"Well, you are indeed very smart. True that I'm not your father, but what do you think the public can say about that with my appearance like this hunky hairy bear? That I am actually your father, at least outside and soon, inside? Can they deny the fact that I can pass as him? Pretty sure they cannot do anything about that, am I right, son?"
NOT MY STORY. STORY IS ORIGINALLY FROM MALEBODYEXHIBITION.TUMBLR.COM WHICH DEACTIVATED YEARS AGO. REPOSTED FOR RECORD KEEPING PURPOSES
You planned to keep this one for two days. He was rather an interesting catch, entirely accidental. You initially took over his father, jumping into his ass crack while he was lifting a dumbbell for a deadlift. You took the body home, then explored it with your tongue, finding the trails of sweat he worked up during his training. You pumped his cock until you blew a load, then just strutted around his house free ballin’. You didn’t notice he son had come home until you was standing before you mouth agape.
You rushed to him and kissed him on the mouth, because you were his father and you just wanted to show him you loved him, plus you just didn’t care. This wasn’t your body and this wasn’t your house. You could do what you wanted, but when his son didn’t return the kiss and instead tried to push you off—and succeeded—you decided to just jump ship. You grabbed him by his waist, a small boy compared to his daddy. You tore off his workout shirt, a wife beater torn off at the midsection to show his belly button and abs—initially why you thought he would like being kissed—what straight male would wear something only bitches would flaunt? And you mount him like the stallion stud this body wanted to be by how much bitches this man has slain with his cock. You pump yourself into your son, his abs flexing and his ass tightening with each thrust into his virgin boy pussy. You’re sweating on him and he’s grunting and struggling to move under your weight, but you hold him in place with your muscular thighs as you begin pumping your seed into him. He smiles and begins to moan sensually—he was beginning to convert as you start to enter him from the dad’s dick into his ass. Soon your vision changes and you’re on all four as your new dad jackhammers your ass. You feel yourself cum onto your workout shorts and you hold your father’s hand which are wrapped around your chest. Soon your father falters and falls on top of you.
You fall to your side and he collapses into a puddle of his own sweat.
Man, you think, your ass is rekt’d. But it feels good. You feel cum ooze out and stain your underwear. This new body is perfect. It’s more muscular and tone than the dad, and the cock is larger by comparison. You almost feel bad for the father. Used for only an hour before being discarded as a suit of skin for a brand new model.
You decide fuck it. Maybe someone else will find the skin and get use out of being a hot dad for a day. But aside from that, his son will suffer the same fate. After two days, you plan to scrap this skin and find something new. Why not? Why be tied down as one hot guy when you can be a hundred?
I sniffed the air with a drool, smelling that delicious roast turkey that my dad was cooking up. It was a family recipe that we had used every Thanksgiving. Dad had never even tried to deviate from it since my mom passed when I was not even a year old. My dad told me it was hers, and cooking the turkey her way made it feel like she was back home for the Holidays.
Thanksgiving has been a big family occasion ever since, though the “family” was just the two of us. My dad valued that family time more than anything. After what happened with mom, he was absolutely devastated for the longest time. But he worked hard to make his way up through the ranks, and told me every single day to be grateful for what I had so I could have a good future myself.
“Ritchie! The turkey is ready! Come eat dinner with your old man.”
I opened my drawer and pulled out a jar filled with a translucent, red liquid along with a syringe. “Coming, dad!” I pondered if this was really the right thing to do. With a sigh, I put the serum back. No, he had done a wonderful job of being a role model parent. I had bought this serum from the shady kid at school before we graduated, and he told me it could turn the victim into a suit by emptying them out. A wearable suit. My dad didn’t deserve that. He had worked hard and chose not to abandon me when he could have.
I ran downstairs and saw the delicious Thanksgiving feast before me. Roast turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, a homemade pumpkin pie, and a beautiful salad. I immediately sat down and started eating as my dad watched with a grin. ”Oh come on, no thank you? On Thanksgiving?” He said jokingly.
“Thanks, dad. And…I want you to know I’m thankful for everything. I know I’m going off to college soon, so…I mean, you’ve worked so hard to….to provide everything for me and get me where I am, I wanna be thankful.”
Dad smiled, almost looking like he was on the brink of tears. “Let’s just eat, alright?” He started to dig in with me as we had a delicious Thanksgiving feast together.
—————————————–
A few hours after dinner, and I rested in my, eyeing the drawer with the bodysuit serum. Perhaps I could use it on someone else, someone who might deserve it.
Knock knock
Startled by the unusual late night disturbance, I opened the door to see Dad standing there, shirtless. Looked like he was getting ready to go to bed.
“Hey, Ritchie, you mind if I come in?’ He gave me the most wholesome smile, a reminder of the close bond we had.
“Yeah, sure, what’s up?”
He walked in and plopped himself onto my bed, hunched over with his legs spread out as he rubbed his hands together.
“Hey buddy, you’re going to college soon, and…I know, I know, maybe it’s not a big deal for you or whatever. I mean, you took this gap year, and you’re probably tired of your old man by now.” His body tensed up as he chuckled before giving a long sigh. ‘I just wanna say I’m really proud of you, and I’m thankful for you. I know sometimes…I know you told me that sometimes you feel guilty, because I had to raise you as a single parent…but I don’t regret it at all.”
My eyes teared up as I head his words. It was true, it felt awful. He never gave me up for adoption, he was never selfish, he had been the role model parent for me. Accepted me the way I was. Even with my homophobic grandparents, my father had told me he didn’t care, because I was his son. He had supported me every step of the way. He never went out looking for another woman, truly in love with my mother, and wanting to give me 100% of his attention.
“Dad…I have to be honest. I don’t want to go to college. It just…it doesn’t seem right to me. But-”
“You’re an adult, Ritchie. You get to make your own decisions. If that’s how you feel, go that route. Don’t let your old man try to live your life for you. I worked hard so you could have the life you want, not for you to be unhappy. I’ll support you, no matter what choice you make.”
At a loss for words, I jumped out of bed and hugged Dad and felt his arms wrap around me.
“Dad, I really meant what I said earlier. I couldn’t have asked for a better father.”
“I love you, son. No matter what, don’t ever forget that.”
As I hugged him, the option tugged at my conscience. in his compassion and fatherly affection, the guilt ripped me apart. I wanted it more than ever.
I got up from him and turned to the drawer. As he got up to leave the room, I said, “Wait, uh…I’ve um…got something for you.”
“Yeah? What is it, champ?”
I opened the drawer and slipped the syringe through the top of the jar, watching the liquid seep into the it.
“Just…uh…hold on a sec, alright?”
He gave a deep chuckle. “Yep, I’m waitin’.”
“I’m really sorry, Dad.”
I looked behind me and saw his concerned face. He was loving and supporting, and wanted to comfort me. “I already told you Ritchie, I’m proud of you. I don’t want you to feel gui-”
I swiftly turned around and jabbed Dad in the neck with the syringe, injecting him as he was startled. He pulled my hand away and pushed me back.
“Ritchie, w-what the hell was that?” His large, meaty hand patted his neck as he gave me a confused look.
“A…a bodysuit serum. I’m really sorry, Dad.”
“What the hell is that? What did you do? Is this some kind of prank?”
“N-no…I don’t….I don’t know…” I felt great guilt as Dad suddenly started groan and cup his face in his hands.
“Oh…fuck…i-it burns! WHAT DID YOU DO?” He tried to leave the room, but I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him back in, covering his mouth as he yelped. He was, of course, much stronger and bigger than me, but even in this moment of peril, he wasn’t willing to hurt his son. He pushed me back slightly as he fell back and hit the wall, slumping as his head hung down, struggling to keep it up.
“Fuck…Ritchie, please, call an ambulance! W-what are you doing?”
“It’s gonna turn you into a suit. I’m gonna wear your skin, Dad.”
His face was a mixture of confusion and horror. “THIS ISN’T FUNNY, RITCHIE!”
“I already told you, I’m really sorry Dad…but I’m gonna have your body. I’m gonna wear that skin of yours!” I menacingly approached him, still unsure if this was what I wanted to do.
“W-What do you mean? Did you…drug me?” The pain appeared to be ramping up as Dad’s face contorted and he wiggled against the wall, yelping every now and then while he clutched his stomach.
“I told you I didn’t want to go to college. I’m really sorry to say this…but I’m going to go straight to work, Dad. I want to wear your skin. I want to live your life, talk to your friends, do your job…please don’t make this harder than it has to be. It’s just because you’re the man I want to be.”
Dad started to cough as he looked slightly paler than before, wrestling out what words he could. “W-what are you going to do?” He clenched his jaws as he built up the courage the ask. “You’re creeping me out Ritchie! W-what do you mean wear my skin? You’re not a monster!” He stumbled over his words in terror, in denial of his fate.
“Nothing like that! I just know that I can’t wait to slide into you, slipping into your empty, lifeless skin, stretching every wrinkle of yours, and to talk to everyone…and not a single person will know. I really am sorry.”
