I have been a friend of Alexei for almost a year. He was the biggest guy in the gym, but he was also very welcoming. I remember how intimidated I felt when I entered that place for the first time. I was very skinny, I felt judged by all the big dudes around me, and I have no fucking clue of what I was doing. I am certain that some of the guys laugh at me, but not Alexei. He approached me and corrected my form. Soon, we began to talk and became friends with each other. He took me as his personal project and, oh man, his methods were effective. Soon I started to build muscle and, I have to be honest here, I would always be grateful to all his help.
I quickly learned a lot of things about the guy. Unsurprisingly, he loved going to the gym. But he was not just a meathead. No, he was a certified pilot, he speaks more than five languages, and he even was a local champion on jujitsu. On paper, he was the complete package. However, there was something weird about him. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what my issue was with him. Maybe some of his expressions, his attitudes… that he got extremely defensive whenever we talked about law enforcement. Yeah, he was hiding something. Still, he was my friend, so I let it go.
Then it happened, we were working out when Alexei received a phone call. He seemed agitated. He started yelling, I believe that it was Russian, and he just abruptly left the building. I was confused. Was he in trouble? I was his friend, I wanted to help, so I decided to follow him. I chased him for a couple of blocks but before I could reach him I stumbled with a naked man. He was a very short man, very slim and a bit old. He looked me in the eyes. I felt that I knew him from somewhere. He just said sorry and he continued running.
I was so confused. I kept walking and found Alexei on the ground. I rushed to his side, trying to see if he was ok. But the moment that I touched him, his skin deflated like a balloon. I panicked, this was not normal. My friend has been transformed into an empty skin. Then I thought about that naked weirdo… could he be… it's crazy… could he have been the real Alexei? I didn’t know what to do. I just knew that staying there could be dangerous. I could have left Alexei skin there, but I just folded it and took it with me.
The skin stayed in my apartment for a couple of days. Then curiosity got the best of me. Yeah! I grabbed Alexei's flesh, experimented with it and realized that the mouth was extremely stretchy. I couldn’t believe that I was going to do this. I took off my clothes and proceeded to put on his skin. I started with my feet. The skin’s inside felt extremely warm and a bit slimy. I struggled to move my toes to the bottom of his body; but, once I was able to align them with his, I felt a weird sensation. Even though Alexei’s wear bigger size of shoes, I could perfectly control every bit of his feet. To the touch it felt real as if they were mine. That was a moment of excitement. I moved the skin up. The moment that my cock entered the corresponding hole, I just got extremely aroused. Then I pull the arms, align the chest and finally I stretch the face and cover my face.
It was just a couple of seconds in darkness. When I opened my eyes I rushed to the restroom. Shit! my eye color changed to match Alexei’s. I speak and I have small traces of his Russian accent. Fuck! This was amazing. I spent all day playing with my borrowed skin. I flexed his muscles, I said phrases that Alexei would say, and… of course, I dedicated my time to satisfy my lust. Then I dressed in my old clothes, too small, but was the only thing that I had at hand. I thought that I may need to go to Alexei’s place in order to get something that fits my frame. And that is when I realized something. Alexei never invited me to his place, but I knew where he lived. I tried to speak Russian and I could. I knew I could access his memories, I could take fully over his life.
Of course, I went to his place. I knew where he hid a spare key. However, when I approached the door a guy jumped on me. It was a member of the bratva, the Russian mafia. I was bigger than him and Alexei was a jujitsu champion. I was able to subdue him and he was willing to talk. That is how I learned everything. The mafia needed to transport drugs, that is why they transformed several members of the airport into wearable fleshes. Alexei was a mistake, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, they allowed a senior member to take his flesh as a type of reward. He just needed to zip it in order to keep his body, but the man that was wearing Alexei’s flesh was a greedy one. He stole from the bratva and even made a couple of anonymous calls to the police. That is what led to this moment.
Sure, I didn't want any problems with the mafia. I was willing to give this flesh back. However, the man in front of me stopped me. He confessed that he felt attracted to the real Alexei. He said that he was willing to let me stay on that flesh under two conditions. First, that I will keep my mouth shut; and second, that I will play with him on the bed every other month. Of course I accepted his terms. That was a small price to pay to have this amazing flesh.
So now look at me, tell me that I don't look amazing in Alexei's pilot uniform. Shit! Living his life is amazing. I love piloting planes, I love lifting weights, I love my time training for the next Jujitsu tournament. Yeah, I do not love the arrangement that I have, but I was not worried about it. I grabbed a job in an airline with no connections with the bratva… so practically I have no more connections with them. And for Boris, well… Being in the mafia is a dangerous job. Sooner or later he will be killed and then I will finally be free to enjoy this life as I want.
Yeah... that's right man. In a few moments, that precious body is going to be mine. You better enjoy your last few minutes before I swap us and call myself Lucas Alvarez.
You see, I have this unfortunate 'curse' given to me by my ex-boyfriend that makes it so every 24 hours, I'm forced into the body of the person nearest me and we swap places. He used it to steal my body and now I'm forever stuck with new names and faces that I will never grow used to.
At first, I really did think of it as a curse. I woke up the first day as my ex. It was weird being him for a day. All I wanted to do was punch my own face and humiliate him but couldn't really bring myself to do it. I had no idea how the curse worked so when I suddenly swapped into his mom, I was really in for a shock. Fast forward a few decades and here I still am.
My latest sight was this gym rat, Lucas. He was sexy, hairy, tall, muscular, and unfortunately very straight. The way he ogled other women in the gym and offered to give them 'advice' was honestly sickening. Still though, he had a deep voice that sent shivers down my spine and a handsome jockish face that was wasted on an absolute trash personality.
So now's the time to let you know that I have 5 minutes left before the swap occurs. I've just so happened to put myself in the hottest chick in the gym and I couldn't wait to swap with that beefcake. He's already been watching me from across the gym so this should be easy... I can't wait to swap into Lucas, try on his clothes, sniff his underwear and socks, pound some twinks, and absolutely humiliate myself.
"Hey, you're lifting that weight wrong you know..." Lucas says as he coolly comes up to me at the gym.
"Oh really? Well maybe you can show me." I say in my body's voice as I accept his invitation.
Nasser took a deep breath, lifting one arm overhead while bringing the other across his chest in a classic side-flex pose, feeling the satisfying burn in his biceps and shoulders. His torso twisted slightly, making the hard lines of his abs pop, each muscle defined and tense. He held the pose, eyes following the sharp contours of his chest, the peaks of his biceps, and the tightness in his core.
“Not bad,” he muttered under his breath, a small, proud grin sneaking onto his face as he admired the result of all his work, holding the flex just a bit longer.
Lost in the moment, he adjusted his stance, shifting his weight and admiring each line and curve as he moved. But just as he leaned in closer to the mirror, the locker room door swung open. Nasser froze, catching the stare of the other man, eyebrows raised.
“Oh, uh… my bad!” the guy chuckled, trying not to laugh.
Face instantly heating up, Nasser dropped his arms and grabbed his gym shirt, clearing his throat. “All good, man,” he mumbled, quickly looking away and wiping the sweat from his forehead, pretending he hadn’t just been caught admiring his physique. He’d always been humble about his looks and felt awkward flaunting himself in front of others. For Nasser, his hard work was personal—he didn’t like to boast.
The man who walked in on him however did, especially when he was up to no good...
-----
I didn't come to the gym for a workout, but rather a perfect moment like this. I leaned against the door frame, grinning as I watched him scramble to pick up his shirt. Poor guy looked like a deer in headlights. Nasser wasn’t just any guy at the gym—he had this natural humility about him that only made him more of a target for what I could do.
And he didn't even know it yet.
As Nasser packed up, he kept his head down, shoving his water bottle and gloves into his gym bag. As he continued, I placed down my stuff on the bench next to his, pretending to mind my own business. I kept my movements casual, letting my presence settle in close. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him glance over, quick and subtle, like he was trying to figure out why I’d suddenly planted myself right next to him when the rest of the locker room was free.
I have to act quick. Just as he started putting on his shirt over his head, I shifted a little closer, close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating off him and a waft of a mixture of his deodorant and his hard earned musk. Fuck, he smells nice... I can't wait to take it all in... more intimately. In a smooth, practiced move, I reached out, connecting touching his exposed back before he could put on his shirt.
"W-what the-" Nasser let out a small yelp. Before he could turn around, my arms and torso was already making their way in as I fully immersed myself into the back of his frame. Nasser moaned, just as my head went in with the rest of my body, and a rush of heat filled me as I fully took over. I straightened up, letting his body adjust to my control. I started with flexing his fingers, rolling his shoulders back to feel the satisfying weight of his solid frame.
“Oh hell yeah... this will do,” I muttered, hearing his voice come out of his mouth. My mouth. Looking at my new reflection, I saw Nasser gazing back with an arrogant smug expression as I tossed his shirt aside without a second thought. Time to pick things back off where Nasser left them.
Lifting his—my—arms overhead, I struck a pose in the mirror, letting the light catch every line and curve of his body.
“Mmm damnnnn, yeah I'm fucking hot,” I boasted with his projected voice, flexing his bicep and feeling his muscles stretch and burn , drinking in every angle of his sweaty body as I leaned forward, bringing his face closer to the mirror.
"Looking pretty damn good, aren’t we?” I chuckled, using his voice in a way he never would—cocky, dripping with confidence. Nasser would have been modest, but I was more than ready to show off everything he’d built.
