Jace's World of Desires

[a73100-deactivated20240409]

[hauntedpolicedream]

Dylan and I had been talking, just basically shooting the shit to kill some time. We got into the topic of hot men, especially those in leather. We both appreciated the male form and all its assets. Great when you are in your twenties and can take advantage of the stamina and all that comes with youth. Not so much when you reach your sixties and can barely function anymore.... or at least I couldn't.

I knew Dylan was different. That had been obvious from a young age as we grew up together, however I never knew just how different he actually was. No, I am not referring to the fact that he is gay. We both are and we both are quite okay with that. We even came out together. I loved him as a brother and he reciprocated. What I didn't know was what he was capable of doing.

Much to my utter astonishment, as we sat there talking about different men his body would transform, becoming the epitome of whatever type we happened to be discussing. He became a sexy twink, an older dom, even an amply endowed porn star among others. I think my dumbfound expression amused him. Then he became this guy, my late-night fantasy come true.....

I couldn't stand it any longer. After the parade of men I had seen, this one threw me over the cliff. Dylan was my friend and I now was having thoughts of, well, you know, and that just conflicted me. Regardless of what he looked like, this was still Dylan. Besides I was now much older than him. He must have sensed my feelings.

"Would this be better, bro?" And somehow the next thing I knew I was covered in leather holding a phone in my hand that showed me the face, and apparently body, that Dylan had just been wearing.

Oh my god! How can I describe what I was feeling? Not only were all my aches and pains gone, I was visibly shaking from the sudden rush of hormones flooding my entire being. The tight leather and the smell this body emanated left me speechless. While I sat there trying to come to grips with this new "me", Dylan morphed into the most gorgeous model worthy body imaginable.

"Why so unhappy, bro? I thought you would be happy."

I should be happy. After all Dylan had given me everything I had ever wanted: sexy as fuck, able to pull off the all-leather look (even the exceedingly tight pants) with no problem, and to top it all off, a joy stick that was both quite enviable and oh so sensitive. Only one thing kept me from enjoying all this. Would he....? Then he spoke as though reading my thoughts:

"Can we please have some fun now, bro?"

What was I going to tell him? No?

[hairy-bothered]

Match Fit

By three in the afternoon, downtown Atlanta had turned into a moving cornucopia of flags. Mexico green in the crosswalks. Portugal red under the MARTA signs. Croatia checker boards rippling beside Switzerland scarlet. All swirling around the ubiquitous red white and blue of America.

Every bar patio had spilled onto the sidewalk, every giant screen showed pregame coverage, and every third person seemed to be arguing about lineups - like they knew anything about soccer or they were assistant managers with headsets in another life.

Ben, Tom, Jose, and David were already late to the FIFA Fan Fest. Not dangerously late. Not kickoff late. But late enough that the good standing spots near the big screen in the shade would be gone, late enough that the food trucks would have lines, late enough that four men who had once played together every Sunday morning for 15 years were already blaming each other like it was stoppage time.

“You said there’d be jerseys at the venue,” Tom said.

“I said there might be jerseys,” Jose answered.

David walked carefully, one hand near his lower back, his Portugal scarf hanging around his neck in the oppressive Atlanta summer. “You all had six months to buy these online.”

Ben looked down at his plain charcoal T-shirt stretched by his middle-aged dad-bod belly and frowned. “I wanted to try one on. I don’t trust sizing anymore.”

None of them laughed too hard at that. They were all old enough to understand.

Twenty years earlier, they had been the guys who stayed on the field for one more game, even when the sky went dark and the ball became a blur. Ben had been the wall at the back. Tom had been tidy and clever, never the fastest but always two passes ahead. Jose had played like the ball owed him obedience. David had been broad, mustached, impossible to move, and impossible to shut up.

Now Ben was bald and heavy through the middle. Tom’s blond hair had started retreating at both temples. Jose still looked the youngest, though he had begun noticing softness under his jaw in photos. David, the oldest at fifty, carried his old back injury like an extra piece of unwanted equipment.

But the World Cup had pulled something out of them. It always did. It gave them an excuse to hang out and to enjoy each other's company. An excuse to forget about their mortgages, their jobs, their expanding mid-sections and their nagging kids - if even for just a few weeks every four years. They needed jerseys. Not generic jerseys - their favorite players' jerseys. Ben wanted Croatia, Gvardiol across the back. Tom wanted Switzerland, Cömert. Jose wanted Mexico, Jiménez. David wanted Portugal, Neto.

The official booths lining Peacthree Street on the way to Fan Fest had nothing in their sizes. One vendor had kids’ shirts. Another had knockoffs with the names spelled wrong. A third tried to sell David a Ronaldo jersey and seemed personally offended when David said, “No, Neto.”

That was when Tom spotted the sign. Not a normal store sign. More like a temporary event placard tucked under a black awning between two downtown buildings:

MATCH FIT — PLAYER SHIRTS CUSTOMIZED ON YOU WHILE YOU WAIT

Below it, in smaller print:

TRY BEFORE YOU LEAVE. NO RETURNS AFTER KICKOFF.

“Customized on you while you wait,” Tom said. “That’s all we need.”

The place looked temporary, like it had been assembled that morning and might vanish by midnight. Inside were racks of national jerseys arranged by country, a counter with a heat press, and a hallway of six small fitting rooms made of black curtains and white partition walls.

No one stood at the counter. Instead, a tablet lit up when they approached.

SELECT PLAYER. SELECT FIT. ENTER BOOTH.

Jose grinned. “Atlanta has everything now - it is the Capital of the South, after all.” The rest of the men just rolled their eyes and grimaced at the Chamber of Commerce speech from Jose.

Ben tapped Croatia. Tom tapped Switzerland. Jose tapped Mexico. David tapped Portugal.

The tablet printed four receipts, each one with a booth number and a name already filled in.

BEN — GVARDIOL

TOM — CÖMERT

JOSE — JIMÉNEZ

DAVID — NETO

The tablet lit up again.

DON'T FORGET TO GRAB YOUR TEAM'S JERSEY FROM THE BIN - NAME CUSTOMIZATION WILL OCCUR AFTER YOU TRANSFORM.

“Creepy,” Tom said. "How did it know which players we wanted? And what does it mean by transform?"

“Who knows. At least it's efficient. It's probably some nerdy sports RP crap to build an experience.” Jose said. "We're running late, guys! Just grab your jersey and let's go!"

David took the Portugal shirt from the rack and held it against his stomach. “As long as they don't charge airport prices...”

They split into separate changing rooms. Ben pulled his curtain shut first.

The Croatia jersey looked too bright in his hands, almost aggressive under the fitting-room light. The standard red and white checker-board pattern. Clean seams. A shirt made for someone who expected contact, not someone who got winded carrying groceries upstairs.

Ben looked at himself in the mirror. Bald head. Light scruff. Heavy belly. The kind of body people called “solid” when they were being kind.

He lifted the jersey. "There's no way this is going to fit..." he thought to himself. Then for one strange second, the fabric seemed to pull toward him. He paused a moment then he put it on.

The first thing that changed was the fit. The shirt had been tight over his stomach, then less tight, then suddenly it sat against him as if the body underneath were being adjusted to meet it. His belly drew inward slowly. Not vanishing at once, but tightening, compressing, reshaping. His shoulders lifted and widened. His neck looked stronger.

Ben grabbed the edge of the bench. A dark prickle spread across his scalp. “No way,” he whispered.

Hair pushed through skin that had been smooth for years. At first it was only shadow, then short dark growth, then thick curls forming unevenly, damp-looking and messy. His scruff darkened along his jaw, gathering into a fuller beard. His face, still barely his face, began to pull into a new structure. The roundness tightened. The jaw sharpened. His nose and brow shifted by small degrees, enough that every breath made him look less like Ben and more like the man printed on the mental image he had carried into the booth.

His arms hardened inside the sleeves. His chest lifted. His posture changed without permission. By the time the transformation settled, Ben stood taller, younger, powerful in a way that felt quiet and dangerous. He touched the beard, then the curls, then the Croatia crest. He had become the spitting image of Joško Gvardiol.

"Whoa..." was all the came out of Ben's mouth.

On the other side of the wall, Tom made a sound that was not quite a laugh. Tom had expected the Swiss jersey to make him look respectable. He did not expect it to make him feel measured. That was the sensation: as if the red shirt had taken inventory and found him lacking in very specific places.

His blond hair with its thinning edges remained blond at first. His average middle-aged body remained average. He exhaled in relief, almost disappointed. Then the shirt tightened at his shoulders.

His torso firmed beneath it. The small softness at his waist retreated. His chest broadened. His arms gained definition like a photograph coming into focus. Tom stared down as the jersey changed from something he was wearing into something that belonged on him.

His face followed more slowly. His cheeks hollowed slightly. His jaw grew cleaner. Blond hair darkened at the roots and filled in at the temples, strand by strand, losing its faded middle-aged color until it became thick and dark. Stubble gathered across his cheeks and chin, first rough, then fuller, shaping itself into a dark beard.

His heart began to race as his body continued to shift. “Calm down,” he said, but the words came out in a voice that was already less familiar with a Swiss-German accent.

His eyes looked more intense. His brow strengthened. His features kept some trace of Tom for another few seconds, enough that he could recognize himself being overwritten. That was worse than disappearing all at once - he was being absorbed, enveloped, rewritten by the jersey.

After a few more seconds, he looked unrecognizable: younger, fitter, sharper, the Swiss red jersey lying smooth over a body that had no memory of stiff mornings.

Then curiosity beat fear. Tom lifted the hem of the shirt. His stomach was flat, then defined, then cut with muscle he had not seen since...well never. He stared at his abs, mouth open. The surprise on his face was pure, almost innocent as he finished his transformation into Eray Cömert.

From the next booth, Jose said, “Tom? You alive over there? Does the jersey not fit?”

Tom did not look away from his stomach. “I’m reviewing new information. Please hold...”

Jose laughed, "What is that accent, bud?" but his laugh caught halfway through. The Mexico jersey had felt warm when he pulled it on, as if it had been sitting in sunlight. Green fabric slid over his shoulders, and for a moment he simply admired it. Jose had always liked the way Mexico green looked on him. It made him feel connected to something bigger than himself: family, noise, food, history, every summer cookout where someone had screamed "GOOOOOL" at a television.

The first change made him smile. His shoulders squared. His chest tightened. His stomach flattened. Not dramatically, not yet, but enough that he stood straighter.

Then his face began to shift. Jose leaned forward in disbelief of what he was looking at. He lifted his hands to his jaw. The stubble there thickened, neatened, and spread into a trimmed dark beard. His cheekbones sharpened beneath his fingertips. His mouth shifted. His nose, brow, and eyes moved by subtle degrees toward a face he knew from match highlights. Then he saw the infamous scar from a head injury and surgery sketch across his head.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay, that’s different.”

His hair styled itself shorter and cleaner, as if wind and sweat and stadium lights had shaped it. His average build became athletic, his arms filling the sleeves. He leaned forward even more, inspecting himself in the invisible idea of his reflection, trying to catch the exact second when Jose became someone else.

