In His Skin
Dylan had seen the profile dozens of times on Grindr. The username was simple—SkinJob—but the pictures were anything but. Shots of a lean, athletic guy flexing shirtless were interspersed with strange, thrilling uploads: a hyper-realistic latex face held in one hand, a photo of someone wearing a gray-haired “dad” mask with visible sweat on the neck seal, and one image of a rugged construction worker in full gear—mask, bodysuit, and a teasing bulge in well-worn jeans. The caption simply read: "Not real until it’s zipped tight."
Dylan’s heart had pounded every time he opened that profile. He’d always been curious—fantasies that veered into identity play, full-body transformations, and the thrill of becoming someone else. But this was the first time he ever matched with someone who could actually make it real.
What had made Dylan finally message wasn’t the fantasy shots. It was the last photo.
Just Ryan.
Unmasked, unfiltered. A guy in his late twenties, modestly handsome, clean-cut with a bit of scruff and kind eyes. His jawline wasn’t razor-sharp, and he had a faint scar above one brow, like he’d taken a skateboard to the face once. It was the kind of face you’d trust to hold the door open or teach you how to fix a tire. And that made it hotter—because this guy didn’t need masks.
He just wanted them.
They’d chatted for days, flirting, trading fantasies. Ryan confessed that he loved transformation not because he hated his looks, but because of the power it gave him—to become someone cocky, mean, sleazy, or massive. “It’s like cosplay,” he’d said once. “But with fucking.”
Dylan had never tried it. He’d watched videos, seen transformation forums, jerked off to GIFs of guys pulling on masks or zipping into muscle suits—but it always felt like something other people got to do. Guys with the gear. Guys who belonged.
But tonight, it was happening.
When Ryan opened the door that night, he looked exactly like his selfie—barefoot in jeans and a soft black tee, hair still damp from a shower.
“You made it,” he said.
Dylan nodded, nervous. “You sure this is okay?”
Ryan stepped aside. “You’re in the right place.”
The house was normal. Lived-in. Cozy. A candle burned in the corner, and a worn couch sat beneath a shelf of movie collectibles. It was not what Dylan expected from a guy who turned into fake frat boys and pervy cops on weekends.
Ryan led him down a short hallway and into the bedroom.
“The mask room’s in here,” he said, opening a sliding door.
It was a walk-in closet. About the size of a small bedroom. Warm light glowed from a track fixture overhead. The walls were lined with wooden shelves and hanging rods. On one side: silicone bodysuits hanging like expensive outerwear, each one slick, muscular, and slightly glossy. On the other: mannequin heads wearing masks—rows of faces with subtle labels written on the wooden shelf beneath.
COACH RYAN FRAT CHAD DAD GARY BUZZ CHASE RICO STEPBRO TROY
Clothing sat folded on shelves or hanging nearby—outfits curated for each identity. Letterman jackets, cheap tank tops, stained gas station uniforms, tight jeans, baseball caps, fake jewelry. It was part wardrobe, part fantasy arsenal.
Dylan stepped inside, jaw slack.
“You okay?” Ryan asked, watching him.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” Dylan breathed.
Ryan smiled. “Then take your time. Try one.”
Dylan stepped toward the masks and reached for DAD GARY—a weathered face with a thick neck and receding hairline. The silicone was soft and warm from the room. He held it up, stared into its empty eyes, and then looked over at Ryan.
“Can I…?”
Ryan nodded. “Go for it.”
Dylan raised the mask slowly, his heart pounding as he opened it with both hands and stretched it wide. He leaned his head forward, slipping it inside. The silicone clung to him instantly, snug and form-fitting, pulling into place as he worked it down over his face and jaw.
It was surreal.
He turned to the mirror mounted on the closet door—and laughed.
The guy staring back at him looked like he drove a beat-up pickup, mowed his lawn shirtless, and made dad jokes while pounding beers. His lips curled slightly with each breath. He raised a hand, touched his cheek, and marveled at the weight, the realism, the feel.
“I look like I should be watching cable news and farting in a recliner,” Dylan joked.
“Not bad for your first mask,” Ryan said, grinning. “You wear it well.”
Dylan peeled it off carefully, still a little stunned.
“That’s just a taste,” Ryan said, walking toward one of the bodysuits hanging beside the masks. “But I think you’re ready for the real deal now.”