Arm still raised, I look at his sweaty pits in the mirror and grinned. I lowered one arm, bringing it down, my hand tracing the defined lines of his obliques before reaching his armpit. I let my fingers linger there, enjoying the warmth, the masculine scent that felt almost primal.
“OooOooh… fuck,” I whispered, closing my eyes briefly, breathing in the heady scent that clung to his skin. The scent of him—sweat, warmth, the unmistakable musk of a hard workout—filled my senses, grounding me in the reality of this body, this strength.
With a final whiff, I felt Nasser's body finally give in and start to stir for itself as his gym shorts began to strain against the growing swell in his groin. My eyes widened, a spark of excitement flaring up as I felt his body getting heated for himself.
It was time to test how much further this could go.
I dropped the flex, bringing his sweaty hands to his growing bulge. My heart raced and a warm tingle shot through me as his shaft swelled, thickening and pushing up against the fabric of his shorts. The pressure, the sensation, was overwhelming.
"Shit," I grunted, his breath coming out ragged and harsh.
I slipped his hands into his waistband, pulling his shorts and underwear down over the swell of his muscular ass, revealing his growing erection, which sprang up, the tip exposed, already leaking beads of pre-cum.
"Fucking hell," I gasped, wrapping his hand around his shaft and feeling his length twitch. With a firm grip, I began to slowly stroke his cock, savoring the sensation, the warmth, the pulsing, hard heat in his palm.
I took his hand and wiped the sweat off his glistening chest and abs, and smeared it over his throbbing cock. The smell, the heat, the slick friction... it was too much.
Gazing into the mirror at Nasser's reflection, I watched as I made him make various expressions while I explored his body further. His eyebrows furrowed together in pleasure, his mouth hung open, and his eyes were wild with need. It was fucking gorgeous to see him in such a state.
"Damn fuck yes," increasing the speed of my strokes on his cock.
Look at you, so fucking turned on." Bringing his other hand to his nipple, I directed him to tease it with his rough calloused fingers. The combination of sensations had him groaning and moaning, completely under my control.
"Oh shit that feels amazing..." I moaned. Hearing Nasser's moans leave my mouth was intoxicating.
I could hear footsteps approaching in the distance, but unlike Nasser, I didn't care. He was mine in this moment, and I relished in it.
"Nasser, you're so fucking hot," I gasped, the words escaping me in short breaths. "You're so fucking hot. You're so fucking hot." His voice lustfully repeated.
"D-didn't mean to stop showing off earlier" I made him say, keeping his gaze locked on the mirror as I continued making him rub one out.
"I'll make up for it now though," I teased with a mischievous grin on my lips.
With each passing second, the primal scent of sex grew stronger as he pumped himself faster and faster. Sweat dripped from his pits and mixed with precum on his shaft – it was a heady mix that drove his body wild.
"Yes! Yes! YES!" I yelled, his voice booming for anyone to hear.
Just as I got his body ready to cum, the door burst open.
"O-OHH fuUUUCK!" I yelped in surprise, Nasser's body seizing, his back arching and his hips bucking as his cock exploded in a thick rope of hot sticky cum, spattering his sweat-slick torso and abs with his seed.
The stranger looked at me in disbelief and I gasped catching my breath and grinned back in satisfaction, knowing my job was done .
"Sorry about that man," I chuckled while rubbing Nasser's seed all over his body and lapping some of the saltiness up, "how could I resist when I look like this"
I never intended to stay at his job when I took his body over. It's gonna be such a waste to keep a stud like him confined to corporate America, so I decided to went out in a blaze of glory.
After several times "accidentally" pulling off inappropriate conducts such as turned my cam off yet letting my mic picked up my moaning and groaning as I goon mid-meeting, getting my jeans soiled with my cum during an internal senior team gathering which only my team secretary noticed yet she reported it anyway to my direct lead, then retaliated to her by cornering her in the basement of the office where I eventually fucked her silly right inside her car before taking her to my place, I finally got the final blow when I "accidentally" sent my raunchy video to the CHRO who I know played it multiple times to get herself aroused because her husband is a limp-dicked, lame bald man that cannot satisfy her.
He did the reporting for her instead to our CEO, implicating her in the process of my downfall yet I was the only one fired which I replied with a "crashout" of giving them all a middle finger as I ripped my shirts off in the middle of the office after my exit interview before strutting out.
I don't give a fuck with what they thought of me, looking as hot as this clearly came with the benefit of being able to support my life through promiscuous online presence, which I pivot to easily since, once again, I have the goods now and the saving he gathered before my takeover which I instantly blow on sex toys, the latest gadgets to support my recording and all sorts of clothings that would fit my new himbo persona.
Now, I made equal my monthly salary from 1 live session and I did like 3 livestream everyday plus several private video calls to my high-paying clients that willingly forked their hard-earned cash to witness me depraving myself and making this buff body looking like a total himbo on cam. So, it comes with no surprise that I managed to get myself a brand new home with pool and sauna which become another occasional content I could pull off by simply roaming this place I confidently called home now. To top things off, I even noticed the former CHRO husband that reported me also joined my livestream, and I instantly pulled him aside for a private chat where he revealed all sort of facts about his closeted self and how he's turned very hard with the way I blew his plot to destroy me around and now he's the one hooked and in need of me to entertain him....
Do I regret any of the decision I take in the past? Stealing this life? Getting out from that boring job? Making this body a total himbo? Oh hell no, why should I regret this LOL?
"Bye-bye, asshole," I mocked in this tattooed sexy stud's deep voice, gripping his thick shaft as I pissed the homophobic prick's essence right into the urinal. Nothing gets me harder than peeing some bigoted jerk out of his own body like that.
My boyfriend and I were having a blast at the concert when our favorite song kicked in. We leaned in for a quick kiss, and that's when this drunk asshole behind us snarled "faggots," making his dumbass friends crack up laughing. My boyfriend looked hurt, but I was straight-up pissed. No way was this tool gonna ruin our special night.
I waited until the perfect moment hit—the homophobe finally separated from his group and stumbled drunk into the bathroom. I told my boyfriend I had to piss and followed the guy in.
The bathroom was packed, so I had to play it smart. I slipped into a stall, left my current host slumped on the toilet, and went ghost. Floating free, I fixated on the prick at the urinal and slid right up his tight ass. He jerked hard, body going rigid mid-stream, but nobody noticed.
Once I was fully in, I wasted no time turning his soul into pure piss and started unloading it. Watching that hateful bastard swirl down the drain got my new cock rock hard. When the flow finally stopped, I was packing a solid eight inches. I gave the shaft a couple of shakes to get the last drops, then zipped up.
Back out at the concert, I strolled past his group of buddies. They yelled his name, trying to wave me over, but I just ignored them and kept walking. I spotted my boyfriend in the crowd, tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned, I pulled him into a tight hug and planted a deep kiss on him.
He froze for a second, eyes wide, but he wasn't dumb, he knew well about my powers, so he melted into my arms, and we started full-on French kissing right there. Behind us, I could hear his friends freaking out.
"Dude, what the fuck? How many drinks did he have?"
"Bro, that's messed up. Let's bounce."
We broke the kiss, and I shot my boyfriend a smug grin.
"Babe, you really shouldn't have," he said, but he was already running his hands over my new pecs, smirking.
"You wouldn't be saying that if you saw my new dick," I teased, grabbing my new bulge and shaking it.
We dove back into another kiss, grinding through the rest of the show as if nothing had happened. When the concert wrapped, my boyfriend drove us home since my new body was still intoxicated. That night I fucked my boyfriend senseless with my fresh upgrade, both of us loving every second of the payback.
Man, you did not deserve this body, so I’m gonna be in charge for now.
I felt the exact moment I slid into you—like warm oil pouring into every muscle fiber, every vein, every throbbing inch of this perfect, sculpted beast. Your consciousness recoiled, a pathetic little whimper in the back of our shared skull, but I locked it down tight. You’re just a passenger now, bro. A helpless rider trapped in the cockpit while I take the wheel.
Hot water pounded down on us, steam curling around these massive shoulders you spent years carving in the gym. I flexed one arm slowly, watching the bicep peak like a mountain, water sluicing over every ridge and valley. Fuck, the weight of it—the raw power humming under the skin—was intoxicating. You never appreciated this. You posed in mirrors, sure, but you never really used it. Never pushed it. Never made it sing.
I laughed out loud—your deep voice rumbling in the tiled shower—and the sound made my new cock twitch. Already half-hard just from feeling the water drum against these thick pecs. I dragged a soapy hand down the center of your chest, fingers tracing the deep groove between them, thumb flicking over one nipple until it stiffened into a hard nub. You tried to protest, a faint mental squirm, but all it did was send a delicious shiver straight to my balls.
“Feel that?” I murmured aloud, gripping the heavy slab of your left pec and squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints. “This is mine now.”
Lower still. My palm skimmed over the ridged eight-pack you were so proud of, water cascading off the sharp V that pointed straight to the prize. Your cock—my cock now—was fully erect, thick and veined, curving up against the underside of those carved abs. Nine inches of prime meat, heavy and leaking at the tip. I wrapped one big hand around it and groaned, the sound echoing off the glass walls.
You never jerked off like this, did you? Slow, deliberate strokes, twisting over the swollen head, spreading the slick precum down the shaft until it gleamed. I leaned back against the cool tile, legs spread wide, thighs flexing as I pumped harder. Every vein in your forearms popped as I worked us over, water sluicing down the crack of this perfect ass. I reached back with my free hand, middle finger circling the tight ring of muscle you kept clenched like a scared virgin.