The strange thing was that he did not panic. Or not only panic. There was fear in it, yes — the impossible closeness of another man’s face forming over his own. But there was also a rush of recognition, like the shirt had found a version of him that he secretly wished for ever since he was a little boy playing pick-up at the neighbor's house down the street.

As the final changes washed over him, Jose stood in Mexico green with a body built for ninety minutes plus stoppage time and a face that now carried Raúl Jiménez’s sharp, calm confidence.

He tested a smirk. It fit too well. “Uh-oh,” he said softly, pleased despite himself.

David’s booth stayed quiet longest - if for no other reason because he had the most difficulty getting the jersey over his big round belly and sagging chest. He had sat down to put the Portugal jersey on because that was how he put on most things now: carefully, with respect for his lower back, with one hand braced and one foot angled just so.

He hated that the others knew this. He hated that they pretended not to. The jersey lay across his lap, red and green, lighter than it looked. David ran his thumb over the crest. His thick mustache twitched with a humorless smile.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s see if I can make this work...”

He pulled it over his head. At first, it hurt. Not pain exactly, but the memory of pain leaving. His back loosened so suddenly that he grabbed both sides of the bench. The tightness he had lived with for years unwound one muscle at a time. His spine straightened. His hips shifted. His shoulders rolled back.

David inhaled sharply. The belly under the Portugal jersey began to shrink. His chest lifted. His arms tightened. The heavy, careful way he carried himself broke apart and reassembled into balance.

Then came his new face. He touched it midway through the change, palm pressed to one cheek, fingers moving over crow’s feet that were softening under his skin. Laugh lines faded. His thick mustache thinned, shortened, and reshaped, darkening as it joined a trimmed beard along his jaw. Salt-and-pepper hair deepened toward black, thickening into tousled curls.

For the first time in years, he stood without calculating the movement first. The realization hit harder than the transformation. He was not bracing. Not protecting. Not negotiating with his body. He was simply standing.

The rest of him followed quickly now: stomach flattening, chest defining, thighs and arms rebuilding into young athletic strength. His face sharpened into the Neto look, youthful and alert, with just enough disbelief left in his eyes to prove David was still inside.

In the final moment, he lifted the Portugal jersey with both hands and looked down. Abs. Not theoretical abs. Not “under there somewhere” abs. Clear, ridiculous, undeniable abs.

David barked a laugh so loud it shook the curtain.

“This better not be temporary!”

The curtains opened one by one. They did not step out like friends leaving fitting rooms. They stepped out like a lineup reveal for an all-star squad.

Ben emerged first in Croatia checkers, dark curls and beard replacing the bald, heavyset man who had gone in. His expression was stunned but controlled, as if the new body had given him a defender’s composure before his brain caught up.

Tom came out next in Swiss red, still glancing down at himself and tugging the shirt like he expected the abs to vanish if he stopped monitoring them.

Jose pushed his curtain aside in Mexico green, smirking like he had just won an argument nobody else knew they were having.

David came last in Portugal red and green, walking easily. That was the thing that silenced them. Not the younger face. Not the body. The walk. No stiffness. No guarded step. No hand hovering near his back.

Ben stared. “Dave...is that you?”

David rolled his shoulders once, then twice. His eyes shone with something too bright to joke away.

“I know,” he said.

The tablet on the counter chimed. A new message appeared.

PLAYER FIT COMPLETE.

Below it:

FAN FEST ENTRY: 0.4 MILES. ARRIVE BEFORE ANTHEMS.

Tom looked at the door. Outside, downtown Atlanta roared. A chant rose from the street, echoing between buildings, as 48 countries layered into one sound.

Jose laughed. “We are going to cause a problem. People will recognize us!”

Ben looked down at the Croatia crest on his chest. “We should probably avoid cameras.”

David was already moving toward the exit. “Absolutely not.”

They stepped back into the heat. The city swallowed them in noise: drums, whistles, flags, traffic, the bass thump from the Fan Fest stage downtown. People turned as they passed. A group in Mexico jerseys stopped mid-chant when Jose/Jiménez walked by. Someone pointed at Ben/Gvardiol. Two Switzerland fans stared at Tom’s/Cömert's shirt, then at his face, then at each other in complete disbelief. David/Neto heard a Portuguese supporter shout something behind him and felt a grin spread across his new face.

For the first block they tried to walk like normal men. By the second block, they were jogging. By the third, they were running. Not because they were late anymore - but because they could again.

[richard-mccomas]

[possessedesires]

Veilbreaker: Ghosts

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes. If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Veilbreaker: Ghosts

— Woah, bro. What do you think of this new body? I found it at the gym a block away. I have to admit, the smell intimidated me a little at first, but damn, it feels good now! – Oliver watched as his younger brother chuckled, placing his hands on his pecs and smiling victoriously at his new acquisition.

It's often believed that all creatures, monsters, and other fantastical beings took refuge in the Upside Down for safety, but several managed to remain, like ghosts.

They were actually floating souls who, for one reason or another, failed to reach the veil of the afterlife, remaining stuck in the world of the living, who could never see them (though there were some exceptions, of course); but the most peculiar characteristic of ghosts was always… Possession.

Some found it more difficult, others easier, but the ability to inhabit a mortal body was an innate skill. The duration always depended on various factors, sometimes even the way they were bound to something. When souls became trapped in this plane, they were often confined to a place – a hospital, an institute, or a house – unable to move beyond the property's boundaries. Others were bound to objects, and many others seemed to have no physical anchor, but rather a moral one, more like a mission to fulfill in this world; and these were the strangest. Why? It was simple. They could move freely wherever they wanted, so far that they could traverse entire states, but with the sole condition of fulfilling their assigned mission. Otherwise, their life force would gradually weaken until they vanished like sea foam.

And that was the case with Oliver and his brother, Jacob. The two were inseparable, practically best friends, always doing everything together. They had moved into an apartment near the university campus where they had both been accepted, always supporting each other.

Until a motorcycle accident shattered all hope for Jacob's future, bringing the curtain down.

Oliver sank into depression and despair, rarely leaving his apartment. His grades were declining, and his life in general was deteriorating, until one day, a complete stranger (wearing the sweatiest clothes imaginable) showed up at his house claiming to be his brother.

Jacob's mission in life beyond death was none other than… to take care of his brother. Although, with his possessive powers, they certainly let loose with all the "mischief" they got up to.

From possessing some strict teacher and forcing him to dance in the middle of the classroom, unbuttoning his shirt and pulling down his pants before all the students ran for the hills.

To getting revenge on some guy who had crossed the line with Oliver, teaching him a thing or two about manners. The possibilities were endless.

Just like time itself.

— What do you want to do tomorrow? – Oliver murmured with a gentle smile, waiting with his new "friend", Mark. In the middle of the fast-food line, a side effect of possession was the enormous energy expenditure it entailed, so Jacob always had to be burning calories until he was bursting to replenish his energy.

— How about going to the movies? There's a film I've wanted to see for days. Shall we?

Oliver barely nodded with a chuckle. Jacob took a step forward to order the food while he stayed behind, his gaze lingering on him for a long moment, not because of his physique or his biceps – that was the least of his concerns. But something did frighten him: How much longer would he have his brother with him? When would he know it was "time"? Would it be like this forever? Or would there be a day when he would wake up again without him by his side? A day when he would finally "grow up" and stop needing him?

He loved having him around, and beyond all the variety of bodies he could occupy left and right, completely at his will (be they athletes, attractive neighbors, gymrats, or some attractive DILF).

What he adored about all of this was the second chance it implied, being able to have him by his side. Laughing, talking, playing video games until after dawn, keeping each other company and just being themselves.

They even supported each other sometimes in romantic matters, when Oliver noticed someone he liked and Jacob gave him the “encouragement” he needed, or even when Jacob himself saw someone he liked.

The two sat on a nearby bench, each with an ice cream in hand. The vanilla flavor gently permeated their taste buds. Oliver's feet swung back and forth, a mixture of inertia and nervousness.

— Happy birthday – he murmured with a smile, taking a bite of his ice cream.

— Oh, you remembered, thanks! – Jacob said, laughing and eating his dessert a little faster, almost running – It's weird, you know? Celebrating my birthday when it's not like I'm going to keep growing the traditional way, haha.

His older brother barely nodded, looking up at him again, a smile now tinged with melancholy.

— I love you.

— I love you too, bro, come here – Jacob pulled him into a hug, ruffling his hair with laughter. The other pulled away slowly, tears wetting his cheeks.

— I mean it, I love you so much. I... I'm sorry if I didn't tell you sooner.

— Hey, what's wrong? I'm here, you know that. You can count on me for anything, I'm never going anywhere.

— You don't know that – he murmured, looking down – And I need you.

— Growing up is part of the journey. There will come a day when you can finally move forward on your own, but until then, I’ll be here with you. 

Oliver’s gaze remained fixed on the ground, a couple more tears welling up as he shook his head.

— I’ll always need my little brother – Jacob smiled, pulling him into a gentle embrace, and they stayed like that for a while.

— I love you, big brother.

The two brothers stayed hugged for a while until the new Mark pulled away to pat the other's leg more enthusiastically.

— Come on, I don't want you acting like a crybaby on my birthday. You owe me a cake and you owe me my present, or will you be a bad brother? – Jacob stood up cheerfully, stretching his muscles a bit with that mocking smile that always characterized him – Come on, I saw a muscular guy coming out of a sporting goods store, maybe we should give good old Mark a break and get another meaty suit, ha. Shall we?

Oliver looked at his brother's outstretched hand, his heart still aching. He wiped away his tears, nodding and forcing a smile.

— Let's go.

— I heard a guy is coming to promote his movie this week.

— Don't joke around, from Marvel? What if we try to possess him?

— Don't exaggerate. 

They both chuckled, embraced, and walked away together. Just as it should always have been.

----

Hey everyone!

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I know this isn't what I usually write; I actually had something else in mind and ended up writing something completely different. But I wanted to touch on a topic that's important to me and somewhat sensitive these days, which you can probably guess is because of the narrative, haha.

But without going into too much detail, I hope you enjoyed this story.

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

----

[kylestfs]

Bro-ken down

The sun was a massive heavy orange ball sinking low into the dirt fields, turning the whole sky into a messy mix of bruised purple and gold. It was one of those humid evenings where the air feels like a wet blanket, sticking to everything it touches. Elias, an older guy pushing fifty with a back that constantly ached and knees that popped like gravel in a blender, didn’t even hear the tire go at first. There was just that sudden weird drag to the left, the steering wheel becoming a stubborn piece of iron in his tired hands.

He muttered a curse, his voice sounding thin and scratchy in the quiet cabin.

He guided the fading sedan onto the crunchy gravel shoulder. He was in the middle of nowhere. No houses, no lights, just flat fields stretching out forever. He sat there for a second with his hands still on the wheel, feeling every single bit of his fifty years. He was just so tired. Tired of the driving, tired of the back pain, tired of the quiet house he was heading back to. He stepped out of the car, his joints feeling stiff and brittle. The back tire was a total disaster. Shredded rubber flapping against the rim. He popped the trunk and just stood there staring at the spare tire. He hadn’t changed a tire in twenty years, and his brain felt thick and foggy from the summer heat.

