat. His hips shifted. His chin lifted with an expression that contained, in roughly equal measure, defiance and the absolute knowledge that the defiance was not going to work.

The curly-haired novice at the curl rack put down his weights.

"See?" Dee murmured, still pushing at Kevin's arms, still in it. "They're watching."

Kevin looked. The guy was watching. Kevin looked back down at Dee.

Something tightened in Kevin's chest. He didn't know what it was. He filed it under processing and lifted his knee.

Step two. Following the placard.

Kevin planted one hand, lifted the other leg, and dragged his shoe — the full sole of it, his own rubber tread — slow across Dee's chest. He got halfway across and Dee's face did something Kevin was not prepared for: a flicker of something that lived between outrage and humiliation, performed and alive, communicating directly to whatever had tightened in Kevin's sternum. Dee's chin pulled back. His eyes (wide and whites visible) said how dare you and below that, invisible to the crowd, his smile said: don't you dare stop.

Kevin did it again. Slower. He was surprised to find he wanted to. The wanting arrived before he'd approved it.

Dee's jaw tightened. His eyes went to the ceiling. He gave Kevin every millimeter.

Step three.

Kevin dropped to his elbows.

He understood the crawl differently now, from the inside of it — how present it demanded him to be, how committed, how speed would shatter the whole thing because the point was not arrival, the point was every inch of the getting there. He went low and heavy and slow, the way he remembered from Dee. Beneath him, Dee's hands came up and found his shoulders and pushed — not hard, not really trying, just enough to say I am here and I am telling you I am here and it is not enough and I am telling you that too.

Kevin felt it in his sternum. He kept going.

He let his face drop as he crawled, the way Dee had — cheek pressing briefly into Dee's ribs, his jaw dragging across the singlet over Dee's abs, the scrape of Kevin's stubble against damp lycra making a sound that was quiet and real and entirely not for the room. He felt Dee go still beneath him at the contact, a fraction of a second of held breath, and Kevin pressed his face more deliberately into Dee's torso — lips parting against the fabric, tasting salt and heat and the specific musk of a man who knew exactly what was happening here. He breathed in. He moved on.

He arrived at Dee's shoulders and pivoted and settled, and his groin came down across Dee's face.

Kevin was already half-hard from the crawl — the friction, the heat of Dee's body, the memory of round one arriving before the repetition of it. His cock lay thick and present against the lycra, waking up, and when it made contact with Dee's jaw he felt the shape of himself register there, felt the warmth of Dee's breath through damp fabric.

Step four. Pause. Let them feel it.

He stopped.

Below him, Dee's jaw worked once. His chin lifted, making room, accommodating Kevin's weight with the ease of a man who had taken this position before and knew exactly how to receive it. And then his mouth opened.

Kevin felt it as warmth first — breath, then lips, then the flat press of Dee's tongue against him through the singlet, drawing slow, salt pulling through the lycra into Dee's mouth. The sound it made was small and wet and intimate: mmhh — and Dee's lips sealed around the shape of Kevin's cock and drew him in, the lycra clinging to every ridge of him, outlining him completely, and Kevin felt himself swell against that mouth in real time.

He surged to full fast. Embarrassingly fast. The half-hardness became something urgent and insistent against Dee's lips, the singlet stretching taut and translucent over the head of his cock, and Dee's tongue traced the ridge of it through the fabric — thorough, methodical, the same attention he'd given Kevin's shoulder blade on that very first day — and Kevin's hips rolled forward once, involuntary, a single sharp push that pressed himself deeper against Dee's open mouth.

Unh — caught in his throat, raw, not a word.

Kevin's palms found the mat on either side of Dee's head and he locked his thighs — bracing himself up, keeping his weight off, the same polite suspension he brought to everything. Holding back. Giving Dee room he hadn't asked for.

And then Dee's hands came up.

Not to Kevin's thighs. Lower — gripping his hips, thumbs hooking the waistband of the singlet, and pushing. Forward and down, slow, deliberate, a correction delivered entirely without words. Kevin felt the instruction travel up through his pelvis before his brain had fully parsed it — more, closer, give me the weight of you — and his arms bent, his hips rolled, and his cock pressed flush against Dee's open mouth through the soaked lycra.

Oh.

Dee's hands stayed on his hips. Not gripping hard. Just — there. Keeping him in place. Keeping him honest. His mouth opened wider and drew Kevin in and Kevin's arms trembled and he pressed forward again, this time without prompting, figuring out the grammar of it from the inside.

Unh — raw, low, dragged out of him.

Below Kevin's cock, his balls rested against Dee's chin — cooler than the rest of him, the specific, distinct temperature of them settling against the heat of Dee's jaw. Dee turned his face a fraction and the coarse bristle of his mustache dragged across the singlet fabric there, and Kevin made a sound he would not have recognized on a recording.