Looking disturbed by his own son’s words, Dad tried again for the door. This time, I managed to grab him and put him in a chokehold. I could feel him getting softer as he was turned into a suit, and he was a lot weaker because of it. He started to panic with shallow breaths as I watched his bare feet scrape against my bedroom carpet, desperately trying to get out of my grasp. I could feel him almost ready.
I stood up with him still in a chokehold and moved to drag him over to the bathroom. I kicked open the door and turned on the light, I threw Dad forward as he hit the bathtub.
“I told you, I’m thankful for you, Dad. You’ve given me so much, and you’re about to give me everything.”
I grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed his head into the tub as the goo started to eject from his mouth. My very unfortunate father flailed and attempted to back up from the tub, gaining momentary freedom. “R-RITCHIE! STO-MMMMPH!!!”
I quickly slammed his face back towards the tub when I noticed him desperately clenching his mouth to keep the goo inside, trying to retain what little was left of him. I reached my left arm over his face and the right under his chin. I used both of my hands to clip onto his lips; I knew Dad wouldn’t bite me, he was too good of a father. With my left arm and held his upper face steady as I pulled his mouth open with my right hand. He whimpered as he looked at me, as if one final plea to talk. Slowly, but surely, his mouth started to open with a cry as he weakened. Prying his mouth open, Dad shuddered and yelped as the goo plopped out of his mouth. Clearly unable to fight for any longer, I released the pressure and grabbed him by the hair with my left hand. I could feel his head almost…folding in on itself, as it emptied. I tugged his head back into the tub until Dad was mostly deflated and empty. His hands let go of the tub and fell to the ground in a folded pile, while his legs had completely folded at the knees, while his face drooped into the bathtub. I felt a severe guilt. Dad, the man who had given me everything, who had been supportive of me, who had been the best father he possibly could’ve been, was gone. All that was left was this bodysuit of him.
I grabbed his hand, and noticed there was some goo left in him. I picked the arm of the suit up from the fingers and squeezed out the remaining goo as it fell right out from his mouth, until he was completely empty. Turning on the bathtub, the goo sunk into the drain.
I grabbed the bodysuit by the scalp and held it up, and his shorts and underwear slipped off. I could just barely hold the suit so Dad’s feet wouldn’t touch the ground; he was a man of incredible stature. Every crevice of his folded over itself, while the mouth and eye sockets dragged downwards, creating an O-face with bags. Even though I knew it was me who did it, the macabre visual of my own father’s lifeless skin could only seek to unsettle me. I intended to remedy that.
Dropping the bodysuit to the floor, it fell as a haphazard pile of skin and hair with a slap. I took off my own clothes and tossed them onto the floor. I hooked my fingers onto Dad’s lips and started to stretch his mouth as wide as I could. I dipped my toes in, forcing one foot through Dad’s body, then the other, until both fit snugly into his feet. I wiggled my new toes, significantly thicker and with little tufts of hair on each one. I tugged harder at his mouth as I slipped Dad’s skin on, feeling his powerful legs overtake my own. I flexed my trunk thighs in awe, enjoying seeing his beautiful daddy legs move to my command. I had to stretch the suit to it’s limit to slip my hard cock into Dad’s fuckstick skin. Christ, the thing was massive. I shimmied into his ass, feeling it perk up. Dad was always such a humble guy, and of course, I hadn’t got to see him naked until now. He truly had an amazing body, it almost made me sad to imagine all that he missed out on in his loyalty to Mom. I gazed at myself in the mirror, satiated by the thought of my supportive and caring father, being turned into a sexual object by his son. The empty arms swung from my hip as I checked myself out, while the skin of his torso and head clumped around my waist. I continued to pull at Dad’s mouth, slipping my arms into each arm of the suit. His hands were strong and his fingers thing, veins running down the arm. A sign of masculinity and impressive musculature. Finally, I grabbed the upper lip from behind my head and, using my newfound strength, pulled the upper lip over my head as Dad’s face stretched to ludicrous proportions while I tried to stuff my own head into his, almost threatening to tear.
I blinked a few times, and looked in the mirror. I was the spitting image of Dad, quite literally. Humble, supportive, friendly, caring Dad. Perhaps I need to start referring to myself by name. Alan. I was Alan, single father of Ritchie. I could only give myself a devious smirk in the mirror. As I started to jerk off this new fuckstick of mine. It was insanely sensitive, from nearly two decades of loyalty and family dedication. I rubbed it intensely as I recalled the events of the night. I did feel awful about what I had done, but there was such a dark appeal to it. I had decided on not turning Dad into a skinsuit…but when he came in, and sat there on that bed, the impulse was too much. Recalling the nights events of pulling on Dad’s skin, and getting to see myself in control of his body…I ejaculated onto the mirror with a loud moan, rolling my neck as I felt the wave of pleasure overtake my body momentarily. The seed was thick, and I was able to roll it off the mirror and eat it up. I stretched a bit to fully situate myself in my new skin and picked up the underwear that I had been wearing, ready to slip it on and go to bed. A thought passed my mind as I stared in the mirror, ready to be just as good of a man that Alan had always been.
Once again, Dad endured so many trials, to give me everything. Quite literally this time.
"What do you think of these two?" I ask my husband, Ryan, as we peer around the corner and see what looks to be a father and son getting ready to go on a hike.
"Heh, you sure have been kinky. Only if I get the son. I wanna suck off that huge dick." Ryan says as he points to the dad's bulge in the compression shorts.
"Aww, I was thinking the same thing... Fine. We just need to get out of these bodies. I seriously hate being a woman. Definitely not for me." I sigh as I now start to eye the older man drinking some water.
"I kind of liked you as my wife. Give yourself some credit Louis. We spent two days in these bodies. That's more than we normally last." Ryan says as he looks at me one more time.
"Just get ready to jump. We gotta make eye contact at the same time." I ready my sights on my target when I look over at Ryan and see he already jumped. His previous body collapses to the ground.
______________
Suddenly the younger man sits upright in the back of the pickup and runs his hands down his body. A smirk appears on his face.
"Hey Daddy, looking good." He remarks as he eyes his new father up and down.
"Son? What did you say?" The older man questions.
"Fuck, I can't wait to suck you off in just a little bit. Even better if we can get a little sweaty and musky first."
"What the fuck-?" Suddenly the older man is interrupted as he is possessed by Louis. His face twitches before he takes a deep inhalation.
"Fuck Ryan, I told you to wait."
"Couldn't help myself. Damn we look good now. This kid feels nice."
"Yeah, I feel good too. Damn, this is so much better than being a chick." Louis says as he flexes his biceps and admires his masculine body.
"Oh yeah. We're gonna have fun as a brand new father and son." Ryan flirts as he hops off the pickup and saunters towards Louis. "Let's start the fun now."
"Sure thing son, let's just keep this trip between us. No need for your mother to find out."
Ryan lustily pulls down his dad's shorts and gets on his knees. He licks his lips before letting Louis's new cock flop out.
"I love you Dad."
"I love you too son. Now, why don't you please Daddy, just like you promised."
"Dad, what the hell happened to you?" my dad is shirtless, his protruding hairy belly in sight. Just last week, my dad, the daddest dad I know, started posting weird shirtless pics online. I wouldn't have worried if he was just posting workout physiques, but there was something else different about it. He's a quiet person, and he doesn't often go shirtless, but this newfound appreciation for his body took me off guard.
"Nothing happened," my dad said, rubbing his belly. He looked at me calmly, with the same serious look on his face. "Aren't you proud of your dad getting in shape?" He flexed his arms, showing his hairy armpit. I cringed internally. He massages his biceps, the hairs on his chest, and almost smugly displayed them to me.
"I don't care about that," I said, trying to avoid looking at his body. "But dad… my friend sent me a screenshot of you…" Just getting the words out feel wrong. My dad, who was married for years with my mom, was now this person I barely recognized. "It was you… it was a Grindr profile…"
He just looked at me, silent for a moment. "So?"
I stared at him in disbelief. "You're not gay! You were married to mom! I've even heard your political views on gay people—and that told me all I need to know!"
He flexed his arms, and I cringed at how performative it looked. "I've always been gay, son. Now that your mother's gone, I can finally let men worship this bicep." With that, he kissed his arms and looked at me with a hint of a smirk.
I felt sick to my stomach. I would never have guessed that my father was gay. "Look. I don't care that you're gay. Everyone's asking me questions about you. Your Instagram profile is just countless shirtless pictures of you just from this week!"
He took a step forward, and I could smell the faint aroma of his body. "Well, son. I think it's time, don't you think?"
He looked at me calmly, and I could feel something darker within his eyes.
I forced the words out. "Time for what?"
I saw him smirk, a sinister smirk that made my eyes go wide. He whispered, "Go."
My mouth is forced open as panic rises from my chest. A sudden warmth invades my throat as I feel it slither further down into me. My legs grow limp as this warmth slithers further down to the deepest corners of my body. The warmth seemed to disappear, leaving a strange sensation as though something was just in me.