That was when he heard it. A low vibrating hum that grew into a window-rattling roar. A sleek black sport bike ripped through the quiet air, moving so fast it was almost a blur. The rider saw him and slowed down, the bike growling and popping as it decelerated. The guy turned the bike around in one smooth easy motion and rolled up, stopping just a few feet away. The engine idled with a deep rhythmic thrum.

The rider swung a leg off the bike like it was nothing. He was young and loose, moving with this heavy, confident gravity. He didn’t take his helmet off. It was a matte black AGV with a mirrored visor that hid his face completely.

“Need a hand, man?” Jax asked. His voice came through the helmet, slightly muffled but deep and grounded.

Elias wiped sweat from his forehead. “Yeah. Tire’s gone. I’m a bit out of my element here, honestly.”

“It’s chill, I got you,” Jax said, stepping closer. The smell of him was intense. Heavy leather, gasoline, and a sharp hot sweat that seemed to radiate off his gear. “It’s easy once you get the rhythm. Here, crouch down with me. Just watch my hands.”

Elias knelt on the gravel. Jax reached out and gripped his shoulder. His heavy riding glove felt incredibly warm through the thin fabric of Elias’s old shirt.

“First thing is the wrench. Don’t stress it. Just feel the weight of the metal. Hear that sound?” Jax tapped the wrench against the rim. Click. Click. Click.

“Just focus on that sound, Colton,” Jax whispered, his voice a low, steady drone from behind the dark visor.

Colton. The name felt familiar. Elias didn’t even correct him. It felt like a word he’d forgotten and just found again. He watched the wrench. Click. Click. Click.

“Just keep turning it,” Jax said. “Don’t think about the rest. Just the metal. The road. The rhythm.”

Elias found himself staring at his own hands on the metal. Every time Jax spoke, a little more of his old life felt like a dream he was waking up from. He tried to remember his last name. He tried to picture his living room. It was there for a second, but then it got hazy, like looking through dirty glass. He tried to hold onto it, but the effort made his head ache. Why was he trying to remember a house? Houses were just boxes. It was easier to just listen to the wrench.

As Jax kept talking, guiding his hands on the bolts, the physical world started to shift.

His old dusty work boots grew heavy and stiff. The leather became hard and non-breathable, turning into professional black biker boots with thick rubber soles and plastic armor. Inside, his feet were widening, his toes getting thick and calloused. The heat inside the boots was instant and intense. His socks soaked through with a heavy, sour, extremely pungent foot sweat. It was a thick cheesy smell wafting up from the unvented boots, mixing with the hot engine oil.

He noticed the foul smell. It was undeniably rank. But then Jax shifted closer, and the younger biker smelled exactly the same. Thick, unwashed, heavy with the scent of the road. The smells blended together perfectly. It didn’t gross him out. It felt like they matched. Like they belonged to the same pack.

“Check the bolts, Colton,” Jax murmured, his gloved hand lingering on his arm.

Colton’s knees stopped aching. They felt like steel springs. He used to be taller, but he felt his bones compacting, his center of gravity dropping to a solid powerful five-ten. Perfect for hugging a gas tank. His old work slacks thickened, the fabric transforming into a pair of heavy charcoal-grey sweatpants. He felt his rear end firm up, expanding just enough to get that plump bubbly biker shape that filled out the soft cotton perfectly.

In the front, a heavy thick bulge was filling out, the soft grey cotton leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Colton shifted his weight on his heels, feeling the low-hanging heaviness between his legs.

His upper body broadened, his chest expanding as his old shirt split and merged into a tight black gym shirt with faint grey details. It clung to his new biceps. It felt like he’d been wearing it since yesterday’s heavy lift. It was damp with old sweat, smelling like a locker room and heavy unwashed musk. His armpits were soaking through, releasing a thick masculine scent of raw onions and salt.

His stomach gave a deep, bubbling rumble. His diet was rewiring itself—he couldn’t remember the last time he ate a salad. All his body knew was cheap gas station burgers, protein shakes, and monster energy drinks. A heavy pressure built up in his gut. He didn’t even try to hold it in. He shifted his weight and let out a long, loud, vibrating fart that sounded like a dirt bike idling.

“F-fuuckkk..ughhhh..I just fucking farted..” Colton said, moaning.

It was incredibly pungent. A thick, heavy, eggy stench that lingered in the humid air like a physical cloud. He remembered his farts always reeked. So did Jax’s farts.

Jax didn’t wave his hand or back away. Instead, he stepped right into the cloud. He reached up and popped his helmet’s visor open. “Good one, bro,” Jax chuckled, taking a slow, deliberate sniff, letting the foul eggy air invade his helmet.

Colton looked up, a dumb happy grin spreading across his face. A warm surge of pride pooled in his gut. He liked that Jax liked it. He liked that he could be completely filthy and gross and Jax just claimed it. It was a weird, intense kink that suddenly felt completely natural to him. He wanted to smell like Jax. He wanted Jax to smell him.

He stood up, brushing his calloused hands on his sweatpants. This was the moment where things started to get really blurry.

He looked at the sedan parked on the shoulder. He stared at it for a long time. It looked wrong. It was too wide. It had four doors. Why would anyone need four doors? He tried to remember driving it, but the memory cut off mid-thought. He remembered hands on a steering wheel, but they didn’t feel like his hands. His hands were meant for grips, not a wheel.

The blue paint of the car seemed to swim in the humid air. The edges of the metal softened and folded inward. It was compressing, getting darker. He blinked, rubbing his eyes with a thick thumb. When he looked back, the four wheels were gone. It was a sleek black Yamaha.

He didn’t freak out. He didn’t even gasp. He just looked at it and felt a wave of relief. Right. The bike. Obviously. It was his bike. He knew the scratch on the gas tank. He knew how the clutch felt. It had always been there.

Colton didn’t want to move away from Jax. He naturally gravitated closer, their shoulders almost brushing. There was a deep quiet gravity between them. He didn’t need to make decisions anymore. He tried to think about that other life—something about a wife? A job? but the thoughts just slid off his brain. It felt gross to even try. His whole sexuality, his whole personality, had narrowed down to a single point. He just wanted to be right here, right next to Jax. Wherever Jax went, he went. They rode together, they slept together, they shared everything. It was a loyalty so deep it didn’t need words.

Thoughts were getting real simple in his head.

Hot out.

Bike looks good.

Jax is ready.

Just ride.

Jax grabbed a matte black AGV helmet from his bike and tossed it to Colton.

Colton caught it easily. His hands knew exactly how to hold it. He pulled it over his head. The inside was cramped and hot. It smelled incredibly stale, reeking of old hair wax, old sweat, and his own pungent unwashed musk. The pads squeezed his cheeks tight, making his lips pout a little behind the mirrored visor. To anyone else it would be claustrophobic. To Colton, it was a cocoon. It was his zone.

He stepped toward his Yamaha. He swung a heavy muscular leg over the seat. His bubbly sweaty rear settled onto the firm seat, the grey sweatpants bunching up perfectly to show off his thick thighs. He didn’t have to think about where to put his feet. His heavy smelly boots found the pegs by pure instinct. He leaned forward, his back curving naturally, and his hands gripped the handlebars. The calluses on his palms aligned perfectly with the rubber grips. He had done this a million times.

He revved the engine. The vibration traveled up his arms, settled deep in his chest, and buzzed against his crotch. It felt like a heartbeat.

He looked over. Jax had walked his bike over, but before he mounted it, he stepped close to Colton’s Yamaha. Jax reached out with a heavy black glove and rested his hand firmly on Colton’s plump, grey-clad butt. He gave it a slow, possessive squeeze, his thumb pressing into the soft cotton.

Even through the helmet, Colton could feel Jax’s smirk. Colton just revved the engine again, a low moan escaping his lips inside his helmet, his body leaning into the touch.

Jax patted him twice, then swung onto his own bike.

Good.

Ready.

Follow Jax.

Jax kicked his stand up and rolled forward onto the dark asphalt. Colton didn’t hesitate for a single second and followed.

yayyy biker story!! You guys have been harassing me with requests for one so there you are. Hope you enjoy ! <3

[merryy3dbhsjsk]

Project THC: Intro

The conference room sat at the top of the building—fiftieth floor, windows blacked out, curtains sealed, lights dimmed to a corporate haze. The room was long and unusually casual, plush coaches set around circular tables carved from some endangered hardwood varnished into extinction. Twelve men sat around it, each one the kind of billionaire whose biography was always described with the phrase “controversial but effective.” Their suits were tailored, their ties crisp, and their souls collectively accrued from several centuries of monopolies, exploited workforces, and very well-hidden offshore accounts.

At the head sat Grayson Stone, founder of half the world’s largest logistics chains and owner of the other half. Thick-fingered, gray-haired, and somehow always sipping a drink that was never empty. He tapped on said glass.

“Gentlemen. Let’s begin.”

The room settled. A few of the men checked their phones. A few adjusted their watches. All of them carried the same bored, heavy certainty that nothing in the world could possibly surprise them anymore.

Slate cleared his throat.

“As you all know, the world is—pardon my language—fucked.”

Several men nodded solemnly, while others smiled in amusement.

“Economically, geopolitically, socially, ethically… pick a category. We have a crisis in every one.” Slate gestured lazily to the curtained windows. “Revolutions, pandemics, wars, the dissolution of attention spans, the collapse of traditional family structures, the rise of freelancing—” he shuddered “—and don’t get me started on democratic participation.”

A ripple of disgust moved across the table.

“Society has reached uncharted levels of ‘freedom,” added Elliot Brand, the tech mogul who’d cornered the cloud computing market. “People don’t want to follow rules. They want their own opinions. Their own facts.” He sighed heavily. “And they argue. All the time.”

“They think,” muttered Holmes Price, the pharmaceutical giant’s CEO, as if naming an unspeakable sin. “Even when we tell them not to.”

“And worst of all,” chimed in Bruce Dallow, owner of the largest construction conglomerate on the planet, “they die.”

Everyone turned to him.

“Mortality,” he explained. “Makes them unpredictable. Scared. Panicked. They do stupid things. They riot. They vote incorrectly. They write think-pieces.”

The table collectively winced at that last one.

Slate leaned back, folding his hands. “Exactly. People are too complicated. Too varied. Too… human.”

The word hung in the air like an uncomfortable truth rather than an obvious fact.

“And men,” Slate continued, “are… well…” He made a vague motion, a half-hearted shrug. “Improvement is needed. But you know.” Another shrug. “We can work with that.”

Several of the men snorted. One of them whispered “Better than dealing with women,” and the whole table chuckled with the casual, oblivious cruelty of men who had never once been told no.

“But!” Slate lifted a finger. “We don’t have to tolerate complexity. We don’t have to tolerate intelligence. We don’t have to tolerate personalities that aren’t immediately useful.” His voice gained momentum, the tone of a man revealing the twist to a plan he’d been crafting for years. “We can fix all of this.”

Elliot leaned forward. “With what? Psychological conditioning? Behavioral nudges? Targeted propaganda? We’ve tried and tired, it hasn’t worked since the late 90s”

Slate smiled. “More… direct methods.”

A silence swept across the table. Then: “What, exactly, are you proposing?” Holmes demanded.