“Relax,” I growled, pushing inside without warning. One thick finger breaching that virgin hole, crooking to find the spot that made your hips buck involuntarily. Your muffled mental scream only made me thrust deeper, adding a second finger, stretching you open while I jerked that fat cock faster.
The pleasure was overwhelming—every nerve ending firing at once. The burn in your ass, the slick grip on your shaft, the water pounding sensitive skin. I edged us mercilessly, slowing whenever your balls drew up tight, denying release until you were a babbling mess in the back of my mind, begging for it.
Only when I decided we’d suffered enough did I let go. I slammed three fingers deep, milking your prostate while my fist flew over the shaft. Cum erupted in thick ropes, splattering the glass door, your abs, dripping down over my knuckles. I milked every last drop, shuddering as the aftershocks rolled through these powerful thighs.
I finally pulled my fingers free, licked them clean with your tongue, tasting the musky tang of your own ass. “That’s just round one,” I told your broken little consciousness, giving the still-hard cock a lazy stroke. “This body’s got stamina for days. And I plan to use every fucking inch of it.”
You’re going to watch me ruin you in the best possible way, bro. And you’re going to love every second of it.
I’ve always been obsessed with bodies like his—thick, powerful, sculpted from years of heavy iron and discipline. I’d been stalking his profile for months, saving every gym selfie, every flex video, every shot of those tree-trunk thighs straining against tiny maroon shorts and that cropped tank riding up to show the deep cuts of his abs. I knew every detail: the dark beard, the backward cap, the heavy chain around his neck, the way his biceps peak when he flexes. I wanted it. All of it. Not just to touch—to own.
Tonight, I finally did it.
I waited until I knew he was alone in the gym after hours—he always stays late on leg day, pushing that last burnout set. I sat in the dark at home, cock already hard in my hand, staring at the newest mirror selfie he’d posted just minutes ago. I stroked slowly, deliberately, whispering his name like a spell. The ritual was simple but filthy: every pulse of pleasure I fed into the photo, every drop of pre-cum I smeared across the screen over his flexed arm, was a tether. A hook. A claim.
I came hard, groaning, ropes of cum splattering the phone, dripping down over his digital abs. And in that exact moment of release, I pushed.
My consciousness tore free of my own weak, skinny body and shot forward like a missile, riding the current of raw lust straight into him.
The entry was pure, obscene ecstasy.
I slammed into the back of his skull just as he was mid-flex in the empty gym mirror, phone still raised for another shot. His body jolted—his thick shoulders twitched, his breath hitched—and I felt everything at once. The heavy weight of his pecs shifting as he inhaled. The pump burning in his quads, so full they felt ready to split the seams of those slutty little shorts. The sweat cooling on his tanned skin. And lower—fuck—the thick, half-hard cock trapped against his thigh, already swelling from the adrenaline of the workout.
He fought for a second. I felt his mind thrash, confused, trying to hold on. But I was relentless. I flooded him with my desire, shoving memories of jerking off to his pics down his throat like cum. I wrapped my will around his like a hand around that fat dick and squeezed. He buckled. His resistance melted into a pathetic whimper that echoed only in the space between us, and then he was sliding backward, shrinking, forced out of his own nerves and muscles and skin.
I pushed him all the way out.
His soul slipped free with a wet, spiritual pop, leaving the body empty and waiting—just for me.
I settled in like I was sliding into a warm, tight hole that had been waiting to be fucked.
The first full breath I took in his lungs was intoxicating. Deep, powerful, filling a chest far broader than mine had ever been. I flexed his right arm experimentally—the bicep ballooned, hard and round, veins popping across the peak. A low, involuntary moan rumbled out of his throat—my throat now. The voice was deeper, rougher, sexier than I’d imagined.
I looked into the mirror and saw him staring back. But the eyes were mine now—hungry, predatory.
I let the phone drop to the floor with a clatter and brought both hands up, running them greedily over the body I’d just stolen. Palms slid over sweat-slick pecs, thumbs brushing his stiff nipples until they ached. Down the ridges of his abs, tracing every deep line. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of those tiny maroon shorts and tugged them lower, just enough to free the heavy cock that sprang up against his abs—my abs now—already fully hard, thick, uncut, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
I wrapped his big hand around it and groaned again, louder this time. The grip felt perfect—calloused from years of gripping bars, strong enough to squeeze just right. I gave one slow stroke, foreskin gliding over the swollen head, and the pleasure hit like a drug. Ten times stronger than anything my old body had ever felt. His balls—my balls—hung heavy, full, drawn up tight from the sudden rush of arousal.
I leaned closer to the mirror, watching his handsome face twist with raw lust as I started pumping faster. Sweat dripped down his neck, over the chain, between his pecs. I licked his lips, tasting salt. I flexed his free arm again, admiring the pump, the size, the power that was finally mine.
“Fuck yes,” I growled in his deep voice. “This body is mine now.”
I’m just getting started. I haven’t even made him cum in the gym mirror yet. I haven’t stripped these shorts off all the way, haven’t bent over the bench and spread these thick cheeks, haven’t felt what it’s like to edge this stolen cock for hours…
I couldn’t stay in the gym forever—even though part of me wanted to drop those shorts, bend over the weight bench, and fuck this new body raw right there under the fluorescent lights, mirrors on every side watching me claim what was mine. But the risk of getting caught only made my stolen cock throb harder. I edged myself mercilessly for twenty minutes, slow strokes turning into frantic pumps, smearing pre-cum over the swollen head until my balls ached, then forcing myself to stop. Every time I got close, I flexed—pec bounce, ab crunch, quad pop—just to feel the power surge, to remind myself this wasn’t a dream. This body was mine now.
I finally tucked the leaking dick back into those tight maroon shorts (it made an obscene bulge, the outline unmistakable) and grabbed his gym bag. Walking out felt unreal—those massive legs carrying me with easy, heavy strides, the pump making every muscle feel swollen and alive. The chain bounced against my new pecs. Sweat cooled on my skin. I drove his car home on pure instinct, one hand on the wheel, the other palming my bulge at every red light, squeezing just enough to keep the edge.
The second I stepped inside his apartment, I stripped.
The cropped tank came off first—peeled it over my head and let it drop, watching in the hallway mirror as the full torso came into view. Fuck, those pecs were even bigger up close, heavy slabs striated with veins, nipples dark and stiff from the cool air. I bounced them deliberately, left then right, groaning at how they moved under my control. Then the shorts—hooked my thumbs in and shoved them down, kicking them aside. The cock sprang free again, fully hard now, curving up thick and proud against my abs. Balls heavy, drawn tight. I gave it one long stroke, just to feel the weight in this big hand, then forced myself to stop again.
I needed to savor this.
I crashed onto the couch, sprawled back exactly like in the photo you just sent—head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that post-workout glow still shining on my skin. Curly hair a mess from the cap I’d tossed aside. Beard thick and dark. The little gold hoop earring catching the light. Chest heaving slow and deep, every breath making those massive pecs rise and fall like they were built for worship.
I ran both hands over them now, slow and greedy. Palms sliding through the light dusting of hair, thumbs circling the nipples until they ached. I pinched hard—gasped in his deep voice, cock jumping against my abs, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum. One hand stayed on a pec, kneading the thick muscle, feeling it flex and harden under my fingers. The other trailed lower, tracing every ridge of the eight-pack, dipping into the deep V that pointed straight to the prize.
I spread my thighs wide, feet planted on the floor, letting the heavy cock bob free in the air. Took it in a loose grip and just held it—feeling the pulse, the heat, the sheer size that my old body could never match. Slow strokes started again, foreskin gliding smooth and wet. Every pump made my pecs twitch, my abs tighten. I watched myself in the phone camera propped up on the coffee table, recording every second of this private takeover.
“This is my chest now,” I growled low, voice rumbling through the broad cavity. “These tits are mine to play with. This cock is mine to edge until I decide to blow.”
I’m not done yet. I haven’t flipped over on this couch, ass up, and spread these thick cheeks wide to see what this body feels like from behind. Haven’t tasted my own cum shooting across these pecs. Haven’t even started thinking about what I’ll do tomorrow—wearing his sluttiest clothes, hitting the gym again, maybe finding someone to use this body on…
I couldn't take it anymore on the couch—the edge was too sharp, balls throbbing like they were about to burst, pre-cum dripping in thick strings down the shaft every time I flexed. I needed more. Needed to see everything this body had to offer, slick and shining under better light.
I hauled myself up, heavy cock swinging between my thighs as I walked naked through the apartment, feeling the weight of it slap against my legs with every step. The bathroom door was already cracked open—steam still lingering from his earlier shower, mirror fogged at the edges. Perfect.
I grabbed the bottle of body oil from the shelf (he kept it right there, the slut—probably for exactly this kind of worship). Poured a thick stream into my palm and started rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles over these massive pecs. The oil made them gleam, highlighting every striation, every vein snaking across the slabs. I worked it lower, over the abs, into the deep grooves, watching them pop and shine like they were carved from bronze. Thighs next—quads so thick my hands barely spanned them, hamstrings flexing as I shifted weight. Calves diamond-hard. Every muscle responded instantly to my touch, like the body was eager to be used, claimed deeper.
Then I turned to the mirror, phone in one hand, and let the oil drip lower.