I cough. Hard. Dad's just looking at me with the same serious expression. "What the hell happened?"
"Now I can do this." He stepped forward and cupped my crotch. I let out a gasp as I move to get away. My legs stand still. He leans in, and I feel his hot breath under my neck. "You have no idea how long we've been waiting for this."
He starts rubbing my crotch, his strong hands cupping at the balls and at my — and I realize in horror—hardening cock.
"What… the… fuck… is… happening?" I choke out, my breathing getting heavier as my father stares at me with his deep, soulful black eyes. I feel his other hand pulling me closer.
"He struggled, too, you know," my dad said, his voice strangely harmonic. "But he likes it now."
I feel my hand move on its own accord, and I put my left hand on his chest, the right behind his back. "I'm not fucking gay!"
"Yeah?" he grinned like a predator catching its prey—a view I thought I'd never see, "Well, he wasn't at first."
I feel my arms moving on its own, taking off my shirt and shucking off my pants. "What the fuck!"
My dad leans in and starts kissing my chest. My dad, who once told me not to play with a 'girls' toy', was now knee-deep in my armpits, sniffing so hard he looked as though he would faint. Oh god. My cock has never been this hard. Holy fuck, what the hell is happening?
I lean away for a moment, and I stare at my dad's eyes. For a moment, I see him, my real dad, somewhere in those eyes, then I feel a force like a cannonball forcing us to kiss like mad men. I groan, cringing inside as I felt my dad's tongue in my mouth. I've fully leaned into his body, rubbing his arms and feeling his hairy back. He smelled faintly of sweat, but my cock only grew harder from his musk.
"This isn't you," I gasped within kisses. I feel my body lean in until I'm sucking on his nipples, groaning at his hairy body. An undeniable urge to devour his body was in me. All my body wants to do is to worship this man. My dad, who raised me. This hot, sexy, piece of meat. Fuck!
"Oh, it's me, son," he said with a gruffness that only spurred me on. He forced me closer, and the strength of his arms makes my knees weak. "You already feel it, don't you? You're not sure if it's just something making you do this or it was something you've wanted all along."
I lean in and sniff his armpits, clawing at his hairy belly and kissing him, the odd sensation of kissing someone with a beard enough to send shivers down my spine. I… I understood it now. My dad is fucking hot and he should display his body as much as he wants! Wait! That's not me!
"Don't fight it, son," he whispered, licking my ears. "Come sit on your dad's cock, son. I know you want to." Yes, I did want to. My hands travelled to his cock, and my eyes open wide as I discover it's as thick as a beer can.
"Jesus, dad," I say, unsure if I'm impressed, embarrassed, or horny. I want to suck his cock. I look at the large fucking thing. The veins, just the thickness of it all. All I want to do is just slather his cock with my saliva. I want that thick dick deep in my—wait.
"This isn't me," I whispered to him. My body moves down his cock until I could smell it. All the warmth and musk seemed to lead right into his dick. He grabbed me by my hair. "Come on, son."
My dad looked at me with a proud smile. It was the type of smile he only gave me once in a decade. He looked so gentle and… fuck. He was so fucking hot. I lean in and take his cock in. I gag, unused to the invasion to my throat. I start sucking in, my hands moving to his balls and to his legs. I… love his cock. I love the feeling of it down my throat. I should have more cocks down my throat. I love it. All of a sudden, it felt… easier. I slowed down and savored his taste. He groaned, his familiar voice sounding so… hot, so bothered. His cock was so hard but I fucked my throat in it. I felt his hands on my head.
"You're fucking good at this, son," he said gruffly. I felt my cock get even harder at the praise. I love it. I want my dad to fuck me all the time. I want him all the time. I want his dick in me. I don't. I do. Wait, fuck, I don't! Yes, I do.
I feel a sudden surge of energy in my dad's cock. I feel it pulse, and my body leans further in, and this time I gag even more. Fuck! I need to stop this! I will myself to lean away but my body won't respond.
"Don't fight, son," he said, caressing my hair. "Make your dad proud."
He suddenly thrust forward, his cock further impaling my throat. "That's it, son," he cooed. He thrust again, grabbing my head and keeping it in place. I don't want to fight this. I want to let this happen. My dad let out a loud groan as a torrent of cum splashes out into my throat. I gag but my body keeps still, hot thick cum shooting straight in my throat. I love the taste of it. Just the thought that it's from my dad is enough. I want it all. I feel his cum leak out from my mouth, but my tongue laps as much as it can, hungrily.
We collapse down to the ground. My dad's sweating profusely, and he looks so hot with his hairy body all oiled up. Shit. This really fucking happened. I just sucked my dad's cock. He looked at me with the same calm expression, but his eyes seem gentler. I heave in and out. I can still taste my dad on my mouth.
We don't say anything for a few minutes. I'm leaning on his arm, his warmth feeling so inviting. I look him straight in the eye. "Now who the fuck is in my body?"
I stepped into The Rusty Nail just after ten, the bar’s low lights wrapping around me like an old friend. Frank’s body moved with that easy, heavy confidence I was still getting used to. Broad shoulders rolling, belly leading the way, thick thighs rubbing together in the tight jeans. Underneath it all, the cum-soaked wrestling singlet clung to my stolen skin like a filthy secret, the spandex still tacky and warm from my load, every step making it squelch softly against my heavy balls and the thick shaft that kept half-hard just from the constant rub. The place was half-full, mostly blue-collar guys nursing pitchers after long shifts. I scanned the room and my new heart stuttered when I spotted him. Thomas. An old coworker of mine who left our job about 5 months ago.
He was even bigger than I remembered: 350lbs of soft, lonely fat, pale skin stretched tight over a massive gut that rested on his thighs, heavy tits straining the front of a faded black hoodie, thick thighs spilling over the barstool, and a round, bearded face that looked equal parts tired and hopeful under the neon glow. His eyes were downcast, swishing a cheap whiskey, one meaty hand wrapped around the glass like it was the only thing keeping him company. Perfect. I sauntered over, letting Frank’s deep voice rumble out low and friendly.
“Hey there, big guy. That seat taken?” Thomas looked up, startled, then did a slow double take at the burly, bearded construction body I was wearing. His cheeks flushed under the beard.
“Uh… no, man. All yours.” I slid onto the stool beside him, Frank’s belly brushing the bar edge, and ordered two beers. We started easy; small talk about the game on the TV, the weather, how the city was going to shit. But I could feel his eyes on me, flicking over my chest hair peeking from the open buttons, the way the black shirt stretched across my shoulders, the faint blue outline of the singlet underneath when I shifted. I let my knee press against his thick thigh under the bar, casual at first, then deliberate.
“You look like you could use some real company tonight,” I said, voice dropping to Frank’s gravelly register. “Not just the cheap stuff in that glass.” Thomas laughed, nervous, but his eyes lit up.
“Yeah? You offering, stranger?” I leaned in closer, letting him smell Frank’s natural musk mixed with the faint, sweet scent of leftover oil and dried cum seeping through the singlet.
“Name’s Frank. Live a couple blocks over. But… I ain’t exactly who you think I am.” His brow furrowed. I grinned behind the beard and dropped my voice even lower, letting a hint of my own familiar cadence bleed through, the one he’d recognize. “It’s me, Tommy. Daryl, from Curt & Russel.” His eyes went wide. The whiskey glass nearly slipped from his fingers.
“No fucking way…”I reached over, placed Frank’s big, calloused hand on his knee, and squeezed.
“Way. Found something real. Magic oil. Poured it all over my soft ass last night, slid head-first into my neighbor’s hole while he was out cold. Now I’m him. Every inch. Feel this?” I guided his hand under the table, letting him palm the thick, half-hard bulge straining the jeans—and the unmistakable slick, spandex-covered shape beneath. “That’s his cock. My cock now. And under the clothes? His kid’s wrestling singlet. Soaked in my load. Still warm.” Thomas’s breath hitched, his massive chest rising fast. I could see the front of his hoodie tenting already.
“Jesus Christ, Daryl… you actually did it. You’re… you’re wearing him like a fucking suit.” I nodded, slow and filthy, letting Frank’s beard brush his ear as I whispered every detail. Thomas was panting by the time I finished, his free hand discreetly adjusting the massive hard on trapped under his gut. Then the idea hit me. I pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eye, my stolen cock twitching at the thought.
“You’re still lonely, aren’t you? Wishing you could wear something young and tight and strong instead of… this.” I let my eyes drag over his huge, soft body with zero shame. I loved every pound of it, and I knew he did too in that twisted way we both got off on. Thomas swallowed hard.
“Every damn night.”I squeezed his knee again.
“I can help. Frank’s got a son. Jake. Eighteen. Lean, muscular wrestler. Comes back from a tournament tomorrow night. Tight ass, strong legs, smooth chest, cock that’s probably never been properly used. You slide into him the same way I did. Live in that jock. I’ll hold him down for you. We’ll make it slow. Filthy. You’ll feel every inch of his guts hugging you like a glove while I watch.”
His eyes were glassy with lust. “You’re serious.”