Slate pressed a button beneath the table.

The lights dimmed. A projector hummed to life. On the screen behind him, a massive slide appeared in stark white letters:

THP: THE HOMOGENIZATION PROJECT

Several of the men squinted. A few adjusted glasses. One or two nodded in premature approval, as if the name alone had sold them. Slate clasped his hands behind his back.

“Gentlemen… society has failed. Democracy has failed. Education has failed. The market,” he cast a look at Elliot, “has not entirely failed, but the customers have.”

Elliot nodded gravely.

“The problem is that people think too much, feel too much, disagree too much. They innovate incorrectly. They aspire incorrectly. They vote incorrectly. They form relationships incorrectly.”

He raised a finger.

“And some of them,” he added, “are women.”

(Nods. Several satisfied sighs. Somebody muttered: “Finally someone says it.”)

Slate continued.

“We need a society that is simple. Predictable. Obedient. Unburdened by high cognition, existential dread, or excessive personality traits.”

He clicked to the next slide:

PHASE 1: UNIVERSAL TRANSFORMATION

“And the solution,” Slate said, pacing slowly, “is to remake the world’s population into something more manageable. To eradicate variance. To standardize humanity.and to do this we must transform them.”

The room buzzed with various reactions of shock, amusement, and lots of confusion. Holmes Price gave a suspicious glance at Grayson, waiting to see where he was going with this. 

“We will transform every person, across all nations, all ages, all identities, into a narrow demographic range: approximately sixteen to thirty-seven, all male, all engineered with predetermined personalities that are simple, agreeable, predictable, and entirely loyal to the new world order.”

A complete silence. Then someone asked:

“…Like… like NPCs?”

“Better,” Slate said cheerfully. “Like influencers. But stupider.”

The room erupted in impressed murmurs.

“And what,” Holmes asked, “will these… men… act like?”

“Whatever we tell them to,” Slate replied. “They are perfectly content doing what they are told.   To be quite crude they’ll be dumb, the kind of dumb that will maximize our profits.”

Bruce let out a low whistle. “That’s beautiful,” he murmured.

Holmes leaned forward. “And how do you propose we accomplish this?”

“Transformation technology,” Slate said casually, like it was the kind of thing one might pick up at Target. “I’ve partnered with some specialists. Ancient biotech. Experimental materials. Nanostructural behavioral rewriting. A little alchemy. The details don’t matter.”

“So they don’t get a choice in the matter, I assume,” Holmes asked, at a confirming nod from Stone. He leapt to his feet, going off at the CEO. “This is completely unethical, Grayson. I don’t understand what’s happened to you. I don’t know about the rest of these men, but it will have no part in this.” He left out the conference room door in a huff. 

Garyson tapped his foot. He said something into his ear piece. All of a sudden a scream could be heard, echoing throughout the conference room. The distinct sound of Holmes muffled curses gave the men lounging around the room a vivid picture of what had just happened in the hall. The room grew tense as Stone gave the rigid room a big grin.

“What matters,” he continued brightly, “is distribution.”

And suddenly the screen shifted again:

PHASE 2: PRODUCT-BASED DELIVERY

Elliot’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re going to transform people with… consumer goods?”

Slate nodded. He gestured to a large screen set into the wall.

“Observe.”

File Name: SF-CR-Jeep

Manufacturing details: produced by Jeep then customized by Graystone detailing

Key transformation components: Saltwater Infusion - Vehicle’s metal frame pressure-washed internally with Pacific seawater containing dissolved surfer archetype energy signatures.

Leather Treatment - Interior leather soaked in Sex Wax–derived conditioning compounds, optimized for inducing neurological chill-out responses and cognitive downgrades.

Cabin Vapor System - Emits micro-mists of sunscreen, ocean breeze chemicals, and “perpetual vacation” pheromones.

Drive-Cycle Activation - Transformation accelerates with vehicle movement; vibration synced to mimic wave motion, inducing identity regression and brain reprogramming.

Testing: an oversized, aggressive, slate-gray Jeep—wheels raised, surfboard rack attached, smelling faintly of saltwater was parked on the side of the road. 

An intern stepped towards it, you could tell he was an intern based on the way he carried himself, with meek manners and a sense of humility about him, his small body shoved in an ill fitting pair of pants and oversized blazer. 

Obviously confused, rummaging around himself only to find keys that matched the unknown car in his pants pocket. Clearly exhausted, he shrugged and got in the car. As he drove, something started to happen.

The wind tossed his hair as it became sun bleached. His clothing tightened around growing muscles, before reforming entirely into a bright T-shirt and shorts. He grinned in a dopey sort of way as he cruised down a coastal highway. 

“Brooo,” he said, voice cracking with surfer slang, “life is literally vibes, man.” 

He didn’t even know what an accountant is anymore. Totally  carefree surfer dude. His brain just… washed clean. All he cares about now is waves, suntan oil, and saying ‘heyyy brahh.’ 

The Jeep horn beeped with a jaunty little rhythm.

File Name: (F)JOK-SE-Football

Manufacturing details: manufactured entirely by Graystone Labs: THP division

Key transformation components: Injected Youth Hormones - Leather panels infused with proprietary AdoLEssence™ hormonal cocktail engineered to induce teenage-body regression. 

Paint Mixture -

1/3 standard field paint

1/3 “biological extract” from retired NFL donors

1/3 stabilized adolescent athletic pheromonee 

Contact-Triggered Hormonal Aerosolization - Heat from handling releases micro-particles targeting muscle density, aggression, and ego inflation.

Second Testing: Holmes Price sat on the metal bleachers, very angry at being forced against his will to come to such a place.  The sixty-year-old CEO stood with arms folded defensively. 

A football was tossed at him. He caught it reflexively, turning it over in his hands. It looked like a standard-looking varsity football. Except it wasn’t: The leather pulsed faintly, like it had a heartbeat.

Instantly, his wrinkles began fading. His shoulders broadened. Hair thickened, then fell into the perfect teenage-quarterback flop that was quickly covered by a hat. His suit vanished into thin air. His brain rewriting itself in real time.

He blinked, confused. “Coach?? Practice already?? I didn’t—uh—I didn’t hear the whistle, dude.”

He jogged onto the field, shouting “LET’S GO, BABYYYY!” Not a single thought to his old life. 

File Name: PR-EB-Gray Goose vodka

Manufacturing details: sponsored by Gray Goose liquor and developed in partnership 

Key transformation components: Posh Chemical Additives - Infusion of investor approved synthetic preppy pheromones.

Youth Hormones - Same AdoLEssence™ base as [REDACTED], reformulated for oral absorption.

Bottle Composition - Glass blended with micro-shards from upscale Vineyard Vines store displays, containing residual “country-club brainwave patterns.”

Blood Alcohol Delivery - Alcohol carries identity-lowering compounds that target verbal processing and color preference centers through bloodstream. 

Testing: The glaring, ice-filled wine chiller caught her eye. She was in her forties,a mid-level marketing executive, at a company party that she was NOT enjoying, but something on the drink cart had kept her from leaving. Inside the chiller sat a single glass bottle of vodka.

It fizzed faintly, even unopened. The woman opened the bottle and took a sip from it directly. Her eyes widened, it was delicious. She quickly moved to mix it around with some fruit juices on the bar cart.

As he did so, her hair shortened, then turned sandy-blond, then popped upward into the perfectly obnoxious swoop favored by boys named Chase. Her frame sharpened into lean teenage athleticism, her face youthful beauty Her blouse rewove itself into a colored polo layered over an expensive jacket.

His voice cracked as she stared at the party of people he no longer recognized. “Bro… what the heck… it’s time for lacrosse practice??”

He left the party in a rush. Now a dense preppy teenage boy. The kind to grow up in a private school and never be told no. Sweater-over-shoulders energy. A bit clueless but completely harmless. 

Slate walked between the presenters, hands clasped behind his back.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “this is only the beginning. If we can transform individuals through cars, sports equipment, beverages—imagine what we can do when we distribute these globally.”

He clicked to the final slide:

PHASE 3: MASS ADOPTION — FULL WORLD CONVERSION IN 18 MONTHS

“Automobiles. Footwear. Sodas. Toys. Gym equipment. Household appliances. Toiletries. We partner with every major manufacturer. We embed transformation catalysts into the supply chain.”

He paused.

“We don’t need to force anyone. They’ll transform themselves.”

The men around the table began whispering excitedly, the overlapping hum of eleven egos seeing their legacy written across the next century and the fear of ending up like Holmes if they declined. 

Someone asked, “What about resistance?”

Slate shrugged. “They’ll be too stupid to resist.”

Elliot asked, “What about government interference?”

“Governments won’t be able to function now,” Slate said dryly. “Imagine how easy they’ll be to manage when every world leader is a twenty-year-old dude named Kyle.”

Laughter rippled, cold and certain. The businessmen leaned back, satisfied. Every one of them imagined a world shaped like a beer commercial, run by the least threatening demographic imaginable.

A world of bros. A world they could finally, perfectly control. Slate raised his glass.

“All I need from you is your funding.”

Eventually, a full scratching of pens filled the room, as every single businessman signed a contract, giving Greystone industries full access to their funding and resources. Yet as the last lines were signed, something began to happen. 

Their faces began to get smoother, their appearances more youthful. A couple tried to sound the alarm, but their panicked shouts quickly turned into mindless grins. Their suits transformed into tiny shorts showing off massive legs. Their jackets becoming an assorted mix of tops: tank tops, t-shirts, one’s button down shirt melted away completely leaving behind a bare chest, showing off thick muscles. 

Stone watched all this with a grin, he already had their money, he had no need for these men now. He poured himself more whisky, as he watched his old friend Elliot complete his transformation. Elliot’s gained muscle quickly becoming  a sun darkened tan, his hair gaining a touch of the sun as well with streaks of blonde running through it. He lifted his tie dye shirt and grinned up at Grayson flirtatiously but without recognition. Stone looked over the rest of the men as they finished as well. Their hair styled in various trendy dos, some covered by baseball caps. Some glanced at him with dull, glazed over eyes.

 He gave them all a final glance as he left the room. Knowing that his transportation department would teleport the room and the boys inside to a frat house in a coastal town. There had been many discussions on what would be the best to transform the investors to, options ranging from boy band to hockey team had been discussed before landing on the idea of a frat house. An addition that would be unnoticed wherever they relocated them, but soon people would notice the growing number of young men. Things were about to change, and Grayson Stone had many many many plans. 

(New series, so excited!! wanted to do like short stories to help get my creativity pumping. This is an introduction so it’s more cohesive, but I will have more anthology kind of stuff in this series. Will probably continue this whenever I kind of just feel like making little one shots. Obviously this story is inspired by dumb and jocked’s the businessmen, all credit to them with the original idea. )

[possessedesires]

Saint Gambler: Prelude

CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes. If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.

Saint Gambler: Prelude

Lucas's gaze wandered over the cards in his deck, a decisive look on his face. Which one should he play next?

— Wow, if I didn't know you, I'd say you're... nervous, aren't you? – The nerd in front of him let out a soft, confident laugh, also looking at his cards with confidence and almost arrogance.

They were tied; this round was supposed to decide everything.