The cock was half-hard from all the teasing, hanging heavy and thick, foreskin pulled back just enough to show the fat head glistening. I poured oil straight onto it—watched it run down the shaft in shiny rivulets, pooling around the base in that thick bush of dark hair. Wrapped my big, oiled hand around it and gave a slow, twisting stroke from root to tip. The sensation was filthy—slick, hot, the foreskin gliding effortlessly now, head swelling fatter with every pass.
I groaned deep in his throat, eyes half-closed just like in the shot, beard framing that smug, horny face that's mine now. The oil made everything shine obscene under the bathroom light—pecs heaving, abs clenched, cock growing fully rigid in my grip, curving up thick and veined against the oiled abs. Balls hanging low and heavy, slick and swinging as I pumped faster.
"Fuck, look at this body," I muttered, voice rough and low, echoing off the tiles. "Oiled up like a whore. This fat dick is all mine to stroke whenever I want."
I edged harder now—hand flying up and down the oiled shaft, thumb smearing across the head on every upstroke, collecting more pre-cum to mix with the oil. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, wet and loud. I flexed one arm behind the phone, bicep peaking huge and round, veins bulging under the oil. The other hand never stopped—squeezing the base, milking upward, making the cock twitch and leak.
I'm not cumming yet. Not until I've turned around, spread these oiled cheeks in the mirror, seen how tight and perfect this ass looks shining. Not until I've tasted the oil mixed with pre-cum off my fingers. Not until I've decided if I'm posting this nude on his accounts, letting everyone see what I've stolen...
The oil was everywhere—slick down my pecs, abs, thighs, coating that thick cock in a shiny sheath that made every stroke feel like fucking a tight, wet hole. I turned around in front of the mirror, bent forward, spread these massive cheeks wide with both hands. The sight was obscene: glutes round and hard, oiled up and flexing, that tight pink hole winking under the light, untouched but begging to be claimed now that I'm in control. I slapped one cheek hard—watched it ripple, groaned deep as the sting shot straight to my balls. Fingered the rim just once, teasing, promising myself I'd wreck this ass later with toys, fingers, whatever I want.
But the pressure was building lower—balls so full they ached, bladder twitching from the workout hydration and all the edging. I couldn't hold it anymore. Cock still rock-hard and leaking, I stumbled to the toilet, dropped down heavy on the seat exactly like in the pic—legs spread wide, thighs bulging, chain dangling between these oiled pecs. Slipped on his reflective sunglasses from the counter (the cocky bastard kept them in here for exactly these kinds of selfies), hiding my predatory eyes behind the mirrored lenses as I aimed the phone for one last shot.
The first stream hit the bowl loud and strong—hot piss gushing out of my stolen cock in a thick arc, relief flooding through this powerful body. But fuck, the sensation was too good. The release, the vulnerability of sitting there exposed, legs splayed, heavy balls resting on the seat, cock throbbing as the stream pulsed. A drop of pre-cum mixed with the piss, dripping from the fat head. I couldn't resist.
I wrapped one oiled hand around the shaft mid-stream, started stroking slow while still pissing—filthy, forbidden, the warmth splashing over my fingers as I pumped. The sunglasses reflected everything: my smug face twisted in pleasure, beard dark against tanned skin, pecs heaving with every breath. The chain swung as I jerked faster, piss tapering off into pure pre-cum now, slicking the glide.
"Fuck yes," I growled, voice echoing off the bathroom walls. "Pissing and stroking in your body... my body. Gonna cum so hard everyone hears it."
Hand flew now—twisting at the head, squeezing the base, milking every inch of this thick, veined cock. Balls drew up tight, abs clenched into steel ridges. I bounced the pecs one last time, pinched a nipple hard, and lost it.
The orgasm hit like a freight train—whole body flexing, quads popping, glutes clenching on the seat as rope after thick rope shot out. Cum splattered my oiled abs, chest, even hit the chain and dripped down between the pecs. I milked it relentlessly, groaning loud and deep, sunglasses hiding the roll of my eyes as wave after wave emptied these heavy balls I'd been edging for hours.
Finally spent, cock twitching in my grip, cum pooling in the ridges of my abs, piss and oil and seed all mixed in the filthiest mess. I leaned back, breathing hard, admiring the wreckage in the mirror.
This body is mine forever now. Possessed, claimed, used exactly how I want.
That's the thing that makes everything else unbearable — not the cold of the table, not the hum of the fluorescents, not even the way my own heartbeat sounds louder than it should inside a skull that's become a sealed room. It's that I am a perfect audience. I can't look away. Can't flinch. Can't shut a single sense down. My body has been turned into a theater and I am bolted to my seat and the show is Kevin Nguyen's mouth.
He starts with my face.
The smell hits me before I can locate where I am — industrial cleaner and scorched circuitry and something that reminds me, absurdly, of the inside of a moving truck. I can feel the table under me: folding, cheap, a seam running under my left shoulder blade. Metal walls. The corrugated kind. The light overhead doesn't flicker — it considers flickering, which is worse.
Somewhere past the wall, traffic moves. Ordinary, indifferent traffic. The world outside has no idea.
Neither did I, twenty minutes ago.
He's taken the gloves off. That's the first thing I register, and it lands with a sick lurch of new horror because the latex was a barrier, a membrane of clinical distance, and without it his hands are bare and warm and human on my jaw as he tilts my face toward his. He's close. Close enough that I can see the scatter of dark lashes, the faint acne scarring near his left temple, the way his pupils have blown so wide his eyes look black. He studies my mouth the way I've seen guys study a playbook — mapping, strategizing, deciding where to enter.
Then he kisses me.
It's soft. That's the worst part. It's soft, a press of dry lips against my slack mouth, almost chaste, almost sweet, and he holds it there for three full seconds while his breath stutters against my skin. I feel the warmth of him, the slight tremble, the way his fingers tighten on my jaw as if he's steadying himself against the reality that he's actually doing this. When he pulls back his eyes are glassy.
"I've thought about that since October," he says. His voice has gone rough at the edges, slightly too loud in the concrete room. "You were talking to someone outside the dining hall and you licked your lips and I thought, I need to know what that tastes like."
He comes back. Harder this time. His mouth opens against mine and his tongue pushes past my lips and I can feel it — hot, slick, exploratory — sliding over my teeth, pressing against my dead tongue, tasting the inside of my mouth with a thoroughness that has nothing to do with kissing and everything to do with inventory. He groans into it. Low and helpless, a sound wrenched out of somewhere deep. Mmnh. He tilts his head, changes the angle, pushes deeper, and I feel his free hand come up to cradle the back of my skull, fingers threading into my hair, gripping.
He tastes like cheap Arizona Iced Tea and adrenaline.
I taste like whatever chemical cocktail is keeping me pinned to this table.
When he finally breaks the kiss there's a thin strand of saliva connecting his bottom lip to mine and he stares at it, dazed, reverent, like it's proof of something he's been trying to verify.
"Better," he whispers. "Better than I thought."
His lips move to my jaw. He drags them along the stubble there, slow, feeling the grain of it catch against the softness of his mouth. I hear the faint rasp of it, the sandpaper whisper of two-day growth against skin, and Kevin makes a sound that's almost a laugh, breathy and disbelieving. He presses his nose into the hinge of my jaw, right below my ear, and inhales. Deep. Deliberate. His ribs expand against my shoulder.
"Fuck," he murmurs against my neck. "You still smell like practice."
He does it again. Longer this time, filling his lungs with whatever's left on my skin — dried sweat, body wash fading underneath it, the musk of exertion that I've never thought about because it's just mine, just the background noise of living in a body that works hard and runs hot. Kevin is breathing it in like it's oxygen he's been deprived of. His lips part against my throat. I feel the wet heat of his mouth, then tongue, then the lightest graze of teeth as he tastes the salt there, lapping at the hollow where my pulse beats visibly under the skin.
"Every time you walked past me," he says between tastes, mouth moving against my collarbone now, words vibrating into bone, "I got maybe three seconds of this smell. Just — hhh — this wave of you, and I'd hold my breath trying to keep it." His tongue drags across my clavicle. "I tried to figure out your body wash once. Went through the whole aisle at CVS opening caps and sniffing. None of them were right." He laughs, small and embarrassed and feral. "Because it's not a product. It's just you. It's just what you are."
He moves lower and then stops.
I feel him hovering. His breath falls warm and uneven against the inner curve of my left arm, which lies open and useless at my side, and I understand what he's looking at before he does it. The hollow of my armpit, furred and damp, carrying the densest concentration of everything he's been chasing — the sweat, the heat, the animal signature of a body that was still working hard two hours ago and never got the chance to shower.
Kevin leans in and presses his face into it.
Not delicately. Not with the measured composure he's been barely maintaining. He buries his nose and mouth in the hair and skin and wet warmth of my underarm and inhales like a man surfacing from deep water, and the sound he makes is obscene — a long, shuddering groan that empties his whole chest, "ahhhh, fuck," ragged and broken and grateful, his fingers gripping my bicep hard enough that I can feel each individual digit denting the muscle.
He breathes me in again. And again. Short, greedy huffs, his mouth open now, tongue touching skin, tasting the sweat gathered there, and his whole body is pressed against my side and I can feel him trembling, vibrating like a plucked string, so overwhelmed by proximity to the thing he's wanted that his composure has cracked down the center. He mouths at the hollow sloppily, lips dragging through coarse hair, and the wet sounds his tongue makes are loud enough to echo off the storage unit walls.