“Dead serious. I’ve still got the oil at Frank’s place. Brewed a fresh batch this morning just in case. He walks in the door tired from the meet, I offer him a ‘welcome home’ beer, same knockout stuff I used on his dad. You wait in the basement, oiled and ready. When he’s out, I strip him, lube his hole, you slide in. Then we both walk around in our new skins.”
Thomas was breathing like he’d run a mile. “Fuck… yes. God, yes. I want it. I want to feel what it’s like to be… tight. Strong. To have a body that turns heads instead of getting pitied.”
We spent the next hour at the bar hammering out the plan in hushed, dirty detail. I described Jake to him, 5'10, 185lbs of pure lean muscle, short brown hair, smooth skin, an ass like two firm melons from all the squats, a cock that I’d seen once by accident in the backyard (thick, cut, swinging heavy even soft). We decided I’d text him the second Jake pulled into the driveway. By the time we left the bar, my new cock was aching and Thomas was walking funny from how hard he was. I clapped him on his massive shoulder with Frank’s strong hand.
“Tomorrow night, Tommy. You’re gonna be so fucking beautiful inside that boy.” He grinned, shaky and hungry. I went home and jerked off twice more in the singlet just thinking about it, then crashed in Frank’s big bed, belly rising and falling under the sheets, already imagining the sounds Thomas would make when he finally got to stretch and fill and settle.
The next evening came slowly.Jake’s truck rumbled into the driveway right on schedule, just after eight. I was waiting on the porch in Frank’s body, a cold beer already in each hand.
“Hey, champ! Tough weekend?” He looked beat. Hair messy, duffel bag slung over one broad shoulder, wrestling hoodie clinging to his lean torso, gym shorts showing off those powerful legs.
“Yeah, Dad. Took second in my weight class, though. You shoulda seen the final match.”
I pulled him into a big, burly hug, letting him feel the solid weight of his father’s chest against him.
“Proud of you. Come on in, I decided you're ready for your first beer with your old man."
"For real?" Jasked, almost suspiciously. But he was too young and eager to get a drink to object. Jake took the beer, and chugged half of it in the kitchen while I made small talk about the tournament. The knockout powder worked fast on his young system. By the time we hit the living room he was swaying, eyes glassy.
“Dad… feel weird…”I caught him as his knees buckled, easing that tight wrestler body down onto the couch.
“Easy, son. Just relax.” Thomas was already coming up from the basement, completely naked, his enormous fat body glistening head-to-toe in thick golden oil. He looked obscene and gorgeous. Huge belly swaying, heavy tits bouncing, thick cock jutting out like a beer can, dripping pre and oil in long strings. His eyes locked on Jake’s unconscious form and he let out a low, needy groan.I stripped Jake fast, revealing the smooth, muscled eighteen-year-old underneath. Tight abs, hairless chest, a soft but thick cock nestled against heavy balls, and that perfect, pink hole winking between two firm glutes. I poured the rest of the oil straight down his crack, rubbing it in with Frank’s thick fingers until everything shone. Then I grabbed Jake’s wrists, pinning them above his head with one strong hand while I used my knee to spread his legs wide.
“He’s all yours, Tommy. Take your time. I want to watch every inch disappear into my boy.”
Thomas knelt between those spread thighs, oil-slick body trembling with anticipation. He pressed the fat, leaking head of his cock against Jake’s oiled hole and pushed. The stretch was immediate and filthy. Jake’s ring bloomed open around the massive girth, a long, wet squelch echoing as the first three inches sank inside. Thomas moaned loud, his huge belly resting on the boy’s abs as he fed more of himself in.
“Oh my god… so tight…” I watched, cock throbbing in my jeans, as Thomas’s thick shaft disappeared inch by slow, bulging inch. The outline of his cock was visible under Jake’s smooth skin, sliding deeper, pressing against the boy’s prostate until Jake’s soft dick twitched and started to harden against his own belly. Thomas kept going, his heavy balls popping through the stretched ring one after the other with wet, vulgar pops. Then his hips—his fat, soft ass—followed, the boy’s hole gaping and fluttering around the invasion until Thomas’s massive gut started to compress and slide inside.The bulge was grotesque and beautiful: Jake’s lean abs distending outward around Thomas’s enormous belly, the shape of it pushing up under the skin before smoothing out as more of the fat man fed in. Thomas’s heavy tits dragged along the boy’s chest as he sank deeper, nipples hard, breath coming in ragged gasps. I held Jake down tighter, feeling the boy’s body twitch and clench around my friend’s slow, relentless takeover.
“Fuck, Daryl… he’s swallowing me… every heavy inch…” Thomas groaned in that familiar voice, now raw with lust. His shoulders popped through next, stretching Jake’s hole to its absolute limit, golden oil and pre and ass-juice slicking everything in a shiny mess. Finally his head, eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy as the last of him slid home with a long, sucking slurp. All that remained were Tommy's legs as they got greedily slurped up.Jake’s hole closed tight around nothing, pink and glistening. It was like Jake was pregnant, a rotund figure squirming in his stomach, slowly spreading out across the remainder of his body.
I could make out the outlines of Tommy's arms as they fumbled aroudn in the darkness, finally finding their way into Jake's and taking place. His legs did the same, as he was putting on Jake like a pair of pants. Jake's stomach began to deflate as Tommy settled in. I could even see his pathetic little cock trying to find its way into its new shaft. I rubbed it a bit, making Thomas squirm, before helping guide his balls and cock into place. Jake's grew to its full 6 inches, red and glistening as they locked into place. Finally I could see Thomas's head pushing through Jake's neck, a bulbous figure which finally found its way to Jake's scalp.
Thomas flexed inside the new skin, and Jake’s body answered perfectly. The boy’s eyes opened, now burning with Thomas’s hungry gaze. He looked down at the lean, muscled chest, ran smooth, strong hands over tight abs, squeezed the thick, hard cock that was now his. “Holy… shit…” It was Jake’s voice, but the words, the groan, the filthy little laugh—that was all Thomas. “I’m him. I’m Jake!”
I released the wrists, grinning behind Frank’s beard as the new Jake sat up, flexing those wrestler arms, admiring the way the young body moved—light, powerful, every muscle responding instantly. The contrast was insane: my burly, belly-heavy Frank suit next to this tight, smooth eighteen-year-old skin suit that used to belong to my “son.” Thomas-in-Jake stood up on shaky new legs, cock still leaking, and pulled meinto a deep, hungry kiss. “Thank you,” he whispered against my beard, voice cracking with the boy’s timbre. “Now what.... dad?”I squeezed his firm ass with one big hand, feeling the oil-slick residue still inside. “Now we go upstairs. You put on that fresh singlet I saw in his room. We both get dressed like nothing happened. And then… we hit the town".
Hey ya’ll, I’ve been thinking a lot lately and I want to focus on a series of stories with a similar premise to start off with. The idea comes from a favorite story of mine, Enrique’s Antics.
This series would focus on a passed along oil recipe which allows the user to slip into another person, taking them over like a skin suit. Out of all possession methods, this is the one which excites me the most, and I want to explore it as an anthology. For now, I would like to introduce the first one of these, Daryl’s story.
Daryl
I’d been watching Frank Harlan from my living room window for the better part of a year, my thick gut pressed against the sill while my cock throbbed in my sweatpants every time he stepped out to mow the lawn or haul groceries. He was everything I wasn’t on the outside—burly, solid, late fifties, with a heavy dad-bod belly that hung just right over his belt, thick arms corded from years of construction work, a salt-and-pepper beard that framed a square jaw, and a deep, rumbling voice that carried across the fence like gravel wrapped in velvet. His chest hair peeked out the top of every worn plaid shirt, and the way his jeans hugged the heavy bulge between his thighs made my mouth water. I was the chubby, quiet guy next door—soft all over, pale, smooth-skinned, with a belly that jiggled when I walked and had always made me ashamed of myself.
The favor had been simple: two weeks ago my car battery died in the driveway after getting home from my shit gas station job. Frank came over without being asked, flashlight in hand, and got me running again in ten minutes flat. He’d clapped me on the shoulder with that strong hand, grinned behind his beard, and said, “Anytime, neighbor. That’s what we’re here for.” I’d jerked off three times that night just replaying the weight of his palm on me.
Tonight I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I mixed the drink in my kitchen. Really it was just a bottle of bourbon I mixed with a ton of sleep medicine. Then I poured the magic oil into a wide-mouthed jar, the thick golden stuff already shimmering under the light, warm to the touch like it had a pulse of its own. I’d found the recipe in an old leather-bound book at a back-alley occult shop. I had passed it so many times on my way to work, but something almost mystical made me pull into the alley next to it, and be greeted by the mysterious merchant inside. He was almost eager to sell me the book at a discounted rate, and I could have sworn he licked his lips upon my purchase. I read through the book and found the description for this oil. Lather yourself up, and it was like you were clay, and could enter the body of any host of your choosing, given you had access to the proper opening. It seemed impossible and stupid to try, but my infatuation with Frank became too much for me to handle just fantasizing about anymore.