— Nervous? Pfft. Of course not – Lucas pressed his lips together. This had never happened before; no one had ever been so out of his mind as to challenge him. His life, his very body, were at stake. He had to win this round, no matter what.

But before continuing with this simple game in which everything was on the line, let's review the rules.

Saint Gambler Academy was a prestigious university. Its students excelled in every area of ​​society: science, mathematics, engineering, literature, sports, arts – every field of knowledge was well-managed by its students. Its facilities were also state-of-the-art. Although this wasn't just any university, it had something... special.

The culture of games and gambling was almost a pillar of the institution; it didn't have that name for nothing. And in recent years, that custom has become much more pronounced and... interesting.

A student president was always appointed, who, during their time at the university, would help with certain things, such as improving the quality of life for students, proposing improvements, etc. When Lucas came to power, his ideas were somewhat... revolutionary and, surprisingly, accepted.

The premise was simple. To end bullying, the "static hierarchy" of popular guys, and the same old story about attractive people and outcasts, that roulette wheel had to be altered at its most basic level: bodies.

So "the games" were created; anyone who wanted could challenge another person for their body, taking their social status, their life, and most importantly, their body. The duration depended entirely on the winning party; it could be a day, a week, a month, or even indefinitely. The winning party always determined how the agreement would take effect: if the challenger won, they kept the other person's body; if they lost, they submitted to the other person's mind control.

And why would people accept that? It wasn't as if they did it willingly, especially athletes, cheerleaders, popular guys, and others at the top of the social ladder. But even so, it wasn't as if they didn't have a "winning side" if they managed to properly defend their bodies.

All based on the innocent premise of "putting yourself in someone else's shoes". A good idea that... the further it progressed, the more flaws it revealed.

Changes didn't take long to occur, starting with nerds, overweight people, social outcasts, and others. All programmed by the "Swap Club", a new organization that emerged alongside this development, which managed, organized, authorized, and facilitated the movements (whether body swapping, hypnosis, or whatever). Lucas, in addition to being the student body president, was also its leader and boss.

Soon, almost like magic, the social structure began to change from within, with nerds defeating the athletes and taking their bodies. Almost the entire sports team swapped in a single week, leaving them all trapped in skinny, acne-ridden, loser bodies.

Some perverted guys opted to swap with cheerleaders, others with influencers, artists, gamers, popular people. Lucas hadn't counted on the Academy itself ending up completely turned upside down.

However, his idea of ​​experiencing life in someone else's shoes had undoubtedly been... successful. People who had been losers their entire lives had finally found, through creative games (like a simple card game or rock, paper, scissors) the path to more...attractive bodies.

While they were constantly playing with their chests, squeezing them, smelling their new armpits, and so on, the faculty wondered if it was a good idea or if they needed to intervene, although by the time they reacted, it was too late for them too.

Lucas was in his office like every other day after class. Despite his athletic and even somewhat cocky appearance, he was a good guy, kind, cared about others, believed in not judging a book by its cover, and was almost a himbo in every sense of the word; he was just someone who wanted to make the world a better place. He shuffled his papers, noticing a couple more requests for body swapping, pursed his lips, and let out a sigh.

He himself had doubts about whether launching such an initiative had been the best course of action.

— Sir, um… – His assistant approached him. Originally a skinny, short guy with thick glasses and messy hair, he had been one of the first to experience body swapping, defeating a jock with a clean game of Mahjong.

The Swap Club also had the function of monitoring each game to prevent either side from cheating, ensuring the entire process was legal and above board; hence the importance of its existence – You have a visitor.

Before he could continue, the door to the place opened wide. A thin guy with brown hair styled in various directions, glasses, and a somewhat... perceptive smile walked in.

— Hello, Lucas.

— William.

It turned out that these two had known each other for a long time, had been friends for quite a while, since they were little, spending their adolescence together until almost halfway through their second year of high school, when William decided that Lucas was too stupid to continue being his friend.

It seemed the tables had turned now that they were both in college.

— Is there anything I can help you with? – Lucas flipped over a couple of papers, not looking at him. Will just smiled slightly.

— Actually, yes. I want to challenge you to a game.

— I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I won't accept – Lucas narrowed his eyes. William smiled to himself.

— And why not?

— A high-ranking position like mine isn't in the game's 'catalog, but I'm sure you can find another body that suits your needs as well.

— Well, according to your own rules – William slid out the manual that Lucas himself had taken the time to write and specify for his proposal – There's really nothing that exempts you from being part of this.

The athlete took it in his hands, flipping through the pages, only to find nothing, just as the other had told him. 

— Even so, I have the free will to not accept the game if I don't want to.

— And don't you think that would be... hypocritical of you? You're always so in favor of being in someone else's body, but as soon as there's a possibility of someone else walking in your shoes, you refuse. Don't you think that makes you a false leader? – Will said with all the malice in the world, licking his lips.

— There wouldn't be anyone watching the encounter-

— Actually, there is.

A burly, muscular guy with tanned skin, a perfect smile, and equally shiny, well-groomed hair burst into the room. It was Jax, one of Lucas's best friends and also a member of the Swap Club, but that day, Lucas could sense a strange vibe from him, more... confident. Jax wasn't usually egocentric or mean; he was nice, although clearly his physique, trained for so many years in the gym, was what was always noticeable at first glance.

— See? I think it's more a question of you being a... chicken. A cowardly leader who doesn't dare put his own philosophy on the line.

— Sir, I think…

— Fine, you win – Lucas leaned back in his chair, gesturing for him to sit across from him – I remind you that the challenger must have their hand ready.

— And here it is – Will pulled something from his backpack; it was a poker deck – It's actually quite simple. Set aside the queen, king, joker, and aces. Leaving only the 1s through 10s of each suit, shuffle them and deal eight cards in total. The first player to form two sets of four cards, each of the same suit, wins.

Lucas examined the cards, still hesitant. He looked up at Jax, waiting for some response or signal from him, but ended up just shuffling the cards.

— Everything looks good. 

The student council president still had a bad feeling about what might happen. The cards felt strange, Jax looked different, damn, he could even see the terrified look on his assistant's face behind those enormous biceps.

— Then let's play.

— It'll be seven games, whoever has the most wins wins. Deal? – Will extended his palm with that smug, arrogant smile. Lucas had no choice but to nod and shake it.

Lucas's cards had played well so far; he had won three out of six matches, which put Will on equal footing. The athlete felt a cold sensation run down his spine, along with a huge bead of sweat trickling down his temple. Why was he so nervous?

William's body wasn't bad; in fact, it was quite aesthetically pleasing, slender, with perfect hair, handsome cheekbones, and defiant eyes. But it just wasn't his body, it wasn't him. And he wasn't exactly keen to give away all his hard work to someone else. He shuffled his cards in the deck, one by one; he only needed one more heart to complete the remaining sequence. Victory could be within his grasp-

— I have diamonds and spades – William threw the cards down on the table, giving Lucas a near heart attack. This had to be a joke; it couldn't be happening.

— N-No way.

— It seems to me it was a fair game, no cheating, and everything according to the rules – Jax muttered sternly, shrugging at the fact that his best friend had lost his body and his position in the process (those were the rules). All the presidents, delegates, and secretaries of the various sports, art, educational, and other clubs had been radically swapped among students, passing power around like a game of marbles.

The Swap Club member approached the soon-to-be former student president, pulling what appeared to be a sophisticated remote control from his pocket. It had two buttons, one green on the bottom and one yellow on top. The guy extended an antenna from the back, initially selecting William, and adjusted a few settings.

Lucas's sharp gaze noticed William's lap, where his hands lay. He was wearing a long-sleeved blazer. Lucas's curious eyes lingered on the shaft of his arm, hidden in the darkness, where a card slid down, exposing the game's deception.

Lucas tried to say something, but was immediately overtaken by the control that, in an instant, "transported" him to the other side of the room. He looked at William's smaller hands, his hairless arms, his thinner frame, and as soon as he lowered his hands, the stacked cards of each suit shot out. William hadn't won; he had cheated.

— You fucking idiot! – He was about to lunge at him when Jax grabbed him in his powerful, swollen arms, while Lucas squirmed like a furious worm.

— Well, Will. I don't think that's any way to talk to a superior like me – he said, letting out a mocking laugh, licking his lips before flexing his arms and flexing his biceps forcefully. Finally, that petulant and conceited attitude of his was perfectly in keeping with his physique.

The real Lucas continued, still making a futile effort in the air. He felt like his arms were two twigs of nard, useless, too thin, and without the necessary strength to resist Jax. Why the hell had he betrayed him? What was the purpose of all this?

His old body approached him with a determined stride before slapping his cheek hard.

— How does it feel to fall under the weight of your own ideas, huh? You're not so damn smart anymore, are you?

His face was red with fury.

— Go to hell.

— You wish, idiot – “Lucas" walked back to the rear of his desk to kick off his shoes, lifting the soles of his sweaty feet, taking one in his hands and rubbing it against his face, licking and sniffing it like a pervert.

The real Lucas almost fainted from the shock; he wasn't gay, and although he respected them and had nothing against them, it was undoubtedly... uncomfortable to see his body doing things without his control or permission. He even had a girlfriend. W-what would happen to her? What would happen to his career? His future.

— T-time. How long will this be? – Lucas felt stupid for asking something so... stupid.

— Ha. You really think I'm going to give all that back? – William, inside his body, flexed, lifting his armpit to take a long drag – Nah, I'm not an idiot. I'm keeping this, forever. So you'd better get used to it and like your new body, because it's not like you're ever going to get it back – He smiled, still cold and arrogant, and snapped his fingers – Now, Kwon, get our friend out of here. He looks like he needs to... get used to his new self.

Jax nodded, starting to pull Will, who was still trying to resist. His anguished gaze wandered around the room and those present. His assistant was frozen, as if a king had been dethroned (and, well, he wasn't far from the truth). Lucas kept screaming, trying to hold onto the doorframe until he couldn't anymore. The last thing he saw was his old body slowly taking off its shirt, giving him an arrogant smile, and winking at him before the door slammed shut.

----

Hey everyone!

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.

I wanted to take this opportunity to ask you about the next chapter in this series, so… If you liked and were interested in the story, please vote for the option you'd most like to see:

What type of swap would you like to read?

I didn't really like the story

Swap with a teacher/principal

Swap with a jock/fratbro

Swap with a twink

Swap with a nerd

Swap with an exchange student

Swap with some art club leader

Swap with some member of the Swap Club

Voting ended onApr 8

I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?

----

[wamleather]

Luke Newton in full leather

[leatherverse]

[hauntedpolicedream]

February 25, 2026

This morning as I was dressing as usual to go to work at my very boring job - white shirt, tie, three-piece suit - I started fantasizing about having a much more exciting and adventurous life. At close to 60 I had never done one thing I could say was risky or even remotely daring. My life was just as boring as my job. Sighing, I put the finishing touches on my hair and headed out the door to get in my non-descript sedan.

I know I shouldn't have but as I drove I was still thinking about what men who took chances must have for a life. Not boring I'm sure but I would never know.