"Mmmh — oh god — nnhh —"
He pulls back gasping. His face is flushed from the cheekbones down, lips wet, a dazed unfocused look in his eyes like he's just woken from a dream he's been having for months. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and stares at the sheen left on his skin.
"Okay," he breathes. "Okay." Steadying himself. Failing.
He moves to the other arm. Does the same thing. Slower this time, more deliberate, pressing his lips into the hollow with an open-mouthed kiss that becomes a slow drag of tongue through sweat-damp hair, and I hear him swallow. He's swallowing what he gathers. Drinking the taste of me like something precious, eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration.
Then he pulls back and goes to my chest.
His mouth lands in the center, between my pectorals, and he presses his face into the muscle with his hands gripping my sides. He breathes there too — I feel the expansion of his lungs, the warmth pooling in the valley of my sternum — but now his tongue is moving, tracing outward in a slow spiral toward my left nipple, painting a trail of saliva across skin that prickles with a response I cannot control and do not sanction. When his mouth closes over the nipple it's with a sound like relief, a soft sucking pull that sends a signal straight through my chest into someplace primal, and Kevin moans against me, the vibration traveling through tissue into rib.
"Mmnhh — yeah —"
He stays there. Sucks gently. Flicks his tongue. Pulls back to watch the skin tighten and darken and then lowers his mouth again with an urgency that's stopped pretending to be scientific. He's not cataloging anymore. He's feeding. Moving to the other nipple, the flat of his tongue laving broad and wet, his hands pressing into my obliques, my ribs, the taper of my waist, feeling how muscle shifts under skin while his mouth works above.
"You have no idea," he says against my chest, the words humid and slurred, "how long I've been starving."
He drags his open mouth down the midline of my abdomen. Slowly. Tasting each ridge of muscle with a lingual patience that makes my stomach lurch internally. His tongue dips into the grooves between abdominal segments, following the architecture with the same obsessive precision his pencil used to trace biomechanical diagrams in that notebook, except now the diagram is breathing and the pencil is wet and warm and thorough. He pauses at my navel. Tongues it. Presses in deep enough that I feel the invasion in my core. Then follows the trail of hair downward with his lips barely parted, breathing hard through his nose, each exhale landing hot on the sensitive skin below my waist.
He stops where the hair thickens.
I feel his forehead rest against my lower belly. His shoulders are rising and falling. He's gathering himself, or savoring the threshold, or both. His hands settle on my hips — thumbs in the creases of my groin, fingers curving around to the outside of my thighs — and he holds me like that, face pressed to the warm plane of my stomach, breathing me in with his eyes closed.
"Okay," he says again, muffled against my skin. Then, quieter: "I'm going to take my time with this part."
He lifts his head. Looks down at me with an expression that lives somewhere between worship and surgery.
Then his hand closes around the base of my cock and his mouth descends, and the last coherent thought I have before sensation swallows me whole is that Kevin Nguyen has been planning this with the kind of rigor other people reserve for dissertations, and I am the thesis, and the defense is going to take as long as he wants it to, and nobody is coming to pull me out of this room, and nobody even knows I'm gone.
His tongue finds the underside of the head and my entire nervous system lights up like something on fire behind glass.
He hums against me.
Content.
⸻
The first pulse felt like an orgasm. That's the only frame I had for it — the only architecture my nervous system could reach for to explain what was happening at the base of my spine. A deep interior clench, total, starting behind my sternum and radiating outward in concentric rings of heat, and I arched into it with both hands gripping the bedsheets and a sound tearing out of me that didn't belong to any version of myself I recognized. Uhhhhn — ragged, grateful, bewildered by its own depth.
"There you go," Kevin murmured, and his voice hit the basement of its register, that impossible geological growl I'd been chasing all night. He was close. Lips against my throat. Stubble dragging. "There you go, big guy. Let it happen."
The second pulse arrived before the first one finished.
This one started deeper — not in my groin but in my gut, somewhere behind the navel, a bloom of warmth that spread outward like ink in water. My muscles went liquid around it. Not relaxed. Converted. Like the distinction between solid and fluid had become a suggestion my body no longer felt obligated to follow. I felt myself softening from the core outward in a slow radial wave, and my cock — already hard, already leaking — pulsed again, thick, and what came out was more than cum. Thicker. Warmer. Carrying weight that cum shouldn't carry, a density of self in every rope of it.
I came and kept coming and the pleasure edged past its own cliff and didn't fall. It just — extended. Flattened into a sustained plateau that felt less like orgasm and more like drainage, like a tub someone had pulled the plug on, and the water was me, and the drain was my own cock, and every pulse took something structural with it.
I managed to speak, at last. My voice was raspy, deep, shattered. "Hh — wait — nnh, something's —"
My hips were still moving. That was the dissonance — body chasing the sensation even while my mind skidded across the surface of it trying to find a handhold. My arms had gone heavy. My thighs were trembling in a way that wasn't exertion. Something inside me was loosening, not painfully but thoroughly, the way a knot loosens when you find the right strand — slow, then all at once — and the heat was spreading, reaching my chest now, my shoulders, the dense meat of my back softening into something pliable and warm and evacuating through the only exit it had been given.
Kevin was still hungry.
He sealed his lips around the head of my cock again and pulled, cheeks hollowing, tongue flat and pressed hard against the underside, and what left me in that moment — the next long shuddering pulse — made us both gasp. Me because something enormous and essential had just departed. Him because of the taste.
I heard him swallow. A thick, wet, audible gulp, and then a sound from the back of his throat — mmmnhh — low, reverent, savoring, the groan of a man encountering a flavor he's going to spend the rest of his life chasing. He pulled off just long enough to breathe, lips shining, a thread of it connecting his mouth to me, translucent and heavy.
"Fuck," he whispered, and the word vibrated against the slick skin of my cock. "You taste like — god — okay, okay, come here —"
He sealed back down. Drew another pulse out with that patient, devastating suction, and I felt it leave — felt the specific subtraction, the lightening, the way my interior volume was quietly and irreversibly decreasing. My ribs felt wider. My chest felt cavernous. There was more room inside me than there should have been, as if my organs were politely vacating to make space for a tenant who hadn't arrived yet.
Kevin pulled off again. Wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. Held the other below me — cupped, steady, catching the next slow pulse in his palm with a collector's patience.
"Can't waste this," he said. Low. Almost to himself.
He reached under the bed without looking. The bottle was already there — small, dark glass, tight stopper, the kind of vessel designed for things that are precious and finite. He'd planned for this. Of course he'd planned for this. He tilted my hips with one broad hand, angling me precisely, and the next pulse slid from me into the bottle's mouth with a sound like — I don't know. Like pouring something sacred into something profane. The quiet wet intimacy of liquid meeting glass.
He watched the fill line rise. Stoppered it. Set it aside. Reached for a second.
I was staring at the ceiling. The texture up there was popcorn plaster, and I was counting the bumps, or trying to, but the numbers kept sliding away from me like soap in a wet hand. My fingers were flat on the mattress. I noticed this with the distant curiosity of a man watching weather through a window. I couldn't remember deciding to let go of the sheets. Couldn't quite locate the part of me that would have made that decision.
Another pulse. Slower now. Spacious. Kevin — Conn — caught it in the second bottle without spilling, his free hand stroking my hip with absent, proprietary tenderness, thumb tracing the crease of my groin while he worked.
I was thinning.
Not my body. My body was still there, still breathing, still warm and spread across the sheets. But the thing inside it — the me of it, the Connor-ness, the accumulated weight of thirty-four years of being a specific person with a specific history and a D2 wrestling career and a particular way of cracking my knuckles — that was going translucent. Less insistent. A signal losing strength. I could still feel the room, the sheets, the air, but I was feeling them from further away with every pulse, like someone was slowly turning down the volume on a frequency I used to be.
"Nnh —"
My mouth still worked. Barely. One syllable, pushed through a throat that felt like an empty hallway.
"What —"
Conn pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist. Said nothing. His eyes were closed. He was listening to something. My pulse, maybe. Checking the progress.
The final pulse was barely a pulse. A sigh. An exhalation of warmth, the last of something that used to be a man, and Conn caught it in his palm with the care of someone gathering the last drops from a bottle of wine they'd never find again. He stoppered the second vessel. Held both up to the lamplight. Amber liquid, dense, faintly luminous, carrying inside it everything I'd been except the shape.
He set them in his jacket pocket. Gently. Like relics.
"Beautiful," he said. "Every fucking drop."
⸻
Empty.
Not — empty isn't —
Container with no inside. That's closer. The walls still here. Shape still present. Eyes open. Ceiling still up there with its popcorn plaster bumps. Chest still rising, falling. Autonomic. The kind of breathing that happens to a body.
But the volume —
Gone. The inhabited space. The cubic footage of being Connor. Vacated.
I'm —
Am I —
I is a strong word for what's left. I implies a quorum and what's here is barely a whisper in a very large room. The room is the shape of my body and the whisper is whatever hasn't finished draining and the silence between them is total and warm and strangely, terrifyingly free of panic because panic requires a self and I'm —
Quiet.
It's very quiet.
It's quiet for what feels like a long time.
Then —
Warmth. At the edges.