I knocked on Frank’s front door at 9:00 pm. He answered in a faded blacm T-shirt that stretched across his barrel chest and loose basketball shorts that did nothing to hide the heavy swing of his cock. His belly pushed the hem up just enough to show a strip of hairy skin.
“Hey, Daryl,” he rumbled, smiling. “What’s up?”
“Brought you a thank-you drink,” I said, holding up the bourbon. “For the jump-start. Figured you might be winding down after work.”
He laughed that low belly-laugh and took it. “You didn’t have to, but I won’t say no.” He took a long wiff, nostrils tantalized, then another. “Damn, that’s smooth. Come on in, I’ll grab us a couple of glasses”.
We sat in his living room for maybe fifteen minutes, talking about nothing. Weather, the neighbor down the street who kept parking on the grass. I watched the drug hit him in slow, perfect stages: his eyelids drooping, his words getting thicker, that strong body slumping deeper into the recliner until his head lolled back and his mouth fell open with a soft snore. His belly rose and fell, the front of his shorts tenting slightly from the way he was sprawled. Perfect.
My heart hammered as I locked the front door, killed the lights, and stripped right there in the living room. My own soft, heavy body spilled out. Pale belly, thick thighs, cock already half-hard and leaking. I unscrewed the jar of magic oil. It was warm, almost hot, and when I poured the first thick rope across my chest it felt like liquid sunlight. I rubbed it in slow, greedy circles, coating every inch of my skin until I glistened head to toe. The oil sank in, and for a moment I felt utterly ridiculous. But then I could feel a tingle ring through me. My skin shimmered gold, every roll and curve now impossibly glossy, frictionless, ready. My cock looked obscene, fat, dripping, sliding through my own oiled fist like it was made of warm glass.
Frank was still out cold. I knelt between his spread thighs, hooked my slick fingers into the waistband of his shorts, and peeled them down along with his boxers. His cock flopped out heavy and thick, half-hard even unconscious, nestled in a thick bush of dark, graying hair. His balls hung low and full. I dragged his shirt off next, revealing the full glory of his burly torso. Hairy chest, soft belly with a deep navel, strong arms, and the faint scars of old work injuries. I left him naked on the recliner, legs spread wide, that hairy ass exposed.
I poured the last of the oil straight onto his crack, watching it drip and shimmer over his hole. Then I climbed up, oiled body sliding against his like warm silk. I started feet-first because I wanted to feel every inch of him swallow me from the inside out. I pressed my toes against his pucker. It was tight at first, but the oil did its job; his ring stretched with a wet, obscene pop as my feet sank inside. The heat was immediate. Hot, velvety guts gripping me like a living glove. I groaned low, pushing deeper, my calves sliding in with a long, slow squelch. Frank’s belly bulged outward as my legs filled his intestines, the outline of my feet and shins visible under his skin like some obscene puppet.
“Oh fuck… yes…” I whispered, voice shaking with lust.
I kept going, inch by filthy inch. My thick thighs disappeared into him, stretching his hole impossibly wide, the golden oil mixing with the natural slick of his body until everything was a glistening mess. His cock twitched and started to harden against my oiled belly as I fed more of myself inside. When my hips reached his entrance I paused, grinding my fat, dripping cock against his taint for a moment, then shoved. My entire groin slid in with a wet, vulgar slurp, my balls popping through his ring one after the other. I could feel his prostate kissing the underside of my shaft as I kept pushing, my own heavy belly now compressing and sliding into his colon. The stretch was obscene, his abs distended grotesquely around the shape of my softer gut, then smoothed out as I settled deeper.
My chest went in next, nipples dragging along his inner walls, sending sparks through both of us. I had to tilt my head back, arms raised, as my shoulders popped through that ruined hole. The pressure was insane! Every muscle, every rib, every heartbeat of his body squeezing and massaging me like a second, hotter skin. I felt his lungs expand around my own chest, his heart thundering against my back. Finally my head , face-first into the slick heat. The world went dark and wet and perfect as his hole closed around my scalp with a final, lewd pop.
Then came the settling.
I flexed inside him, and his body answered like it was mine. My mind stayed completely me, but the flesh I wore was all Frank. I opened his eyes. Looked down at his thick, hairy chest rising and falling with my breath. Ran his big, calloused hands over his belly—my belly now—and felt the weight of it, the way it spilled just right. His cock—my cock—was rock-hard, veins pulsing, a fat bead of pre dripping from the slit. I squeezed it and groaned in his deep, gravelly voice. “Holy shit…”
I stood up slowly, feeling the new power in these legs, the way his heavy balls swung between my thighs, the way his ass, still slick with leftover oil and my own residue, clenched around nothing. I was taller, broader, stronger. The contrast made my stolen cock throb: my soft, chubby self now wrapped inside this burly, bearded, belly-heavy man.
I padded naked through his house, the floorboards creaking under his heavier weight, and climbed the stairs. His teenage son, Jake, was out for the weekend at a wrestling tournament, thank fuck, so the house was mine. I pushed open the door to Jake’s room and the smell of teenage sweat hit me. There, draped over the back of a chair, was the light grey wrestling singlet. I picked it up, feeling the slick, stretchy fabric between Frank’s thick fingers. My new cock jumped.
I stepped into it slowly, savoring every second. The spandex stretched obscenely over my new thighs, hugging the thick muscle and the soft give of the belly. I pulled it up over my hips, and the pouch cradled my heavy balls and throbbing cock like a second skin, the material already darkening where pre leaked through. The straps went over my broad shoulders, digging in just enough to make the chest hair puff out around them. The singlet was tight, designed for a lean eighteen-year-old wrestler, but on Frank’s burly frame it looked obscene: the fabric strained across my gut, outlining every roll, the leg holes riding high and framing the thick bulge and the curve of my ass. I turned in the mirror, admiring the way the singlet gleamed under the lamp, shiny with the faint residue of oil and sweat already seeping through.
I couldn’t wait.
I wrapped Frank’s big hand around the spandex-covered cock and started stroking, long, slow, filthy pulls. The material made wet, sticky sounds as it slid over the leaking head. I watched in the mirror: this burly, bearded dad in his son’s wrestling gear, belly pushing the fabric out, nipples hard against the straps. I imagined Jake’s teammates seeing me like this and the thought made me growl in Frank’s voice.
“Fuck… look at me… wearing your boy’s singlet while I wear you…” I pumped faster, hips rolling, the spandex creaking. My balls drew up tight. I came with a roar, thick, ropey spurts jetting straight into the pouch, soaking the dark blue fabric until it turned glossy and wet. I kept stroking through it, smearing the hot cum all over my stolen belly, across my chest, down my thighs, using it like extra lube so the singlet clung even tighter, translucent in places, reeking of Frank’s musk mixed with fresh seed.
I was panting, grinning behind the beard, when I finally stepped out of the room and headed to Frank’s closet. I rummaged until I found what I wanted: a tight black button-up shirt that would strain over the cum-stained singlet, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged the thick thighs and the still-leaking bulge. I left the top two buttons open so the hairy chest and the faint hint of the singlet underneath peeked through. No underwear, just the filthy, cum-smeared wrestling gear underneath everything, rubbing against me with every step.
I looked in the full-length mirror one last time: Frank Harlan, burly, bearded, belly-heavy, dressed like he was heading out for a beer—but underneath it all, his teenage son’s wrestling singlet was soaked with my load, and the man inside him, already planning who I was going to hit on at the bar downtown.
I grabbed Frank’s keys, felt the heavy swing of his cock against the cum-slick spandex, and stepped out into the night.
The red-light-blue swirl is indeed life-changing, look what it did to the boys in the span of less than one semester! The way they behave, their muscle growth, their political allegiance, their sexuality, all steered by the magnetic sensation and redirection given by the swirl. Less thinking on their own, more group-think and to advance the patriotic agenda and causes.
“Um, Dad. Who the fuck is that?” Garret asked with a snotty tone as he pointed at the meek asian boy sitting at the table.
“You know, you should really be nicer to people you just met,” Dennis says, shaking his head in disapproval.
“Okay note to self, be nicer. But seriously. Who the fuck is that?” Garret continues, not giving a fuck.
“You know, his name isn’t important, but he’s here to help you with your attitude problem. I’m concerned about you, Garret. You’re not on a good path, and this boy can help you.”
“Yeah, like you were such a winner, Dad. You knocked up mom at 16 and then decided to come out of the closet and mess up that marriage. You might have your graphic design firm, but you’re the definition of a fuck up. Besides, what the fuck is Grandpa Jones over there gonna do? Report me to General Custard?” Garret spits back with complete hatred and disdain.
“I’ve failed you as a parent, Garret. It’s not all your fault that you became this way, but I’m going to do the right thing and fix you.”
Garret just scoffs. “But for real, what the hell is that old man doing here?”