I arrived at work, going straight to the elevator that would take me to another day of paperwork and phone calls with a few meetings thrown in for good measure. Just another drone in the corporate machine. I pushed the button for the twelfth floor. A small static shock made me jump a bit but I thought nothing more about it as the elevator started its ascent into the waiting nether regions above.

As the elevator reached my final destination I waited for the doors to open. I began to panic when after what appeared to be several minutes nothing happened. To make the situation worse, the lights suddenly failed, leaving me in pitch blackness. Great. What do I do now?

I reasoned there must be an emergency button but with no light in the cab and the control panel no longer glowing, I had no way of knowing what button to push. I soon found out I couldn't move as I tried to use my hands to search for the doors thinking maybe I could somehow pry them open. Could this day get any stranger?

Yes, it certainly could.

I began to experience a mild heat radiate throughout my body. Chalking it up to my panic I wasn't too concerned until the mildness ramped up to become quite unbearable. I quickly removed my suit jacket, vest, and tie as I began to sweat profusely. I felt my bones begin to crack and my joints pop. Unless I was mistaken I was getting taller, going from my rather short 5'6" stature to what I guessed to be 6'1" at least. The hem of my pants rose almost to my knees as muscle packed onto my legs. My feet burst from the confines of my shoes as they grew at least five sizes in a matter of seconds. My sunken chest began to expand outward as my pecs forced their way into existence, popping the buttons from my shirt. Not to be left behind, my arms followed suit, incredible strength flooding into muscles that now forced my sleeves to finish ripping. The alterations to my body were not done just yet though. My slight gut sucked in as newly formed abs manifested into hard cobblestones. Just as they completed my manhood decided to join this very strange party. I quickly unzipped my pants, letting them fall to the floor as girth and length added to my very unimpressive rod, my family jewels now hanging lower and larger. I can't say this was unpleasant as a euphoric feeling flooded my very being while my new improved manhood rose to the occasion. A pause in the action...

I could only imagine what I must look like: naked, certainly very buff, and my aged face sitting atop a definitely younger torso. I didn't get to linger on those thoughts for long. My vision darkened and as my face began melting I crumbled to the floor.

I had no idea how much time had passed when I began to come to my senses. I now was encased in very tight clothes, commando under the pants, and my feet in knee high boots. I started to raise myself from the floor, my movement now restored. I still couldn't see but as I ran my hands down my body I could tell I was wearing all leather. My shirt was open to just below my pecs with a heavy chain around my neck. A wide belt and massive buckle encircled my waist. Topping it all off was a knee length leather coat.

My face! In my excitement discovering my body I had forgotten to check my face. I began to feel my hair which was still about the same length on top but now shaved on the sides. And stubble! I had stubble on a very masculine jaw line, a far cry from my weak clean shaven one.

The lights suddenly burst into being, blinding me for a few seconds until my eyes grew accustomed to the brightness reflecting from the very shiny walls of the elevator. I finally got to see my body. Definitely not what I had seen in my mirror at home. With a phone I found in one of my coat pockets I took a look at my face. I was a ruggedly handsome stud. Confidence flooded my brain.

I found myself on the floor of a dance club filled with conquests to be had as the doors opened. I just knew I would have no problem finding a suitable mate to take home tonight. Of course I had to find out where I lived and all those other pesky details but my life would be anything but boring.

[hauntedpolicedream]

Phantom Rider

Going over some old stories, this one from 2016. The original is on the Male Transformation Blog w/ a couple of pictures. No pictures in this version.

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On a dark desert highway, no cool wind in my hair thanks to my helmet, I could see him in my mirrors, a nightmare in black leather and helmet. I had no idea who he was or why he would be so persistently trailing me along a desolate road in the middle of nowhere but he had been with me for as long as I could remember. If I went faster, he would as well, his black bike glowing eerily. Who was this guy? I came upon a roadside diner. The neon lettering in front flashed a bright “OPEN”, casting shadows on the forsaken parking lot. I smoothed the creases from my white leathers as I dismounted my matching ride after pulling into a spot near the door. Good chance to stretch my legs as I cautiously peered over my shoulder for any sign of my pursuer, hoping against hope that it had been just by chance that he had been behind me. I breathed a sigh of relief; no sign of him.

After entering the diner, I made my way to one of the booths. My body shook as the stress of the ride finally hit me. For some unknown reason that black rider bothered me. There was something unearthly about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. As much as I told myself everything was fine, that no one had actually been following me, the more my mind dwelled on that phantom and wouldn’t let go.

I ordered black coffee when the waitress came over. Pretty woman, probably in her late twenties with a dazzling smile. Any other time I would have tried to pick her up but tonight was not the right time or place for that. I glanced at the clock on the wall, one of the old fashioned analogue wall clocks with the sweeping second hand. 11:45PM… fifteen minutes until midnight. A cold shiver ran up my spine.

I finished my coffee and reached for my wallet to pay the waitress.

“Don’t worry. It’s on the house.” She told me.

“Thanks.” I said, giving her my most disarming smile.

I got up to leave then stopped as I glanced at the clock: 11:45PM. Hadn’t it been that time when I last looked? Had I misread the clock before? I had to have been in here for at least half an hour and yet…

This was one very strange night.

Cloaked once more in shadows as I mounted my bike, my mind raced faster than the speed of light trying to make sense of all that had been happening. I had no sooner put my helmet on and kicked the bike to life when a cyclopean light shone in my mirror: the phantom rider, waiting for me to resume my journey. My blood ran cold and I couldn’t get out of that parking lot fast enough.

I continued on my trip through hell, the biker matching my pace all the way. Without much light from the sliver of a moon all I could see was the bit of road the motorcycle’s light illuminated. I was exhausted, probably more from the nerves than the ride. I wanted, no needed, a temporary respite from my journey. A nice hot shower and a good night’s sleep would do wonders to alleviate my tortured mind. I pushed myself onward, all the while wondering where the sun could possibly be. All around me was an infinite field of blackness with no sign of a coming dawn. It had to be near. I had been riding for so long but exactly how long I had no way of knowing. I saw a sign up ahead in flashing neon. The diner looked familiar but then all these roadside places pretty much look alike. Soon I was pulling into the empty parking lot, waiting for my unknown riding partner to pass by. He never came. How could that be? He had been right behind me, not more than half a mile back.

As I walked into the place and sat in a booth I noticed the time on the clock: 11:45PM. Was that the same waitress from before? That couldn’t be. Must just be someone who looks a lot like her. The endless night and stress were getting to me. I went into the men’s room to splash some cold water on my face. As I brought my eyes back to the mirror terror filled my soul. My dreaded companion stood behind me! I spun around, only to find the room completely empty. I went back to the booth, my mind totally confused, my body visibly trembling.  I hadn’t eaten much in a while but I wasn’t hungry so I just ordered coffee. I hurriedly drank my java and went to pay.

“Don’t worry. It’s on the house.” I was seriously getting spooked now.

I got back on the road again, not caring that the motorcycle light was once again in my mirror. There had to be a town, some sort of civilization up ahead and come hell or high water I was going to get there. I had to find sanctuary from this purgatory I was in.

After what felt like an eternity I could see lights not far ahead and relief washed over me. At last I would be somewhere safe… until I saw the source of the light. I had to be in perdition. I was somehow back at the same deserted diner I had left hours ago, neon brightly flashing “OPEN”. My mind couldn’t handle the shock, retreating into a sea of soft comforting blackness as the bike went down on the road. Gently caressed by the dark void, flashes of memory intruded on the peace I felt.

My neighbor’s son owned a dark blue bike. I would watch him, dressed in his matching tight leathers as he drove in and out on his most prized possession, quite envious of his youth and his bike, until one night he had come over and asked if I would like to take it out for a ride. I know I should have said no on the spot since I had no motorcycle license or practical riding experience but I was just so excited at the thought of riding such a beast that I didn’t think before I said yes. He gave me his helmet but I was hardly dressed to take it on the road. That wasn’t going to stop me however. I mounted the seat, feeling a thrill at having such power between my legs. He gave me a quick tutorial of the controls and how to shift then I pulled out of the yard to go around the block. I’ll never know what possessed me. Instead of just going around the block I took it out for a ride on a highway I knew about, one unused due to the new freeway, passing by a long ago abandoned diner along the way. I had always had a love of all things fast so foolishly I opened up the gas, bonding with my new friend and enjoying the sensations assaulting my body when…

Another flash. I was lying on the road, surrounded by sirens and flashing lights. Shadowy figures loomed over me, telling me to stay still, that everything was going to be okay until my eyes had closed. From somewhere a voice spoke: “TOD 11:45PM”. I must have passed out, awakening to find I had no memory of how I came to be dressed in tight white leathers, riding a white bike on a dark deserted highway.

My eyes fluttered open. Black night still engulfed the world with nary a star in the sky as I lay on the road. As I looked around I could see no sign of the bike. I was stranded on the highway with no way to even get back to that accursed diner. I stood, wondering what I should do now. “TOD 11:45PM” still haunted my thoughts. Had I really died and didn’t realize it? I started to walk on autopilot, my mind numb from the revelations. Was I doomed to spend eternity wandering along this road in perpetual darkness? I walked for what must have been hours until I had to stop, not from exhaustion but from some compulsion deep within to just stand still.

Out of nowhere suddenly someone was beside me. The phantom rider of my nightmare realized, waiting on that black metal steed, no longer just a reflection in a mirror. I was paralyzed with terror.

Was my persistent tracker Death come to finally claim my soul for some past transgression I had no memory of? As I stood there transfixed at the specter he raised a black gloved hand, beckoning me to come closer, and as if pulled by some invisible string I found myself drawing nearer, unable to resist, fascinated yet stricken with panic at what might possibly be in store for me.

I could feel his hot breath on my neck and see the intricate pattern etched in his leathers as I got closer until quite involuntarily I found myself climbing on the back of the bike, positioned on the seat behind the driver. If the sun had been out I would have half expected that this would be the ending where we would ride off into the sunset into whatever inevitable conclusion awaited. Instead something much more unexpected occurred.

As we sat there waiting for God only knows what to happen, I began to slide forward until I made contact with the phantom. A brief pause and then I began to melt into his body. I was being absorbed through the body-hugging black leather gear he wore. Time seemed to halt as sensations of youthful strength and vitality flowed throughout my veins such as I hadn’t felt in years. The void returned as the last remaining vestige of myself merged with the rider.

Sunlight and warmth flooded through the window next to the booth in which I sat. I looked around to see a bustling diner and a clock behind the counter that read 11:45… AM.  I was famished as if I hadn’t eaten in years. I leisurely ate my way through the ham, eggs, toast, and other delectable treats that made up the veritable feast for my waiting stomach, topped off by the most magnificent cup of coffee, all brought by the prettiest waitress I had ever seen. My meal finished, I picked up my jacket, and headed to the men’s room. As I flipped on the light I saw my reflection in the mirror straight ahead. Not bad looking if I do say so myself. I wondered if the waitress would like a well-toned young man with jet black hair who was simply dashing dressed in his black leather motorcycle gear. For a moment I had the strangest sense I had somehow experienced this before.

I relieved myself and left to go mount my black beauty waiting patiently in the parking lot, giving a wink to the waitress as I started to pay.

She stopped me as I reached for my money. “Don’t worry. It’s on the house.”