Not the residual warmth of a body maintaining temperature. New warmth. Warmth with intention behind it, with personality, pushing inward from the extremities like water filling a glove. First the fingers — a tingling, a density returning, but wrong, carrying a kinetic charge that wasn't mine, athletic and restless and heavy with old muscle memory from a body that used to sprint and collide and sweat under stadium lights. The warmth floods my toes. My calves. Spreads up the emptied architecture of my thighs with a possessive, exploratory patience.
Then — the center.
The space behind my ribs lights up with a consciousness that is not mine and it is happy.
Exultant. Expansive. Not relief: the specific euphoria of someone who has been compressed into a space too small for too long and is finally, finally straightening to full height in a room with a ceiling that clears them. It floods upward through the emptied cavern of my chest and fills it like a shout fills a cathedral, and the presence stretches, flexes, probes the dimensions of its new architecture with unrestrained delight.
My hands open and close. Not my doing. My jaw works. Not my doing.
A sound moves through my throat — low, rough, textured with someone else's vowels:
"Hhh — oh — oh there's room —"
The presence discovers the arms. Flexes. Discovers the shoulders — rolls them, feels the density of wrestler muscle, the compact power, and laughs, a real laugh, breathless and greedy and young with wonder. Discovers the chest, the abs, presses palms flat against the stomach from the inside and pushes outward, testing structural integrity, mapping the new residence.
Then it finds the cock.
My cock — the cock — is soft. Emptied. A sheath. The presence finds it and understands it with an immediacy that makes the entire suit shiver, and then —
Pressure. Fullness. A slow, deliberate slide of something entering the shaft from the root, filling it the way a hand fills a glove, the way Kevin once filled Connor, that same obscene, exact, living fit. The cock thickens. Stiffens. Not with arousal — with occupation. The presence slots itself into every millimeter of available space and the sensation is so total, so unambiguously claimed, that the remnant of me — the whisper, the trace, the echoes of Connor — feels it as a violation so intimate it wraps all the way around to something indistinguishable from completion.
The voice in my chest — in its chest — speaks again. Lower now. Settling into the vocal cords like a driver adjusting a seat. Testing the register. Finding the bottom.
"God damn." A pause. A flex of the hips. The cock twitches, fully inhabited, fully erect, straining with borrowed purpose. In a lower register, reverently: "Look at this."
My eyes blink. Someone else's blink.
In the mirror across the makeshift room, a man sits up on the edge of the bed — thick, dark-haired, built like a weapon, naked and hard and wearing the specific grin of someone who has just moved into a house with better bones than the last one.
He stands. Tests the weight. Bounces once on the balls of feet that used to be mine.
"Mmh." Satisfied. Territorial. The sound of a creature settling into its kill. He rolls the neck — crack — and watches the mirror-Connor roll with him, every motion synchronized, every surface seamless.
He reaches behind himself. Finds the seam along the spine — new stitching, fresh and precise, black cross-stitch against skin that still smells like my cologne.
He runs a finger along it. Tender. Proprietary.
"Perfect fit," he murmurs.
Somewhere very deep and very far away, I am still here.
He doesn't care.
—--------
The hotel bar is the kind of place that costs forty dollars for a drink and attracts men who want to be seen wanting things. Low light, dark wood, glass shelves backlit amber. The stools are too far apart to be accidental — every seat positioned so that moving closer requires a decision, a declaration. Kevin has been here twenty minutes and has already received four looks that could mean anything and one that can only mean one thing.
That one is sitting six feet to his left, forearms resting on the bar.
Kevin rolls his borrowed shoulders. He can feel the suit settle with the motion, the dense fluid muscle redistributing around his thinner frame like a system calibrating to new input, and the low hum of rightness that lives inside Connor's body radiates outward from the core of his chest. Two weeks in and he still gets that hum. It hasn't dulled. If anything it has deepened, gone bass-register, become something less like novelty and more like home.
He catches his reflection in the mirror behind the bottles.
Connor McAllister stares back. Broad. Golden. Jaw catching the amber light, stubble sitting perfectly uneven across a bone structure that belongs in a recruiting brochure. The UCLA jersey is cropped — Kevin did that himself, a clean scissor line just above the navel — and the blue fabric pulls across a chest that was built for a different life, a life of practice drills and roaring crowds and casual dominion over every room. The practice pants hang low, laces mostly undone, riding the jut of Connor's hips in a way that makes the geometry of what's underneath entirely legible. Jockstrap waistband visible above the slack tunnel of the fly. Black practice cleats on the bar stool's footrest, one clicking slowly against the metal.
Kevin opens his mouth. Tests the register.
"Conn," he says to himself, under his breath, and the name comes out in a voice so deep it vibrates in the bones of Connor's sternum. He drops it lower, lets the baritone slide into something growly and half-wrecked, the kind of sound that belongs in a dark room at three a.m., and the sheer pleasure of hearing it come out of a throat that isn't his — but is, now, is completely and irreversibly his — sends a shiver through the suit's nerve architecture that registers as heat pooling low in the belly.
He's been practicing the voice for days. Testing the basement of Connor's range, the part Connor never used because Connor spoke from the bright confident middle, all projection and locker-room volume. Kevin found the bottom and livesthere now: a subsonic growl that makes bartenders lean in and strangers lose their train of thought. It's his favorite discovery. Better than the shoulders. Better, possibly, than the cock.
Stop it. Faint, deep. Connor, from wherever Connor lives now. That's not how I sound, you're making me—
Kevin hums a low note. Feels it resonate through the chest cavity. Smiles Connor's smile at his own reflection.
"Sounds right to me, big guy."
The man six feet to his left has given up pretending.
He's maybe thirty-two. Thirty-four. Built serious — the kind of frame that comes from disciplined hypertrophy, thick through the traps and arms, lats visible even under a fitted charcoal henley with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. Dark hair silvering at the temples, square jaw, hands that look like they could crush a beer can or hold a face steady with equal ease. He's sitting with the particular stillness of someone who has decided to stop looking away and is now committed to the consequences.
Kevin lets his gaze travel. Slowly. Down the man's chest, across the width of his shoulders, lingering on the forearms — veined, corded, dusted with dark hair — then dropping to the spread of his thighs on the barstool. No hurry. Connor's body generates attention the way a furnace generates heat, and Kevin has learned that the most devastating thing he can do inside this skin is simply look at someone with open, leisurely interest. It lands like a physical event. People flush. People shift. People forget the sentence they were building.
This man holds steady, though. Holds Kevin's gaze and lets himself be inventoried. A muscle in his jaw tightens. His fingers flex around his whiskey glass.
His tie was wrong for the bar — too formal, the kind a man puts on for an occasion and then can't quite justify removing when the occasion quietly doesn't happen. He'd loosened it at the second button. Just enough.
He held the whiskey more than he drank it. Rolling the glass a quarter-turn, setting it down, rolling it again. Not a nervous habit — the opposite of nervous. The deliberate ritual of a man savoring the part right before a thing he's learned not to expect.
When "Connor" sat down beside him, something shifted behind his eyes. Not surprise. More like — of course. The specific gratitude of a man who has spent a decade watching beautiful things belong to other people, and has just been handed one.
Finally, he did not say.
His smile came out slower than it should have. Too considered. Too warm.
"UCLA?" he says, nodding at the jersey.
Kevin drops his voice to the growl's lowest register. The sound that comes out is practically geological: slow, warm, a vibration more felt than heard. "Linebacker. Once upon a time."
He watches the word land. Watches the man's eyes track involuntarily to his shoulders, his arms, the exposed strip of abdominal muscle between cropped jersey and unlaced waistband. Linebacker does a specific thing to a specific kind of man — it conjures impact, weight, aggression made into a skillset — and Kevin can see it working behind the guy's expression like a key finding tumblers.
"What position," the man says, and his voice has gone slightly rough.
"Outside." Kevin takes a slow pull of his beer, lets Connor's throat work the swallow, the Adam's apple rolling under stubble. "I liked the edge. Open field. Room to hit somebody before they saw it coming."
This is Connor's memory talking. Kevin reaches for it casually, the way you'd pull a book off a shelf you've organized yourself. The vault opens: late-season game, sophomore year, a blindside sack that made the highlight reel. The kinetic memory surges through the suit's musculature — the explosive burst off the line, the angle of approach, the joy of collision — and Kevin lets it color his posture, his body language, the way he rolls his shoulders with predatory ease. Connor's body remembers violence like a mother tongue.
That was MY game. That was—
Kevin flips past it.
"You play?" he asks the man.
"Wrestled. D2. Long time ago."
"Mm." Kevin lets his eyes drop again. A wrestler's body. That tracks — the density, the low center of gravity, the particular thickness in the neck and traps. "Yeah, I can see it."
The man's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. He extends a hand across the gap. "Mike."
Kevin takes it. The grip is warm, firm, deliberate — a handshake that communicates something beyond courtesy — and Kevin holds it a beat too long, thumb pressing into the meat of Mike's palm, feeling the calluses there.
"Conn," he says, and the single syllable drops out of Connor's chest in a register so low it's almost subsonic, intimate and proprietary, like a secret being shared instead of a name. He loves the sound of it. Loves the way it feels in the stolen mouth, the casual ownership of an identity he gutted and refurbished. "Friends call me Conn."
Nobody calls me Conn. Nobody has ever—
Kevin lets the name sit between them.
Mike hasn't released his hand.
"So what brings a retired linebacker to a hotel bar dressed like every fantasy a gay man's ever had about game day, Conn?"
Kevin laughs. Connor's laugh — but lower, rougher, pushed through the growl register until it comes out sounding like something you'd hear through a wall in a very good way. "That obvious?"