He held it. Held the position, the weight, the push, the wet heat of Dee's mouth working against him through the lycra. The teenager on the bench had become furniture. The ventilation cycled. Kevin was nowhere except here, above Dee, hips braced, cock straining the singlet against another man's open mouth, and his body was not processing this as data. His body had arrived at a conclusion and was living there.

He held it until it had said everything it needed to say.

Then he turned back.

"My bad, bro," Kevin said. He raised one palm. He arranged his face into something that was not quite sorry — something that looked at sorry from across a wide room and acknowledged its presence without crossing to meet it.

Dee, on the mat, looked up at him.

He was smiling. Not the almost-smile, not the professional calibration. A real one. His lips were wet. The mustache was slightly disheveled.

Kevin reached down and slapped his cheek twice, lightly. Pat. Pat.

He stood.

THE CORRECTION

They sat on the bench by the water fountain. Dee handed Kevin a towel and Kevin pressed it to his face. His cock was still full in his singlet, the damp patch going cool in the gym air. He did not cover it. He was aware of this choice and he was aware of Dee being aware of it and neither of them mentioned it.

"Good," Dee said. "You felt the room."

"Yeah," Kevin said, into the towel.

"One correction."

Kevin lowered the towel.

"My hands," Dee said, holding them up. He shook his head, the mustache tilting with something like fond self-critique. "That push I gave you on your hips? Backwards. That's the loser doing the winner's job." He leaned back against the wall. "The winner pushes in. That's the whole point — the loser doesn't manage anything. The loser just—" the word was chosen with surgical care, "—receives. That's what they came for. That's the treat."

Kevin sat with this.

"So when I won just now I should have—"

"Pushed into my face," Dee said, pleasantly, like this was a note about stance. "Yeah. The loser's hands go flat on the mat. The loser's job is to be there. Everything else — the angle, the pressure, the depth—" he tapped his own thigh twice, "—that belongs to the winner." He glanced at the poster on the wall and something crossed his face that was close to genuine delight. "I should update the placard."

Kevin looked at the poster. Panel four. He had the geometry of it entirely differently now. He had every panel differently now.

Dee reached over and squeezed his shoulder once — firm, warm — and then his hand tracked down the center of Kevin's chest with the same unhurried deliberateness he brought to everything, and pressed his palm flat against Kevin's cock through the singlet. Still half-hard. Thumb shifting once against the ridge of the head, knowing, unhurried. He left it there.

"Your control's good," Dee said. Conversational. A coaching note. "A lot of guys — first time under pressure like that, they're done in thirty seconds. You stayed present." His thumb moved again, a slow drag along the shaft through the damp lycra, assessing. "That's actually rare."

Kevin said nothing. His cock gave a single, involuntary pulse against Dee's palm.

Dee felt it and smiled — not the almost-smile, the real one, the one Kevin had earned off the mat.

"Also," he said, pulling his hand back, "you taste really good, man. Like — that's a treat for both of us. I want you to know that." He said it the way he'd said your shoulder's tight — diagnostic, factual, unbothered. "I've been doing this long enough that I don't usually have to think about it anymore. Edge management, whatever. Years of practice." A beat. "You had me thinking about it."

He picked up the iPad and held it out.

"Monthly plan," he said, holding it out without looking at Kevin. "Unlimited sessions. And I do a sauna room and massage special for regulars — first Sunday of every month." He looked up. Winked, the mustache involved, the decade it belonged to fully present. "Helps with recovery. Sorta a group thing now, so you get to meet the other guys."

Kevin took the iPad.

He was already typing in his card number.

On the BART home he texted his friend Raymond: wrestling is actually really technical

Raymond replied: lol ok

Kevin looked out the window at the dark flat bay going past at speed and thought about a mouth through fabric and the weight of his own hips braced and the quiet scrape of a well-maintained mustache against his singlet and the word receives and what it meant that he'd had to get on a mat with a man named Dee to learn something his body had apparently known for years and had simply been waiting to be asked.

He would be back Thursday.

He was bringing proper wrestling shoes.

[many-of-max]

Made by @futuradiego

[futuradiego]

[Chorus] God this body God this frame Chapter president, varsity, god what a name The pecs, the lats, the arms, that jaw This rower's build without a single flaw God this body God this frame And I am never giving this back again

[Bridge] Called the meeting, signed the minutes Every room on Greek row, I'm in it Keys to the house, keys to the truck Legacy boy with the golden luck But midnight it's just me and the mirror alone Working every inch of everything I own

The musk coming off the skin in waves The deep chest voice doing things to my brain The manpussy tight around my own fingers uuunnhh — mine The way the pleasure in this body lingers mmmmff — mine I breathe in both armpits and I close my eyes I don't think I'll ever want to leave this life I don't think I'll ever leave

[many-of-max]

Made by @futuradiego

[futuradiego]

Kyle’s bulge came out great in this one

[many-of-max]

Made by @futuradiego

[exxxibthed]

be a good boy and come take care of daddy