“Thanks, but that has got to be quite the bill. At least let me pay half of it. My name’s Scott by the way.”

“No, really. I want to.” She handed me a slip of paper and smiled. I knew if I wanted she would willingly be mine for the asking. Ah well. Maybe next time. I smiled back at her and handed her some cash as a tip. I zipped up my jacket and waved to her as I exited.

Back out in the light of day I donned my helmet, put on my dark shades, and brought the engine to life. A shot of gas and I was flying down the highway at breakneck speed.

I had a long ride ahead of me before I would finally reach home.

[hauntedpolicedream]

The Chase

An old story written for the Male Transformation Blog.

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I’m too damn old for this. I have no idea why I am chasing after some shadowy figure down streets I don’t know. I had spotted him when he had come around a corner near where I was standing. For some reason, I felt compelled to follow and then chase him, running as if my life depended on catching this guy. From the way he is running I would say he is a lot younger than I am as well as a lot taller and better built.

I go around another corner, only to see the guy standing with his back to me like he is waiting for me to catch up. He is not quite as shadowy as he was a few minutes ago. I can tell he is wearing a colored tee and jeans plus he is running barefoot. As I get closer he takes off, sprinting down a darkened alleyway. Why am I continuing to play cat-and-mouse with this dude when it is obviously hopeless that I will ever catch him?

As I enter the alley I see him again waiting for me, his back still facing me. He seems much more tangible than before – his tight maroon colored t-shirt, dark hair cut short, and his lean muscular frame quite apparent. This time as I approach he ducks through a door into a dimly lit building.

I follow him, wondering why I am still bothering with this game and what is just so important about this guy. At least with a slower pace I can perhaps catch my breath for a minute, although I must say I am feeling much more energized than I have felt in many a year. He is waiting for me, standing still not more than a few feet away and not making any attempt to flee. Even in this dim light I can see he has removed his clothes, revealing a body any man would die to have. I am sure he has no problems getting anyone he wants. I am in awe of the guy, jealous even, yet as I approach ever closer to him I wonder why he is standing there naked.

I find myself quite attracted to him, getting aroused by the sight of this most god-like youth. I can feel pressure building within my loins, so intense, so unbearably promising of a sexual bliss that I haven’t known before. I can’t help myself, like my body has a mind of its own. I begin to remove my clothes, approaching him slowly but with a definite purpose. He must hear me, smell the sweat running in rivers down my body from the exertion of the chase yet he does not turn to face me. I am getting closer, closer until my hardened member begins to touch him. Without requiring much effort, I can feel myself start to erupt in a long-pent up volcanic reaction. Oh, the bliss, the absolute indefinable pleasure as I continue to thrust faster… faster… faster until…

I suddenly awake, sunlight streaming through a window.

My bed clothes are drenched in a mingling of sweat and ejaculatory remains. I have not had such a lucid experience since I was a young man at the height of my sexual prowess. As I come down from the orgasmic high I notice I am not in my bedroom. I am someplace quite foreign to me. I raise myself from the bed slightly, the sticky sheets falling from my naked torso… except it isn’t my body. My mind unable to comprehend or rationalize what I am seeing, I lay back down, letting myself sink into the softness beneath me as I close my eyes and fall back into a deep dreamless sleep.

I awake alone to a world of silent darkness. How long I have been asleep I do not know. There is just enough light coming through a window to eerily illuminate the room and wash it in blue shadows. As my eyes adjust to my environment I realize I am still in the same strange room. I must have had a very restless sleep as I have a very uncomfortable feeling from the now-dry sheets wrapped around my legs. I must get out of the bed, try to figure out what is happening. I reach out to a nearby lamp and flick the switch, brightness flooding the room and driving the shadows back into oblivion.

Pushing the sheets away from me, I rise from the bed and swing my feet over the edge, preparing to stand. My eyes go wide as I see legs and feet that are not my own. I hadn’t been dreaming earlier… I really am in a different body, one from what I can tell is much younger, much taller, and most definitely better built.

A wave of nausea comes across me as I start to stand, probably from the unfamiliar height and weight I now possess. I wait for the feeling to pass for what seems like hours. When my senses return to normal… hah, normal, what is normal now? … I see a pair of jeans and a maroon t-shirt. They look just like the clothes the young man that I was chasing was wearing. Is he somewhere in this place with me?

I call out. Nobody answers so I truly am alone. I guess that also means those clothes are mine. I can’t stand around naked, dirty from my ejaculate. There must be a bathroom here somewhere. I search for a few minutes before I find the door to my final destination. Entering I find the light switch and as the light comes on I see myself reflected in the mirror. Except, of course, it isn’t me. I was never this handsome or tall nor did I ever have such a killer body when I was this age. I turn slightly and flex, checking out every aspect of my new self. Yeah, I could learn to live like this. Why would I want to be an old man when I can be a young stud? I relieve myself and then take a quick shower. Ah, to feel youthfulness flowing through my veins once more. I had forgotten just what it was like to be young with so much life ahead, so much promise of things to come. I don’t know why this happened but I am not going to argue with whatever has given me this second chance. I kind of feel sorry for the kid, though. Especially if he has wound up in my body. Doesn’t seem fair but hey, whoever said life is fair?

Going back to the bedroom I put the t-shirt and jeans on. They may be tight against my body but boy do they feel great. By now it is daylight. Time to explore my world.

I step outside, a long flight of stairs leading to the street below in front of me. I make my way down, marveling at how easy it now is to go down the steps. No pain in my knees, no shortness of breath, and so much energy I feel like I could run a marathon twice over. I just can’t get enough so I go up and down the stairs a few times until I finally stop to sit near the bottom. I don’t know who I now am but that is the least of my concerns at the moment. There will be enough time to find out later. For now, I just want to enjoy being me.

I stand and start to walk briskly down the street. There is an early morning chill to the air and there are no other people around. I go around a corner and notice a blurry figure of a man. I can make out that he is older and not in the best of shape but other than that no details are clear. He starts to chase me but I can easily outpace him. I don’t want to make eye contact with him as that may encourage him so I make sure I keep my back to him. I dodge down streets until finally I come into a darkened alleyway. There is a door nearby that leads me into a dimly lit building. I stop, not sure why, like I am waiting for him to catch up to me. I am slightly sweaty from running but nowhere near spent. It is warm in here, very warm. Sweltering. I am not in control as my body strips itself of my clothes. I can hear him approaching me from behind but I cannot turn and face him. I can smell the sweat from his exertion and even as he touches me I am unable to move. He starts to thrust and as his thrusts become faster I can tell I am being ripped from my beautiful body but I am powerless to do anything about it. The world is swimming, going black. Why? Why was I given the chance to be young and beautiful only to have it taken from me? I can feel myself dropping to the floor, my consciousness fading.

I’m too damn old for this. I have no idea why I am chasing after some shadowy figure down streets I don’t know. I had spotted him when he had come around a corner near where I was standing. For some reason, I felt compelled to follow and then chase him, running as if my life depended on catching this guy. From the way he is running I would say he is a lot younger than I am as well as a lot taller and better built.

Somehow this all seems very familiar as if I have done this before. Reality hits me with a dose of Deja vu. I am powerless to stop what is going to happen, what has happened many times prior. God help me. Am I doomed to run this chase eternally?

[phedra01]

[hauntedpolicedream]

Anyone for a ride?

[soul-controller]

Rent-A-Stripper

“Uh oh… looks like the stripper’s here!” someone loudly shouted out. As he let out some hoots and hollers, the noisy room immediately grew quiet. In an impressive synchronization, everyone’s heads quickly spun around as their eyes directed right onto the shirtless torso of the late stranger. While the hunky man rubbed some oil onto his body, no one even questioned who hired the stripper or even where the best man that had thrown this party had gone. The only thing on their minds were the intense levels of lust they had for the newest arrival to the party. If only they had known that the buff stripper was in fact the nerdy best man…  

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Just a few hours prior, Peter, the nerdy best man, had received a package in the mail from some new stripper service that he had ordered off of a website from a few days prior. The company was seemingly just created as they offered a grand opening discount for Peter upon his entrance into the site. While perusing through the gallery, he took note of all the men and women of different races and body types. Despite knowing that he needed a man for his best friend Keith’s bachelor party, it was still quite hard for Peter to narrow down who he wanted to perform. Peter knew that Keith had quite the hard-on for the cocky jock types, so he was trying desperately to find someone that evoke the same kind of vibe. Reaching the last page, he was losing confidence on finding the right person to do this party. But when his cursor hovered over the profile of Cody, he felt like he had struck gold. 

With well-maintained hair, a buff physique, and the cocky grin displayed on his profile photo, Peter knew that Cody was the only option to perform at his best friend’s party. Ever since high school, Keith had always told him how much he thirsted over the types of guys that looked like this. Given it was his best friend’s last night of freedom, he decided it was the least he could do for Keith. It made Peter smile at the thought of giving Keith the ability to fulfill his fantasy before he was married off to his twinky fiancé Lincoln. So, in his haste, he ignored reading any more information about the stripper and immediately paid for it with his credit card. Given how hot the man was, he didn’t want someone else to snatch Cody. Within minutes, an email confirmed his purchase and stated that the stripper was reserved for a day and that a package would be sent containing all of the necessary materials.

With just a few hours now until the party, Peter began to grow more and more anxious as he had heard nothing involving the stripper’s arrival. He emailed the company, who only confirmed that the stripper would be there for the party. As if on cue, a knock on the door made him jump up in shock. When he opened the door, he wasn’t greeted by the sexy visage of the stripper but rather a delivery man with a hefty box sat on the doorstep. Assuming that the box must be the stripper’s materials, Peter signed to receive the heavy box and dragged it into his place. 

Feeling the heft of the box, Peter grew unsure as to why the stripper required so many materials for a simple bachelor party routine. Curious to see what was inside, he grabbed his car keys and sliced through the tape and opened the flaps of the box. Immediately, Peter gasped in shock as he came face to face with the face of Cody laying face up. However, the expression on his face lacked any life and his skin looked odd. Fearing that the stripper was somehow dead, he gingerly poked the shriveled up man. However, upon touching the man, he grew incredibly confused as he felt the rubber-like sensation of the stripper’s skin.

In shock, he grabbed the shoulders of the stripper and pulled upwards as he realized he was staring at the lifeless husk of his requested stripper. Despite the body being hollowed out, there was still intense weight within the husk. Upon taking the skinsuit completely out of the box, a piece of paper flew in the air and landed at Peter’s feet. Unsure where to place the suit, he rested the suit across the length of his couch and bent downwards. Upon grabbing the note, he was desperate for answers and began to read through the contents of the note.

Thank you for renting Cody!

For this 24 hour rental, this skinsuit will allow you to seamlessly gain the body you chose. To use it, please undress completely and pull your body into the suit. Upon allowing the suit to cover every inch of your skin, the suit’s outer layer will merge with your body and give you complete sensory control as if you truly are them. 

We hope you enjoy your purchase!