He reached up and grabbed the one labeled CHASE—tan, ripped, and built for showing off. He laid it out neatly across a thick towel on the floor and grabbed a bottle from the drawer.
“Here,” Ryan said, handing Dylan the lube. “Arms, chest, legs—everywhere you want the suit to slide.”
Dylan stripped, his skin still slightly warm from the first transformation. He rubbed the lube over his arms and shoulders, then down his torso, thighs, and calves, his breath catching as his slick hands moved over his body.
Ryan knelt beside the bodysuit and began turning it inside-out, slowly and methodically, until just the feet and ankles remained right-side out.
“Step in,” he said, holding it open.
Dylan placed one foot in, then the other, the silicone cold and pliable around his toes and heels. Slowly, he began working it up—his calves disappearing into thick, sculpted ones; his thighs bulking up into muscular proportions. It was a struggle, the silicone gripping and resisting, but Ryan helped him inch it higher.
When the suit reached his hips, Dylan let out a shaky breath. “Fuck. I feel huge.”
“Wait until it’s all the way on,” Ryan said, voice low and charged.
They worked together to pull it over Dylan’s torso, inch by inch. The chest compressed his own, fake pecs sitting heavy and proud, abs defined and hard. Dylan slipped his arms in last, feeling the biceps stretch tight, the shoulders lock in.
The suit hugged every inch of him.
He stood in front of the mirror again and blinked.
“Holy shit,” Dylan said. “This is…”
“Perfect,” Ryan said, holding out the final piece—Chase.
Dylan took the Chase mask with reverence and brought it to his face.
No hesitation.
He stretched it wide and pulled it down over his head. The silicone gripped tight, hugging his skull, settling into place with a quiet, skin-on-skin suction as the jaw aligned and the lips shaped themselves around his own. His face disappeared into Chase’s smug, sculpted one.
But he wasn’t done.
“Hold still,” Ryan murmured, stepping in close.
He carefully lifted the bib portion of the mask—thin and textured like real skin—and worked it beneath the bodysuit’s high, unforgiving neckline. It took precision, and firm hands. Ryan slid his fingers under the tight silicone chest, smoothing the bib flat across Dylan’s upper chest and shoulders, ensuring no edges would show.
The seal was flawless.
“Now you’re looking like a whole new man,” Ryan said, stepping back to admire him.
But the transformation wasn’t complete until Chase got dressed.
Ryan moved to the shelf and started handing over clothes, each item curated specifically for the persona.
First, a black compression tank. It clung tightly over the sculpted pecs, outlining every curve of the silicone muscles.
Then, a slightly oversized zip-up hoodie—faded, gray, with a frayed hem and a worn college logo on the back. Ryan didn’t zip it up all the way, leaving it open enough to show off the tight tank and the upper swell of Chase’s fake chest.
Next came the jeans. Ripped at the knees, soft from wear, perfectly broken in. Ryan helped guide them up over the thick silicone thighs and worked the waistband low, letting it sit lazily on Chase’s hips like he was too cocky—or too horny—to care.
Accessories came next. A slim gold chain. A silver dog tag. A braided leather bracelet. One ring on the index finger, chunky and loud. And finally, a small gold hoop for Chase’s ear—Ryan popped it in without asking, his fingers grazing the curve of the fake lobe.
Then came the final touch.
Shoes.
Ryan crouched down and held up a pair of worn white sneakers—well-used but still clean, with thick soles and a little scuff on one toe. He knelt and helped Dylan—Chase—step into them.
No socks.
“You don’t wear socks,” Ryan muttered as he tugged the tongue into place. “You don’t care if you smell. You know it turns people on.”
Chase let out a low, involuntary groan.
Ryan stood, grabbing a small bottle from the shelf and giving it a shake. “And Chase always smells like this.”
He sprayed once in the air, then twice directly onto Chase’s chest and hoodie. The scent hit hard—cheap cologne, all sex and swagger. Wood, sweat, spice. It smelled like gym locker rooms, back seats, and bad decisions.
Dylan’s brain swam.
It wasn’t just a suit anymore. It was a persona.
He flexed in the mirror. Tilted his head. Bit his lip. He didn’t just look like Chase now—he moved like him. Thought like him. That smug, lazy heat was crawling into his bloodstream.
He turned to Ryan, eyes heavy-lidded, cock swelling inside the suit.