"Brother, you cut that jersey yourself."
"Guilty." Kevin releases the handshake, runs his palm down the front of the cropped fabric, fingers trailing across the exposed strip of stomach. His fingertips catch the fine line of black cross-stitching that traces up along his left side — the precision suturing that holds the suit sealed, virtually invisible against the landscape of Connor's skin unless you know where to look. He feels the contact register through both layers: suit sensing pressure, Kevin sensing suit sensing pressure, an infinite feedback loop of occupation. He presses his thumbnail between two stitches, gently, and something deep inside the architecture of what used to be Connor McAllister twitches in response.
Mike's eyes have tracked every centimeter of movement.
Kevin lets his hand drift lower, idly, and reaches back into Connor's memory. He's looking for a specific feeling — the charge, the tightening, the anticipatory electricity that Connor's body used to generate when it was close to something it wanted. The vault opens easily. Two weeks of practice have turned the access frictionless, a filing cabinet in a room he's redecorated to suit himself.
The memory that surfaces is from late October. Team party at the big off-campus house on Meridian. Connor was three beers deep and talking to a girl — Becca, or Becky, something with a B — blonde, big tits in a low-cut top, leaning into him with that easy flirtatious gravity that Connor attracted without effort. The memory is saturated with her: the perfume, the cleavage, the way she kept touching his arm. Connor's original attention was locked on her with the comfortable entitlement of a man selecting from a menu.
Kevin watches the memory from inside.
He's not interested in Becca-or-Becky.
Because sitting on the couch next to her, close enough that his thigh was nearly touching hers, was a guy. Dark-haired. Broad. College wrestler type — Kevin notices the body with professional appreciation — wearing grey sweats that did absolutely nothing to conceal the thick, heavy outline of a cock resting against his left thigh. The bulge was enormous. Unapologetic. Visible from across the room.
Connor hadn't looked at it.
That's the tell. Kevin can read the memory architecture well enough now to spot the absences, the places where attention was forcibly redirected, the micro-avoidances that function like locked doors inside someone else's autobiography. Connor's gaze had tracked to the guy's lap exactly once — a flicker, less than a second — and then wrenched itself back to Becca-or-Becky's tits with the overcorrective speed of someone slamming a drawer shut. The adrenaline spike was there in the body's chemical record, unmistakable: a hot flush of something that wasn't embarrassment and wasn't disgust and wasn't anything Connor had a framework for admitting to himself.
Kevin rewinds. Plays it again. Pauses on the frame where Connor's eyes were on the bulge.
Don't. Louder now. Closer to the surface. Don't fucking look at that, I wasn't—
Kevin looks. Kevin lingers. He zooms into the memory with leisurely precision, studying the outline through the grey cotton, the weight of it, the way the fabric draped. He lets Connor's body respond to what Connor's mind never permitted: the pulse quickening, the warmth spreading low, the cock thickening against the jockstrap with a slow inevitability that has nothing to do with Becca-or-Becky and everything to do with that heavy shape on a stranger's thigh.
I wasn't looking at him. I wasn't—
"Yeah you were," Kevin murmurs, barely audible, and the growl-bass of Connor's voice turns the words into something almost tender.
Mike leans closer. "What was that?"
Kevin looks up. The memory dissolves. Mike is right there — six feet collapsed to two, the whiskey on his breath, the thickness of his arms, the specific kind of hunger that sits behind the eyes of a man who has been patient long enough.
Kevin hooks his thumb into the waistband of the practice pants.
"I said," he repeats, dropping the voice to its absolute floor, a register that vibrates in the air between them like a plucked string, "you want to see what I'm working with?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He pulls the waistband wide.
The pants drop open, unlaced enough that the gap reveals everything above the thigh: the sharp V-cut of Connor's hips, the sparse trail of dark hair thickening below the navel, and the white elastic of the jockstrap straining over a cock that's gone visibly, unmistakably hard. The pouch is obscene — the fabric stretched taut, the outline pressing left, the ridge of the head clearly delineated against cotton that's already darkening at the tip with the faintest bloom of wet.
Kevin holds the waistband open with one hand. Tilts his hips forward on the stool. Let Mike see.
"Jesus," Mike says. His voice has dropped too. His eyes are fixed on the jockstrap with the particular intensity of a man doing math he doesn't want to show his work on.
Kevin feels Connor's humiliation like a warm current running beneath his own pleasure — the original owner's mortification at being displayed, being offered, the body that once commanded respect now angled toward a stranger in a bar like merchandise — and the contrast between Connor's silent protest and the suit's eager, throbbing response is so exquisite that Kevin has to bite Connor's bottom lip to keep from groaning out loud.
He lets the waistband snap back. Slow. A rubber-band sting against borrowed skin.
"So," Kevin says, and Connor's voice comes out a full octave below conversational, a sound that belongs in a chest twice this size, intimate and predatory and savoring every vibration. "You want to take this somewhere less forty-dollars-a-drink, Mike? Or do you need another minute."
Two friends, Keith and Dale, lived together after finishing college. Both of them had gained jobs working in Silicon Valley after graduating from the same university, so they decided to move in together. Little did they know that their close friendship and maintained health caught the attention of two bodysnatchers…
Keith, using the walls and door frames for support, staggered towards Dale’s room. “B-Bro, something’s wrong…” he said, almost throwing up from the sensation of… something sliding inside of his through his mouth. He couldn’t see anything, but he could certainly feel some kind of slippery, rubbery thing slither into his mouth and down his throat. Once inside, a cold and numbing sensation spread throughout his body.
However, as he wandered into Dale’s room for help, all Keith saw was his roommate—shirtless and covered in sweat—convulsing on his bed. “D-Dale…?” For a brief moment, Keith forgot his own perils and staggered towards Dale before succumbing to his own odd sensation. He collapsed to his knees and fell prone onto the floor, convulsing as he lost consciousness.
Sometime later, both men groaned and slowly came to as though waking up from a deep and relaxing sleep. Dale even made sure to stretch his stiff joints and flex his impressive body while Keith ran his hands down his clothed yet still tight body. They locked eyes and smirked at each other before setting up several cameras and using Dale’s laptop to capture all the footage.
“Another successful possession!”A ghost named Mike exclaimed using Keith’s body as he filmed the two of them enjoying their new bodies. “What is up, my brossessors, Mike and Ike back at it with another pair of dumb studs!”
Ike, who was enjoying Dale’s musky body, rolled his handsome host’s eyes and said, “Cut, cut! We’re not calling them that,” he said, waving his hands in exasperation.
Mike’s grin fell into a crestfallen frown. “Aww, why not?” he said, pouting in a body clearly not used to it by how awkward his expression was. “I think it’s a good name for our avid watchers in the community. Some of them are even wearing banners with it on the forums.”
Ike groaned and rubbed his beautiful body’s temples. He really should be exploring and enjoying all this sack of meat has to offer, but instead here he was, reliving—redead-ing?—another argument that Mike kept bringing up. “I still can’t believe you’re running those forums. It’s like, what, twelve people actually talking in there?”
Although seemingly impossible, Mike’s pout deepened. His host’s cheeks reddened as he answered through gritted teeth, “‘Bout a hundred, actually.” It was merely a fraction of their worldwide fanbase, but it was a sizable collection nonetheless. Then Mike sighed and hung his head. “It was higher, but once I finished banning all the bots I realized there were that many registered users. Some accounts are pretty…”
His voice trailed off and an awkward silence filled the gap. Neither of them wanted to continue the thought, because that would acknowledging that they were dead—that they did not belong here among the living. Neither were sure what was actually tethering them to the living world like this, but acknowledging they were dead did nothing but unnerve and invite troubling thoughts back—ones that the couple had spent much of the first years as ghosts trying to escape from. The rest of the time following was spent trying to make their old dreams as performers come true. They had found community, an audience, and a new passion creating content both for themselves and for other folks not quite moving on to the afterlife just like them.
Then, as if to wave away those bad thoughts, Ike grinned and leaned back into his initial position. “Fine fine, I’ll give. Brossessors it is, then. It’s not that bad of a name.”
Mike instantly perked up and began fiddling with his phone again. “All right, take two!” The two got back into position, excited and raring to go. “‘Sup brossession nation! Mike—“
“And Ike!” he chimed in with a flex and a pec bounce.
“—back with another video! Check out these hunks we took over!” Mike said with the largest and most decadent smile he’s had in years.
The show went on, and the two did their usual bit. Mike lied down on the chest of Ike’s host. The cameras were all set up and filming. “Another day, another body, huh?” he whispered to Ike. Their fingers, although not the own, intertwined as though it was the very first time. Both squeezed, as if trying to affirm to the other that they weren’t going anywhere—not anytime soon.
“Another day, another life,” said Ike. With his free hand, he gently tilted Mike’s stolen face and kissed him. “And more will come. I promise you that.”
Mike chuckled. His smile fit his new host. “Don’t make promises if you don’t know you can keep.” Yet somehow, amidst his laughter Mike felt like crying.
Ike scoffed and with a half-ironic smirk proclaimed, “I dunno much, but what I do know is that we’ll always be together.” Slowly, gently, and delicately, he pulled off Mike’s shirt and shorts. “If you’re in Heaven and I’m in Hell, I’ll crawl back up just for you,” he said, giving Mike a quick peck on the lips as the boxers came off. “And if you’re in Hell and I’m Heaven, I’ll jump off and land right on your beautiful dick. I can promise you that much.” He caressed Mike’s cheek.