“Well, Garret. I bought this old man while trying to find a way to fix your attitude problems. I found him living in the streets. He’s a mute elderly homeless man, but after consulting with a new company called Parental Support Services, I found a solution that benefits everyone. The corporation provides lonely, old gay men a new lease on life, but they made an exception for you and me. I saved this old man from dying alone out in the streets. And he’s going to take over your life, making you the perfect son who is appreciative of his life.”
“You’re joking right? You think you can dress up Grandpa up as me and try to have him pass as me? You’re a fucking idiot, Dad.”
“He’s not going to dress up as you. He’s going to be you,” Dennis said sternly as he locked eye contact with Garret.
“And what do you get out of it?” Dennis asked, somewhat nervously.
“Garret… I give a sweet, elderly man a home and I get a good son. An obedient son who pleases his father. Not like that, but you know what I mean.”
“Oh my God! You really are crazy! You think this bullshit is gonna scare me into acting like a dorky overachiever? That you’re gonna have some old fag possess me and make me the good boy that you get to fuck?! Fuck you, Dad! I’m gonna be out. Don’t wait up!” Garret snarled at his father.
Dennis just shook his head. “I’m sorry it had to come to this. I really am…”
“Whatever, Dad. You really- [UMMF]- What the fuck are you doing?!” Garret yelled as Dennis rushed his son from behind, wrapping him in his stronger arms and pulling him to the ground. Dennis had his thrashing son in a lock. His arms were locked around his son’s and his chest and torso rubbed against his son’s back as he wrapped his strong legs around his son’s and held him firmly locked in place.
“Let me GO! FUCKING-arrghhhhhhhh FUCK! YOU crazy piece of shit!!!” Garret growled as he futilely thrashed against his father’s muscular grip.
Dennis signaled over to the old mute man who rushed over to Garret with a syringe.
“The fuck is that?! No!! Get the fuck away from me!! AAAgggghhhh!!!” Garret yelled in pain as the boy injected the fluid provided by Parental Support Services (PSS) directly into Garret’s abdomen. While the old man was taking off all of his clothes, Garret winced as the shockingly strong old (and naked) man sat on Garret’s stomach and injected himself with a different colored fluid before leaning back and wriggling against Garret’s groaning body. It soon became apparent to Garret that his father had not been bluffing, and this was rapidly sinking into him, right through his clothes!
“Nnnnnoooooooo PLEASE! Get out of me! Dad!!! unnnnnngggggggg DAD you can’t do this to me!! Please!!!! DAD!!!!!” Garret begged as the old man kept pushing himself further and further into Garret, sinking until the blonde boy’s bigger body swallowed him completely. Garret’s eyes shot wide open as the old guy was fully absorbed into him. He gasped for air, frantically coughing and trembling as the old man adjusted and stretched inside him, filling his longer legs and his lean core, flowing into his nice arms and finally filling up into his head. Garret’s entire body seized from head to toe as the old man reached full alignment and the old Garret faded into oblivion.
“Garret…Son?” Dennis asked the suddenly calm Garret who was gently laying in Dennis’ grip, no longer resisting and breathing softly as he adjusted to it all.
“D-d-dad.” Garret said slowly and hesitantly, beaming as the word left his mouth. “Oh my God! Dad! Dad dad dad! I can finally talk! I…I know everything that Garret knew! I-”
“You ARE Garret now,” Dennis corrected him as he released his son and they both stood up.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” Garret said before lunging for Dennis, pulling him into a deep and forceful hug, genuine love and devotion. Dennis hadn’t felt that from his son in years, and he was about to feel the extent of Garret’s appreciation as his boy started reaching his hand over his crotch and passionately rubbing his meat.
Dennis gasped. “You don’t have to do this. I know your old life doesn’t bring the best of memories. You don’t have to-”
Garret put his fingers of Dennis’ lips, shushing him. “I want to do this. I owe you everything. You’re my Dad now and I want to show you how much I appreciate you and everything you’ve done for me. I mean, I didn’t go to college because I was ashamed that I couldn’t talk. And come on, I know you want to fuck your good boy. I can see it your eyes and feel it in your pants. I’ll do whatever you say, Daddy,” Garret says with a seductive edge as he leans up and whispers the last line into Dennis’ ear, making the man gasp as Garret starts licking and sucking on his father’s neck.
Dennis was overwhelmed by the moment as he ripped his shirt off and lifted Garret onto the table.
Dennis had a look of uncontrollable lust as he ripped the shirt off of his boy. He couldn’t control it. Just having such an obedient son and one that wanted to desperately please his Daddy so badly. It was intoxicating.
As he tossed the shirt to the ground he was confronted with his boy’s lean and beautiful body. He wanted to see every inch of it, so he quickly tore Garret’s socks and shoes off, sniffing those college boy feet and huffing the smell of his good boy.
“Now, don’t forget my pants, Daddy,” Garret says with a smile while biting his lip. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
Dennis yanks Garret’s pants off, gasping as he saw that the boy was going commando.
“I was going to screw some chick named Cindy, and I was commando so I could have easier access,” Garret says with a smirk.
“But not anymore? Right?” Dennis asks sarcastically.
“I only go commando and jockstraps for Daddy now,” Garret says as he smiles furtively and licks his juicy lips, something too enticing for Dennis to resist.
Dennis approaches his son and leans him back on the desk, pulling his good boy into a tight embrace, taking in the feeling of their skin rubbing together in an electric display of father-son passion.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Dennis moans as Garret wraps his toned legs around his powerful father.
“I just want to be your good boy, Daddy,” Garret gasps as they grind against one another, both becoming so hard the need for release was almost painful.
Dennis growled with desire as he looked directly into his boy’s eyes. His boy tasted so good, smelled so good and felt so good.
“Do you love me?” Dennis asks.
“I love you so much, Daddy!” Garret replies, almost breathless as they keep grinding their bodies together. “I’m so happy I get to be your good boy. I’m the Garret you deserve while I get the life I’ve always wanted to live. And I want you to be happy. Please fill me up, Daddy. Fuck me, Daddy! This hole’s never been used before and I want you to the one to fill it up for the first time!”
Dennis shivered with anticipation and joy as he unclasped his belt and shook his pants off, kicking them across the floor before quickly grabbing some lube out of a cabinet and slicking up his throbbing meat.
He quickly returned to Garret, leaning down onto his good boy and pulling him into an intense kiss before guiding his son to spread his legs.
“Come on, Dad! I want it NOW.” Garret said with a surprising amount of forcefulness and desperation.
“Fuck, you’re such a good boy, Garret!” Dennis growled as he lined the head of his thick meat up with Garret’s hole. He used his strong body to begin smoothly sliding inside, stretching his boy’s hole and shuddering as he felt the tightness squeeze around his shaft as he slid inside inch by inch. They both shivered as Dennis got the 8 inch buried inside, filling up his good boy…his devoted and grateful son.
“I’m so lucky you’re my Dad,” Garret whimpered as he adjusted to the meat filling him up. This made Dennis’ cock throb with lust as he began pulling out and pushing his meat back in where it belonged, deep and tightly embraced by Garret’s hole.
Garret and his Dad hungrily tasted each other’s mouths, passionately kissing and exploring each other’s mouths with their tongues while Dennis continued to pump his good and obedient boy full of his meat. There had never been stronger passion and lust as the two embraced in a whirlwind of caressing and embracing each other’s bodies.
“Unnnnggggg Yeah Dad! Fucking Pump me full! Fuck me, Dad! Pound me hard, Dad! I’d do anything to make you proud
of me! I’m always gonna be your good boy! ” Garret hollered between gasps for breath.
Dennis remained focused, grunting each time he felt that tight hole welcome him as he thrusted inside. The tightness of his boy’s ass tried to keep him buried deep inside, and he wanted to stay buried inside, but he also needed to seed his good boy to show him that good boys get rewarded by their fathers. Dennis was shocked though as Garret suddenly began seizing, legs extending straight and toes curled as those perfect legs trembled in the air.
“I-I-I’m gonna-”
“Hold on, son!” Dennis said as he grabbed onto Garret’s throbbing meat and began to pump him at the pace of his rapid and powerful thrusts.
“Unnnnnggggg Dad!!! I-I-I-I gotta cum! Please Dad!” Garret begged as he winced, body trembling as his Dad kept pumping his throbbing and pulsating youthful meat.
“Hold it!” Dennis commanded, going faster and faster and FASTER into his boy!
Garret was on the verge of tears it seemed as he held in the load to please his Dad. It was becoming impossible to hold the flood gates much longer and he was relieved as Dennis finally felt his own load ready to blow and shouted out, “Let it rip, Garret!”
Garret opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out as his face contorted into one of absolute earth shattering pleasure as his Dad frantically pumped his hole full and pumped his teen cock with equal desperation. Garret’s entire body tensed up as the loads started launching out of his meat, flying out with each one of his Dad’s pumps and landing all over the table, his chest, and even some landing square in his mouth.