“Fuck,” Chase said. “I feel like I should be blowing bubbles with gum and asking if you wanna see the cum gutters.”
Ryan laughed low. “You’re ready.”
Then he turned back to the rack and reached for his own persona—the one labeled BUZZ.
Chase stood in front of the mirror, adjusting his hoodie, admiring the way his pecs stretched the tank top beneath. He bounced slightly on his heels, feeling the weight of his new body settle with every move. It wasn’t just hot—it was fucking addictive.
Behind him, Ryan—still barefoot, still himself—was unhooking a bodysuit labeled BUZZ from a wooden hanger.
Buzz was a whole different vibe.
Where Chase was sleek, tanned, and built for thirst traps, Buzz looked like the guy who fixed your brakes, flirted with your boyfriend, and made you like it. The bodysuit was thicker, hairier, with tattoos molded into the skin—ink across the forearms, a half-finished tribal pattern stretching over the left pec, a faded eagle stamped on the shoulder. The belly was soft but solid, like a man who lifted heavy things but didn’t skip beer.
Ryan laid the suit out over a towel and reached into the cabinet for lube.
Chase—Dylan, somewhere deep inside—watched with hungry fascination as Ryan stripped off his shirt, then his jeans. He was lean and pale in comparison to the bodysuit in front of him, but there was nothing uncertain in his movements.
This wasn’t new for him. This was ritual.
Ryan poured the lube into his hands, slicking his thighs, chest, and arms without a word. He coated the inside of the suit next, working it open, methodically turning it inside out to the ankles—just like he’d done for Dylan.
Then he stepped in.
Buzz’s feet swallowed Ryan’s. His calves thickened. His thighs expanded. He grunted as he pulled the suit up over his lubed hips, the silicone gripping him like a second skin. The molded belly pressed firm against his own, the chest stretching tight over his torso, tattoos curling naturally with his motion.
By the time Ryan got his arms into the suit, he was halfway gone.
Buzz’s arms were thick, veined, a bit sun-worn. Ryan flexed them as the biceps inflated around his real ones, the ink gleaming under the light. He adjusted the shoulders, smoothing the seams, and rotated his neck with a crack.
Then, without a word, he reached for the mask.
Buzz’s face was stubbled, rough, and square-jawed, with small wrinkles at the corners of the eyes and a faint scar cutting through one brow. The silicone glistened slightly as Ryan spread it open and pulled it over his head.
No lube. No hesitation.
The mask sealed tight around his jaw, molding down over his face as he tugged it firmly into place. The expression was set in a perpetual half-scowl, the lips slightly parted like he was ready to say something cocky or filthy at any second.
Chase watched, wide-eyed, as Ryan—now Buzz—pressed the bib down into the neckline. The stretch was tight, but he was practiced. His fingers slipped beneath the thick collar of the bodysuit, tucking and smoothing until the neck transition was flawless.
Buzz stood up, breathing slow and deep. He cracked his neck again—louder this time. Then he turned to a worn duffel bag sitting at the foot of the bed.
Out came the clothes.
First: a greasy white tank top. It clung to the round gut and stretched tight over the chest, stained faintly yellow under the arms like it had seen real work. Buzz tugged it down and let it ride high over his waist.
Next: a pair of faded denim work jeans, scuffed and creased from use. He hopped into them, pulled them snug over the thick silicone legs, and buttoned them low under his stomach. A leather belt cinched it all together—one of those cracked old ones with a heavy steel buckle.
Then came the boots.
Worn brown work boots. Untied, tongues flared out, soles heavy enough to make the floor thump when he walked. He stepped into them without socks and stomped twice like he was making a point.
Buzz pulled on a dirty flannel, sleeves rolled up just past the elbows, then added a beat-up trucker cap with a faded beer logo. He grabbed a small case from the dresser, popped it open, and pulled out the final detail:
A gold tooth cap.
He leaned into the mirror, parted his lips, and clicked it into place over one of his molars.
Now he was complete.
Buzz turned, scratched his belly through the tank, and gave Chase a look that was equal parts filthy and possessive.
“You look like a fuckin’ candy bar,” he growled, voice gravelly and low. “All wrapped up and ready to melt.”
Chase swallowed. “Jesus.”
Buzz walked forward, slow and heavy, until they were chest to chest—Chase’s sculpted gym-bro build pressing against Buzz’s thicker, sweatier bulk. He ran a calloused thumb down the center of Chase’s fake abs, stopping just above the waistband.