“Ah…! Ah, uwahhh…” Mike blushed as he moaned. Not just from the touch but also from slowly sliding himself down on Ike’s stolen dick. Keith was particularly tight, and Mike couldn’t help but think, Stupid straight virgin, as he rode Ike just like he did the day they started going out. “F-Fuck, fuck. Urgh. Haaah…” Still, he kept thrusting his hips and meeting Ike’s thrusts as best he could in this straight body. He nearly whited out when Ike suddenly cupped his host’s pecs and fondled him. “Urgh, you’re a goddamn sadist…!” Mike uttered, biting down on his lower lip as Ike’s touches and caresses drove him insane. He couldn’t help himself. The stimulation was far too much for him in this new, youthful, virile body. Each touch was exhilarating, as though he was jerking off and being fucked for the very first time! “Yes, yes, cum in me, Ike. Breed this ass, breed me!” Mike cried out.
Ike clenched his teeth and gripped Mike’s borrowed thighs as he thrust deep inside of the tight, burning-hot hole. “Nrrgh, f-fuck!” he hissed as he blew his load all over Keith’s guts.
An hour later, once they had bid goodbye to their audience and put the equipment away, the couple cuddled together under the sheets. “You’re such a stud. I can still feel your cum inside of this straight guy’s guts,” said Mike as he nuzzled Ike’s chest.
Ike chuckled and gently ruffled Mike’s hair. “I meant what I said, y’know. We’ll always be together. I promise.”
“I know…” muttered Mike, eyes half-lidded already. Fucking always made him exhausted, and tonight was no different. It was strange. No matter how many bodies he hopped inside of, that fact about him always remained the same. Maybe it was hard-wired into his soul or whatever. Maybe that was why Ike was so determined to keep saying the same ol’ promise no matter what face he wore. Still, the world around them would continue to spin and change, yet they would remain the same: anchors for each other, even after death. “See you tomorrow, Ike,” he said. Neither ever said “goodnight” anymore. It sounded far too close to goodbye. Instead, they said,
I can’t believe it actually worked. I mean, I hoped it would when I snuck those five tiny bugs out of the meteor sample at the lab. They looked so weak. But now? They’re inside the bodies of the five hot studs playing football at the court near my house.
The five of them. Standing shirtless. Still. Eyes glazed. Muscles glistening with sweat.
I’ve been watching them play football from behind the fence earlier. They were loud, sweaty, and full of themselves, playing shirtless like the studs they knew they were. They were having a good time. But now it's my time to have a good time.
The tallest one in black shorts and a thigh tattoo is my neighbor's hot son. We never really talked, but I know his name is Matias. He’s towering, confident, and his legs are built from years of playing football. Matias and his hot friends were known troublemakers around the neighborhood. And I also believe they were part of a gang.
I freed the alien bugs right there on the court, let them scurry out of the container and crawl toward each jock. Then I backed off and just watched. It started slow. One of the guys falls to the ground, grabbing his head. Another groans and collapses to his knees. One by one, they fall, convulsing and shaking violently. The bugs are already inside their heads, turning their brains into nothing but dead matter, with the only purpose of controlling their bodies.
Suddenly, all five of them stood back up. Silent. Controlled. Their eyes were now lifeless. Then, they follow me to my house.
Now here they are, standing in front of me.
I step closer. Matias is taller than the rest, pure muscle and arrogance—except all of that is gone now.
I walk right up to him and press my face into his sweaty armpits, dragging my tongue slowly. The salt and musk coat my taste buds, and I moan into his armpits as I lick higher, cleaning every inch of his hard pecs with long, hungry strokes. His chest twitches slightly under my tongue when I latch on to one of his nipples, but he doesn’t move.
Then I kiss him passionately. My lips crash into his, and though the alien doesn’t respond, I don’t care. I shove my tongue into his mouth, exploring every inch of the warm, unresponsive wet space. The alien inside him lets me do whatever I want.
Panting, I pull back, my hands trembling as I hook my fingers into the waistband of his black shorts and tug them down. His cock flops out, thick and heavy, coated in sweat from the game. I drop to my knees and just stare for a second. His cock and balls are perfect. Covered in the scent of a long game. I lean in, burying my nose into his sweaty balls, letting the smell of him fill my lungs. This alone is enough to make him hard. So I start sucking his cock. Slow at first, letting my lips savor the shape, the salt, the sweat. I lick under his balls, drag my tongue along the base of his shaft, and take him deeper. My nose presses against his groin. I moan around him, worshiping every inch. My spit mixes with his sweat as I bob up and down, completely lost in it.
I glance up.
Matias is looking down at me with innocent, confused eyes. Like he doesn’t understand what I’m doing. Just like the other four.
Then I notice the movement under their shorts. All four of Matias’s hot friends are sporting growing hard-ons, their cocks twitching as I suck their friend. The bugs are connected. Somehow, they’re all feeling the pleasure I’m giving Matias's alien.
The four young men gather around me as I suck Matias, standing in a tight circle. They look down at me with those same blank, glazed-over eyes—totally obedient.
One by one, they reach for their shorts, tugging them down slowly. Thick, throbbing cocks spring free, also glistening with sweat from the soccer match. The aliens inside them want to feel what Matias's alien is feeling as well.
They don't speak. They don't need to. Their twitching erections say everything. The connection between them is undeniable—the pleasure shared. They want it. And I want to give it to them.
So I move to the next hot stud—a cute stud with dyed hair—and take his huge cock into my mouth, savoring the tang of sweat and musk that clings to his thick shaft. I moan around him as I drag my tongue under his balls, inhaling deeply as I worship him with my mouth. He doesn't flinch. He just watches, eyes dazed, cock pulsing.
Then I move to the third, then the fourth. Two are cut, three are uncut. But they’re all huge. I bury my face in their crotches, lick their balls, swallow their thick lengths, making obscene noises as I service each one.
When I finally finish with the last one, my face is sticky with sweat and spit, and my throat aches in the best way.
I then sit on the couch, legs spread, hand wrapped around my painfully hard cock, stroking it slowly. The five hot, naked young men kneel in a line on the floor in front of me. Their muscular bodies are sweatiest than before as each one copies my movements exactly—stroking their cocks in perfect unison, their eyes locked on mine. Observing.
"Good boys," I whisper, moaning. "This is called masturbation, it feels good, doesn't it?"
The aliens didn't respond, but I know they're enjoying it because just like that—they all start cumming at the same time. Grunts escape their lips as they shoot thick ropes of cum across my living room floor, bodies jerking slightly as they unload everything. It’s so synchronized, so surreal, so fucking hot.
As soon as they’re done, they drop onto all fours, crawling around, licking the floor clean. They lap up each other’s cum, their tongues darting out, moaning softly. No hesitation. Just pure alien instinct.
The sight of it pushes me over the edge.
I groan loudly as I cum, my load splashing onto the floor. The five of them instantly notice the new addition. They crawl toward me on all fours and begin licking my cum off the floor. One handsome young man with a neck tattoo starts licking my cock for anything left. I just can't help but grab his head and force him to take everything into his tight throat. The others watch with attention, as if they're fascinated by the act. Some even start to chuckle.
So when the neck tatted stud pulls out, the one with a chest and arm tattoo takes his place and swallows every inch. I just sit relaxed as the aliens make each young man take me down their throats as if that's a fun new game between them.
Next, they follow me to my room. Their hard, throbbing cocks bounce with every step, their blank faces showing no emotion, no resistance. Just quiet, obedience, and curiosity. Once inside, I decide to start the next lesson. They’re all watching me, silently waiting. So I pick Matias first.
"Alright my boys, the next activity is called 'fucking'. And it's a lot more fun than masturbation."
I guide Matias to the bed, and he climbs on without a word. I position him on his back, his sculpted body spread across my sheets, legs lifting up slowly as I direct them. His muscular thighs are raised, ass exposed, and his cock is still hard, resting against his abs. He stares at me with those cute alien eyes.
Time to teach them about how to really have a good time. My shaft is all lubed from their throat juices, so I line myself up and slide my dick into his tight, virgin ass. He doesn't flinch. The alien inside him just lets me in, his hole clenching around me as I start thrusting roughly.
The other four alien-controlled studs watch from the edge of the bed with curious, silent focus. They don’t speak, but they understand. The bugs inside them learn by watching.
I point at two of them—the fit stud with dyed blond hair and the tall one with a neck tattoo. They immediately climb onto the bed on either side of Matias, lying back, legs lifted and spread for the remaining two. The other two studs move without hesitation, getting between their legs, cocks already rock hard and leaking. They position themselves, watching me thrust in and out of Matias, and start mimicking my movements.
Soon, the room is full of heavy breathing, skin slapping against skin, and the smell of sweat. Our hips moved together like a choreographed routine, and I was the choreographer. I was the only one moaning for a while, but that slowly started to change because they started to mimic my moans. Every time I moan in pleasure, they all mimic the same moan in unison. It's all weirdly arousing. I'm in heaven. Watching them learn, watching them mimic, feeling them all fuck together in perfect sync...
I take my time, switching positions, taking turns. I fuck each one of them. Their bodies are perfect and completely mine to enjoy.
Hours later, I collapse exhausted in the middle of the bed, panting, as the five naked, young, brainless friends fuck each other around me.
My alien pets have learned well. And I still have so much more to teach.