Dennis whimpered as his son’s hole tightened in line with his orgasm, making Garret impossibly tight, beyond comprehension really, and Dennis roared as he fell forward onto his son, forcing their lips to lock as he passionately kissed his son while pumping load after load of his cum deep inside his boy. Garret squirmed and moaned in appreciation as he felt the warm fluid fill his hole so deep inside that the feeling was indescribable. Dennis’ cock launched at least two extra loads after he realized he was tasting his boy’s load in his mouth as they passionately kissed, and when he felt Garret’s warm load gliding between their chests. Finally finished, Dennis collapsed on top of Garret, still fully inside him and huffing like a champion marathon runner as the two shivered in satisfaction.
“That was fucking amazing, Dad!” Garret says ecstatically, squeezing his hole in appreciation.
Dennis moans gently before pushing his still semi-hard meat back into Garret, smiling as his beautiful and grateful son yelps with pleasure.
“You’re such a good boy, Garret. And fuck, you can take a thick dick.”
“Well, I did have practice for decades in my former life.” Garret chuckled.
“I can tell. I bet you have more to show me. But, let’s get cleaned up and then I don’t see any harm if you sleep in Dad’s bed from now on.”
“Dad, you still have the extra PSS dosage?”
“I do, but why?”
“You know how hot my cousin, Connor is and he is getting into a fair amount of trouble.”
“Go on.”
“Let’s invite him over and I’ll bring an old friend of mine at PSS that would love to help Connor from the inside out.”
Dennis’ cock instantly popped up.
“Invite Connor over this weekend. I’ll make sure he becomes a new man.”
Garret just smiles back, excited and grateful for his life and excited to have his sexy cousin soon adjust to a brand new life together. And maybe have Dennis become a brand new man too.
“I love you, Daddy.” Garret smiled plotting a way to also have Dennis taken over by a friend of his. This is definitely a going to be a great life.
Waiting for him is driving me insane. Why the fuck is he taking so long to come out of the gym? My crotch is throbbing, painfully trapped against the tight fabric of my shorts. I can’t hold back anymore. I need that man’s body.
Ever since I kissed someone for the first time, I’ve known about my power. I can take anyone’s body I want. Total control. The only way to be free is when I decide to leave—and that usually happens after I’ve jerked off so many times I get bored.
I reach down and squeeze my aching bulge, trying to adjust it. The leather seat of my motorcycle is hot from the sun, keeping my cock painfully hard. I glance around the empty parking lot, then slide my hand into my shorts, gripping my leaking dick. Soon I’ll be doing the same thing inside his body. God, he’s a real man—hairy, thick, masculine. All of that is about to become mine.
Footsteps approach. I yank my hand out fast. A second later, he’s right beside me. Sergio. My target. He joined the gym recently, but I noticed him from day one. The moment I saw him shirtless in the locker room, I knew I had to have him.
“Hey, Sergio. How’s it going?” I’d spent weeks building rapport, hoping it would make this smoother. “What did you train today?”
“Hey man, thought you’d already left,” he says, bumping fists with me like we’re bros. “Chest day. It was brutal.”
“I bet. Every time I hit chest I feel like I can’t even breathe,” I reply, instinctively touching my own pecs while my eyes devour his massive frame under the dim parking lot lights.
“You coming tomorrow?” he asks, swinging a leg over his motorcycle.
I can’t wait anymore.
“Yeah, but there’s one last thing I need to tell you.” He turns to look at me. I swallow hard, grab his tank top with both hands, and yank him into a brutal kiss.
He tries to shove me off—those huge arms nearly succeed—but I force my tongue deeper. Our mouths fight, tongues sliding wet and aggressive. He’s experienced, and that only makes me hungrier.
The familiar rush hits me. My consciousness rips free and floods into him through the kiss. I force every inch of his body to obey me, claiming muscle, bone, and cock. A few seconds later, I open my new eyes and stare at my old, empty body standing there like a discarded puppet.
I shove it aside gently and grin.
“Let’s see what you’ve got for me, big boy.” My voice—his voice—is deep and rough. I run my hands over my new chest, feeling how pumped and solid it is from the workout.
My palms slide down to my abs, then lower. I freeze for a second when I grab the fat, heavy cock straining in his shorts. It’s thick, veiny, and surrounded by a dense, dark bush of pubic hair.
“Fuck yes,” I growl, massaging my new balls. A low, masculine moan escapes my lips.
“What the fuck is happening?!” Sergio’s voice screams beside me. His ghostly form is standing right there, staring in horror as I grope his stolen body.
I smirk. “Jesus, man. You’ve been hiding a fucking monster in here.” I squeeze the thick shaft harder, not caring that he’s yelling at me.
He keeps screaming, demanding his body back. I ignore him. All I want is to get home and break this hairy beast in.
“Give me my body back, you freak!” he shouts.
I climb onto his motorcycle. “Bro, I’m not talking to you out here. People are gonna think I’m crazy talking to myself. And in case you haven’t noticed, only I can see you.”
“You’re just gonna leave your old body there?” he sneers. “It looks like a damn statue. People will ask questions.”
I wave a hand, putting my old shell on autopilot. It climbs onto my old bike and follows. Years of practice make it easy.
It took a little effort to find Sergio’s apartment—his constant bitching made accessing his memories annoying. I drop the gym bag by the door and head straight for the full-length mirror.
I don’t waste time. My hands roam over my new torso, squeezing the swollen, sensitive pecs. The pump from chest day still burns deliciously. I rip the tank top off.
Thick, dark hair covers my chest and stomach. I run my fingers through it, tugging lightly, my mind flooding with filthy thoughts.
“Stop touching me!” the real Sergio yells, forced to watch.
“Why? It’s my body now.” I shove the shorts and underwear down. His—my—cock springs out, heavy and already drooling precum. I grip it with both hands and moan like a whore.
Sergio moans too, involuntarily. The pleasure hits him as hard as it hits me.
“You like that, huh?” I laugh. “Too bad we’re stuck together. Every time I feel good, you feel it too.”
Panic flashes across his face. He knows I’m into men. And that knowledge makes my new cock throb even harder.
I tear the underwear completely off and start stroking. The shaft is fat, veined, and covered in dark hair at the base. I spit on it and jerk faster, staring at the reflection of this hairy, muscular bear.
The smell hits me—raw, masculine sweat from the gym. I lift one thick arm and bury my face in my pit, inhaling deeply. The musky, pungent scent makes my eyes roll back.
“Fuck, I stink,” I groan. Sergio is panting beside me, clearly fighting the pleasure he’s receiving from his own body.
I close my eyes and picture all the guys from the gym—tight shorts, sweaty bodies, some shirtless. Then I open them again and stare at the hairy beast in the mirror.
“Don’t think about guys—” Sergio begs.
“I control this body. I’ll think about whatever the fuck I want.” I close my eyes again and imagine bending over half the gym. “I’m gonna cum!”
Thick ropes of cum splatter across the mirror and onto my hairy abs. I scoop some up and lick it slowly off my fingers, savoring the salty taste while staring right at Sergio’s horrified face.
He’s still moaning, legs shaky.
I smirk, then grab my phone. One of Sergio’s gym buddies, a tall, muscular guy named Marco, had been texting him earlier. I reply quickly: “Come over. Need help with something.”
Twenty minutes later Marco knocks. He barely gets inside before I shove him against the wall and kiss him hard, my hairy chest pressing into his.
“The fuck, Sergio?” he mutters, surprised—but his hands are already grabbing my ass.
“Shut up and suck my cock,” I growl, pushing him to his knees.
Marco doesn’t need much convincing. He swallows my thick, hairy dick down to the base, gagging eagerly while the real Sergio watches in humiliated shock. I fuck Marco’s throat deep and rough, one hand gripping his hair, the other tugging on my own nipples.
“Take it all, you fucking slut,” I groan in Sergio’s deep voice.
When I finally cum, I flood Marco’s mouth and make him swallow every drop. Then I bend him over the couch and breed his tight ass raw, pounding him until he’s whimpering and shooting hands-free all over the floor.
The whole time, the real Sergio is forced to feel every brutal thrust, every pulse of pleasure.
After Marco leaves, spent and satisfied, I stand in front of the mirror again, cum still dripping down my hairy thighs.
I grin at my reflection and at the broken-looking spirit beside me.
“I hope you enjoyed your first time with a man, Sergio. Because I’m keeping this body for a long, long time.”
He was at the wrong place at a wrong time. At least now the skin’s boyfriend will be a fine pelt for my inmate friend. But not after I have some steamy time with that whim first. It’s been too long since I last have proper sex and I am all pent up 😈😈😈
Seeing a Staff Sargent sleeping in his jeep , saw it as an opportunity.
Turning them into a suit in putting them on.
I became
Personnel File
Name: Staff Sergeant Ray Montgomery
Rank: Staff Sergeant (E-6)
Division: 101st Airborne "Screaming Eagles"
Assignment: Easy Company (2nd Battalion, 506th PIR)
Service Details
Specialty: Light Vehicle Operation & Field Maintenance
Background: Hails from a small town in the Midwest; grew up working in a local garage before enlisting. Known for being the guy who can keep a Jeep running .