Peter’s eyes went wide as he realized what he had rented. He dropped the note and rushed over his computer to check out the website he used to purchase it. Eager to get answers, Peter sent several emails and did a series of calls to customer service. However, the calm customer service representatives stated that he was unable to get a refund due to his complete negligence in terms of reading the profile of Cody or even the site as a whole. The profile description clearly stated that it was a suit rental, so he scolded himself for rushing into this purchase that left him out $200.

Looking at the clock and realizing that time was running out, Peter knew that he would be unable to get a real stripper within the next couple hours for the party. “He better be fucking thankful that I care so much about him…” Peter huffed as he stared at the suit spread out on the couch and gave in. A gay bachelor party would be a total bomb without a stripper and Peter didn’t want to ruin his best friend’s party. 

Despite how strange and peculiar this was, Peter began to undress. As the clothes were peeled off of his body, he couldn’t help but look at the body on the couch. Even as a lifeless husk, Cody was much more intimidating and attractive than Peter. Looking down at himself, he stared at his pale frame and frowned. While staring at Cody’s chiseled abs, Peter’s fingers ran across his torso and curved around the beginner gut that he had spent months concealing with baggier clothing. Peter couldn’t help but find it funny that his torso was hairier than Cody’s, but as he stared, he couldn’t deny that the random tufts of hair on his chest and stomach weren’t intimidating in the slightest.

Now fully nude, Peter shook his head at the unbelievable situation he found himself in. With no other options, he grabbed the hefty suit and turned it around to search for some sort of opening to slide into. However upon his inspection, he found no clear hole to enter. Not having any other options, Peter awkwardly grabbed the mouth of the skin suit and began to stretch it out to abnormal levels. Figuring that this was the only option, he sat onto the couch and continued tugging on the mouth. With several attempts, he tried to move his feet towards the insanely agape mouth. After several moments of struggling, he was able to navigate both of his feet into the interior of the suit. It was strange due to the fact that the suit felt incredibly warm. The farther he navigated his feet down into the appropriate sections of the suit, he felt the suit adjusting to make his legs perfectly fit into the hollow legs of Cody. 

With the suit perfectly attached at the knee-level, Peter curiously looked down and wiggled his toes, watching the larger feet move in response. It was shocking, but as he looked at the clock, he knew he didn’t have time to fool around and take as much time as he wanted. His legs continued to push further into the suit until he was firmly attached from below the crotch. He took one last look at his unimpressive package and pulled the suit over it. Watching the crotch, he watched as the collapsed husk that was Cody’s penis quickly filled up and became lifelike as it took on its appropriate shape.

Grabbing the suit once more, he continued to pull up and watched as his gut disappeared from existence and a series of hunky abdominal muscles replaced it. With his body being entirely Cody’s from below the chest, Peter slid his arms into the flaccid arm sockets and watched as they grew firm and he regained movement of his new arms. In his continued haste, he took a deep breath as he grabbed the remaining loose section of the suit situated around his neck. He took one last look with the last remaining part of his real body and pulled the suit up and over his own head.

In an instant, his vision went black as his head morphed and transformed so it could perfectly fit into the head of the stripper. Eventually, his eyes were able to open once more and he realized that the process was complete. It was over and now he was completely in the suit… He was Cody now. He twisted his arms as he looked at his newfound biceps and grinned as he threw them into a flex and watched the muscle bulge out in response.

Looking downward, his hands gripped onto his new package and stared at the long cock that now was in his possession. As his hands moved up and down the rapidly firming manhood, he chuckled and just imagined how much fun he could have at the clubs if he had a body like this. This was the type of dick that would even make the biggest male porn stars envious. “This body is smoking hot!” he said, his dick twitching in response as he heard the deep new voice he now had rather than his original nasally one.

A jingle from his wall clock alarmed him that he had 30 minutes until the party officially began. His dick quickly softened in response as he rushed back to the box and tried to see if there were any clothes that he could wear. As he searched through the box, the only clothes he discovered was a pair of black briefs and a pair of jeans. Along with the clothes, Peter grabbed a small body of oil that would definitely show off his new frame. 

After quickly throwing on the clothes, he grabbed his keys and sped off in his car. The location of the party was a good 45 minutes away from his place, but with a body like this, Peter figured that it would be fine to make a fashionably late entrance…

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“So, who’s the groom-to-be huh?” Peter asked, flashing a wide smile and outstretching his arms. While the audience of the party cheered for the groom to come up to the front, another secondary change began to happen for Peter. The company that he had rented this stripper from prided themselves on realistic strippers in both body and mind. So, they included a special type of solution to give any wearers the perfect personality to match their body choice. Whenever there was a request for a stripper, the company slyly put this formula into the bottle of oil, the same bottle of oil that Peter had just spread all over his body. It didn’t take long before the solution was at work and rewriting Peter’s shy personality. By the time Keith had made it up to the front, shyness and modesty was out the door and replaced with a cocky demeanor of a man who loved to show off his hunky body.

This was abundantly clear when Peter locked eyes with the blushing groom. He looked down and stared at the slight tenting occurring in the man’s pants and chuckled. “Well, do you like what you see?” he asked, throwing his arms and flexing for Keith. “Uh yeah, you look amazing…” Keith said, still bashful and awkward about what was going on. As the soon-to-be married man stared at the stripper in front of him, he couldn’t deny his attraction to the man. He had to give it to Peter, he sure knew how to pick out the perfect stripper for him. Keith just felt bad that Peter wasn’t here to enjoy the sight of the hunky stripper as well.

With firmness, Peter pulled the man closer and grabbed onto his arms. He placed Keith’s arms onto his biceps and flexed for him, chuckling as Keith ran his hands along the muscles in a transfixed state of lust. Taking his hands once more, Peter led Keith down his torso and let his fingers flow up and down as they ran across his rippled abs. Peter chuckled as Keith’s hands accidentally ventured lower and his fingers gingerly ran across the semi-hard cock concealed within denim. 

“How about we go somewhere more private?” Peter said as he flashed the cocky grin that he rightfully assumed would have the reserved man quaking in his boots. With no resistance whatsoever, the stripper pulled on Keith’s arm and led him up the stairs. The crowd continued to hoot and holler in encouragement as the nervous man looked back with bright pink cheeks and lost puppy dog eyes.

Leading the engaged man into a random bedroom, Peter threw Keith onto the bed and kneeled on top of him. “So, what would you like to do huh? I’m up for anything…” Peter said as he grinded against Keith’s throbbing crotch. “Um… I-, I don’t know. I’m not sure what to do…” Keith said with a face that showcased expressions of both anxiety and lust. Peter continued to grind on the man and pulled the man’s arms up to touch his torso. “Feel free to grab anywhere you’d like. I don’t mind…” Peter said as the man grew more and more flustered by just how attractive and open the stripper was with him. 

However, things soon took a turn that the stripper was not expecting at all. “No, stop please!” Keith screamed out, causing Peter to move to the side and allow the awkward man to sit up and pace around the room. “I’m… I’m sorry but I can’t do this. I appreciate the fact that they hired you but I’m not comfortable enough for this. Feel free to go back to the party or go home, but I can’t do this…” He said as he rushed past the jock and ran into the connected bathroom. 

As Keith slammed the door behind him, Peter was left in awe at what had just happened. The stripper persona had never had something like this before and it left him needy for appreciation and respect. When he heard the man’s quiet sobs from inside the bathroom, he took that as his sign to get out of there. He was a stripper not a therapist, so he knew he wouldn’t be able to help the flustered man deal with his issues. Exiting the bedroom, the pulsating beats of the music downstairs beckoned to him. Based on all of the looks he got upon his arrival, Peter knew that he would be able to get the levels of admiration he desired from those other partygoers.

Walking back into the party after that disappointing private show, Peter was desperate for the partygoers to notice his re-appearance. “Hey bros, in which direction is the alcohol?” Peter said as he flexed once more and jokingly pointed into various directions. The real Peter would have been ashamed of his behavior, but the Cody persona that had infiltrated his mind lived for it. Within moments, a sea of men had begun to crowd around him offering tons of drinks. He chuckled and grabbed a beer before taking a swig. “Ah, that hits the spot. Poor Keith couldn’t hang with me, but I’m still in the mood to show off my goods if you fellas are interested…” he said with a lustful tone. It usually wasn’t his style to hook up with the partygoers, but he got paid to make the party a hit. It’s not his fault that the groom-to-be was too reserved to enjoy his private show. If he can’t make him happy, he’d be more than willing to make the rest of the party happy instead. Plus, this party had quite the few hunks here, so Peter wouldn’t mind spending some intimate time with the partygoers.

With one more attempt to draw in any potential suitors, Peter flexed once more for his lustful fans. One-by-one, they slowly approached the stripper and began to rub his body. As they admired each and every muscle, Peter’s own manhood began to grow firm until it began to wage a war against the tight constraints of his jeans. From there, Peter soon found himself on a whirlwind of passion and lust. Massaging his muscles turned into slapping his ass, which turned the mass admiration session into a much more sexual game. Peter’s tongue soon grazed the mouths of every horny partygoer, and in response, their mouths soon moved further south to pleasure the cocky jock. 

Upon his arrival back into his apartment the next afternoon, Peter grew incredibly drowsy and gave up on reaching his bed. Looking for a quick alternative, the intoxicated and lewd man immediately passed out on the couch. After a passionate night of lust with several men, Peter felt quite worn out. It was no surprise that he was out as soon as his head hit the couch cushion. While unconscious, the man slept for hours until he had unknowingly passed the time limit of his 24-hour rental. With no more time remaining, the suit began to start the process of rejecting its host. It took only a few minutes before the suit had spit out the average nerd and fallen onto the floor.

By the time Peter woke up, Peter’s original personality had completely re-emerged. This was abundantly clear by his bashful gasp as he woke up and discovered his complete nudity on his couch. However, despite the real Peter not being directly involved in the events of the previous night and the intense intoxication while in the suit, he was somehow able to retain all of the memories of his 24 hours of fun. 

As Peter replayed the events over and over in his head, he couldn’t deny the fact that he wanted to have another opportunity to try these suits out. Despite his reservations about the mental changes he realized he had encountered, he was eager to try it once more. Thinking about it, he pondered the idea of becoming Cody once more or trying someone new. Maybe he’d try out a female body instead and live life on the other side of the gender spectrum. Like Keith, he too enjoyed thirsting over straight men, so the idea of hooking up with one of those guys was incredibly intriguing to him. He was sure he could find a girl suit that would be irresistible to the type of jock he just was. Upon returning to the website to take a closer look, Peter realized that his possibilities were endless. However, there was one thing that he knew for sure, his next purchase from the site would be sooner rather than later…

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[2135491-1945312]

[hauntedpolicedream]

What do you call a group of leather clad hunks??

Beautiful.

[guyfeetsocks]

[hauntedpolicedream]

Yeah baby. Look at these guns. You like ‘em? You want to taste ‘em? I’ll let ya but there is a price to pay. Are you willing to pay any price I ask, no matter what? What do ya say, boy?

[ben-hd]

[hauntedpolicedream]

Smiling? Of course I’m smiling. I just went from zero to a perfect ten on the stud scale. I think I deserve to smile. You want to find out what else I have to smile about?

[crowatte]

[lthrdman-deactivated20230113]

Gorgeous looking LEATHERMAN. Sooo HOT