“Still feel like a good boy under there?” Buzz murmured.
“I… I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry,” Buzz said, pressing him back toward the bed. “I’m real good at takin’ that outta people.”
Buzz stepped in close, practically chest to chest with Chase, his breath hot and heavy against the silicone skin. His gloved hand slid down the front of Chase’s hoodie, fingers trailing along the stretch of the tank beneath. But instead of groping, or pinning him to the bed like Chase expected, Buzz did something far more alarming.
He grabbed the hoodie zipper and tugged it all the way up.
“Wha—what are you doing?” Chase asked, his voice slipping just slightly from confident jock to confused Dylan.
Buzz smirked, his gold tooth flashing. “We’re goin’ for a walk.”
Chase blinked. “Wait… outside?”
Buzz grabbed a beat-up denim jacket off a hook by the closet and tossed it on over his flannel like it was nothing. “You gotta break that skin in, pretty boy. Let the world see what you are now.”
“No way. No fucking way,” Chase said, backing up a step. “I can’t—what if someone sees us?”
“They will,” Buzz said, buckling his belt tighter. “That’s the fuckin’ point.”
“But—” Chase tried, his confidence cracking. “I’m not ready for that.”
Buzz stepped in fast and gripped Chase’s jaw, not rough—but firm. Dominant. The smirk never left his face.
“You were ready the second that mask sealed on, jockboy. Don’t tell me you put all this on just to jerk off in front of a mirror.”
Chase’s breath caught.
Buzz leaned in closer, voice dropping. “You think that cocky grin on your face is for you? That tight fuckable body? The gold chain, the dog tag, the fuckin’ cologne? You’re made to be seen.”
Chase’s cock twitched inside the suit.
Buzz reached into a basket by the door and pulled out a pair of mirrored sunglasses—classic aviators. He slipped them over Chase’s face, adjusting them gently over the brow of the mask.
“There,” Buzz said. “Now you look like a hot piece of dumb meat who doesn’t think twice about anything.”
Chase looked in the mirror again and… fuck. He did look like someone who belonged outside. Not Dylan. Not even a guy wearing a mask. He looked like Chase—a real, cocky, swaggering asshole who strutted his way into people’s bedrooms without ever saying please.
Buzz grabbed the front of Chase’s hoodie and gave it a tug. “Let’s go.”
Chase hesitated, frozen in place, heart thundering beneath fake pecs. Then he felt Buzz’s hand slide into his back pocket—possessive, rough—and give his ass a firm squeeze.
“If you walk next to me, they’ll just think you’re my dumb little sidekick,” Buzz growled. “But if you stay here? You’re just a fantasy too scared to get off the fuckin’ shelf.”
Chase exhaled sharply through his nose.
Then he nodded.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s fucking go.”
Buzz chuckled and opened the front door.
The air outside was warm, humid—classic summer night in the neighborhood. Streetlights buzzed overhead. A couple houses had their porch lights on. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
Buzz walked like he owned the pavement. Heavy boots thumping with each step. Chase fell in beside him, trying to match the swagger, but still glancing nervously around.
“Stop lookin’ scared,” Buzz muttered. “You’re hot as fuck. They’re not gonna recognize a damn thing. They’re just gonna want to stare.”
They passed a house with a couple people sitting on the porch. One guy looked up, paused mid-drink.
Chase kept walking.
The guy nudged his friend. “Dude, look at that fuckin’ gym bro,” he whispered.
Chase nearly tripped.
Buzz didn’t even flinch. Just grinned wider.
They turned a corner, streetlights casting shadows across Buzz’s thick silhouette and Chase’s lean frame. Every step made Chase feel less like Dylan, more like the arrogant fuckboy he was dressed as. The scent of that cologne followed them like a warning.
“Feel it yet?” Buzz asked, not even looking at him.
“Feel what?”
“That charge. You’re wearing a body. A face. A story. And people are eatin’ it up.”
Chase swallowed. “Yeah,” he said. Then louder: “Yeah. I think I am.”
Buzz stopped walking and turned to face him. Reached out and grabbed Chase by the chain hanging around his neck.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect, jockboy,” he growled, pulling him close. “When we get back, I’m gonna ruin you in that suit.”
And Chase?
He didn’t argue this time.
He licked his lips, smirked, and said, “Better make it count, Daddy.”