“Bro, you look so fucking stupid right now,” I laughed, using my older brother’s deep voice.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirtless in nothing but his black boxer briefs, pulling the dumbest faces I could. Wide eyes, puffed-out cheeks, tongue sticking out, the whole bit. Every time I made a new ridiculous expression, I cracked up harder.
This was my older brother Ryan’s body. 27 years old. Tall. Muscular. Hairy chest, thick arms, and a cock that felt way too heavy between my legs. I’d only swapped with him an hour ago using that weird app, but I was already addicted.
I flexed one of his big arms, then crossed my eyes and stuck my tongue out again like an idiot.
“Holy shit, this feels hilarious,” I said, still giggling in his voice. I turned sideways, arched my back, and made a ridiculous duck-face while squeezing one of his pecs. The muscle felt so firm under my fingers. I bounced his chest a few times, watching it jiggle, then laughed even harder.
Ryan’s soul was stuck in my skinny 19-year-old body back in his room, probably screaming at me through text messages right now.
I pulled my waistband down a little, flashing the base of his thick cock, and took a silly selfie with my tongue out and eyes crossed.
“Bro, you’re never getting this body back,” I muttered to the mirror, still grinning like an idiot. “I’m gonna spend the whole weekend pulling dumb faces in your body, flexing, and jerking this fat cock every time I get bored.”
I gave his bicep one last kiss, winked at the mirror, and whispered:
Nate Anders stood in front of the door contemplating his next move. He knew that once he opened the door there might not be turning back, but he was willing to take the risk. After all, his father is the reason he's in this town in the first place.
It all started on a relatively average day. Nate and his longtime boyfriend Theo were cuddling on their living room couch as their TV played, although they were more focused on each other's company than what was playing, until the ringing of the house phone interrupted thier moment.
Nate picked up the phone and heard his father's voice on the other end. Nate and his dad always kept in touch ever since he left his hometown, but this time, instead of a friendly hello, his dad sounded distressed. He told Nate to "come home as soon as possible," it was an emergency and he needed help. But before Nate's dad could say anything else, the call ended.
Nate, who was understandably stressed, explained the call to his confused boyfriend, how his dad needed help and that they needed to go back to their hometown. Theo agreed to come along without much of a second thought, willing to support his partner. So with that, the two packed a few essentials and left.
Although the two towns were fairly distanced apart, it was possible to travel between them through a few straight hours of driving. This caused Nate to wonder what kind of emergency his dad was in that would cause him to call Nate knowing the time it would take him to get there. Despite Nate's worries the two arrived in town a little after midnight. Nate was unaware about the "invasion" at the time, or at least that's what he calls it. Even now he's not sure if he arrived at the height of the invasion or the very beginning. Regardless, when the two boys arrived Nate went straight for his dad's house while Theo went to find a place to sleep for the night.
Nate made his way to his dad's house doing his best to keep out of sight, even though he wasn't doing anything wrong, he didn't want anyone to see him from thier house and think he was some sort of troublemaker. Nate's hometown was always very enclosed, not to say it was small by anymeans. The town had a decently high population and many buildings, but it was very old compared to areas around it. All shops and services were owned by residents of the town, there were no big industry chains or anything like that. So when nighttime would hit, almost every store or building closed for the day, besides essential services. No cars would be driving since there was nowhere to go, and people would stay in thier houses since there was no where else to be. So it was always a bit suspicious if you saw someone walking around at night.
When Nate arrived at the house he surveyed the area looking to see if there was a way to get in, but after finding no broken windows or holes of any kind he decided that he couldn't waste anymore time and went to try and break down the front door. Although he wasn't sure he was strong enough to do so, Nate had to try. But when Nate was at the front door he realized that it was actually unlocked. Cautiously, Nate investigated the entire house unfortunately turning up nothing, no sign of his dad but no sign of anyone else either. Nothing seemed out of place or looked like it had been rummaged through, it felt as if his dad just temporarilly left to run an errand. This left Nate with even more questions. Was his dad kidnapped? Did he run away?
Still determined to find his dad Nate decided to investigate his dad's tailor shop. Nate's dad always had a knack for anything clothing related, whether it be design, crafting, or tailoring. It was inevitable that his dad would set up a clothing store of some kind, in this case a tailor. It was never the most popular mostly due to the fact that in the quiet reserved town, suits weren't really a big necessity. When Nate approached the shop it was naturally closed, the doors were locked and no one seemed to be inside. Looking at the merchandise through the glass walls of the shop, Nate had a recollection. While there were very few people out due to the incredibly late hour, all of the people he saw walking around were men in suits. Not only was it uncommon to see one person walking around in a suit, but to see anyone walking around this late was weird. He hadn't realized it until after getting a chance to stop and think. Are these suits his dad's? Why are more people wearing them all of a sudden? Nate wondered if there was some sort of fancy party going on that night, but he eventually let go of the idea convincing himself that there was just a change in demand over the years he'd been away.
Nate had only one more place to search in mind, the police station. He saved this place for last because secretly, Nate was worried that his dad committed a crime and got himself arrested. It would make the most sense logically given the situation and the hectic phone call he recieved. The police station was a pretty far walk away from Nate's current location, so he really got a good look around hus old hometown. As he was walking through town, Nate realized that alot of the houses had no signs of residence at all. Windows were left open, front doors were unlocked or open entirely, and no lights in sight. It looked like all the homeowners left for a quick step outside but never went back in. "Mabey there is some sort of party?" Nate thought to himself. Was his dad also at the party? If so then why did he call Nate so frantically?
Nate was close to arriving at the station in the commercial district when he heard a faint yelling coming from behind a building. Concerned for the well-being of whoever was yelling, while also wondering if this mysterious person was his dad, Nate slowly approached the corner of the building. When he peeked around the corner, he saw something he would never forget.
A man was on the ground against the building wall, and in front of him stood two men in suits looking down at him as they stepped closer. "PLEASE, PLEASE DONT DO THIS!" the man on the floor yelled, but neither of the suited individuals responded. Instead, to Nate's shock, one of the suited men straightened his tie, and a beam suddenly shot out of the tie knot. The beam hit the man in the chest causing him to jerk back and cry out in pain. As Nate watched the man writhe in pain, he noticed that his clothes started to change. Suit pants started to grow over his legs as a button up shirt rose up from his midsection. The suited man, still firing the mysterious beam, stared emotionless as the man before him continued to change. Dress shoe began to form around the man's feet and a black silk began wrapping around the man's neck from under his dress shirt before tieing into a knot at the front of his neck as the last bit of silk rolled down his chest forming a tie. Lastly a black suit blazer shaped itself around the man, the buttons buttoning themselves. After the transformation finished the man was dressed in a suit similar to the suited men before him. As the beam continued firing at the man's chest, he started letting out stifled moans. It looked as if the man was trying to hold back something within him as his moans fuller and more frequent until he let out a loud moan, throwing his head back in ecstasy and closing his eyes. Almost immediately after, the man's head and body slumped forward as his chin touched his chest. The beam stopped firing as the suited men stared at the new formally dressed man in front of them. After kneeling immobile for a few seconds, the newly suited man's eyes opened and his head slowly raised. The man stood up to greet the other suited men. He straightened his tie as they all smirked at each other and walked off.
Nate ducked behind the building out of sight as he began to panick. "What the fuck was that?" He said to himself. Nate looked around regaining his sense of location and remembered his trip to the police station. He got up and ran down the street to the station in a fear hoping he could find some sort of help.
By the time he arrived at the station, Nate had begun convincing himself that what he saw behind that building wasn't real. Mabey he was just tired? But when he got close to the station, that lie he formed was shattered instantly. Through the glass wall of the station he saw a police officer backing against a wall, holding his gun up at two more suited men. The men walked closer unafraid of the officer's threat. And before the officer could even think of firing his weapon, both suited men shot the same beam Nate saw earlier out of the knot of thier ties. The beams struck the officer in the chest causing him to stumble backwards, dropping his gun as he seemed to yell in pain. The officer clutched his head as a three-piece suit formed on him as well, although unlike the first man, the suit forming on the officer didn't match the suits the other two men were wearing. The officer was fully enveloped in his new formal attire twice as fast as the first man Nate saw, likely due to him getting hit with two beams rather than one. And once again, Nate saw the officer reel his head back, his eyes closed and mouth open. Nate could only assume the officer had moaned as well, but he couldn't hear trough the wall of the station. The former officer fell to his knees, slumped forward, and eyes closed. Then after a few seconds opened his eyes and stood up. Nate watched as the two original suited men talked to the officer, but unable to hear thier conversation, Nate had no idea what was said. He only watched as the newly suited officer nodded in response and walked our of the building and down the street, missing Nate as he dove behind the side of the building.
Nate, now forced to accept that the situation he's in was real, sat against the side of the building, wondering what he should do next when his phone buzzed, it was Theo. Texting him asking if he was ok, as he'd been doing periodically throughout the night, worried for the saftey of his boyfriend. Nate snapped back to reality, realizing he had to warm Theo about this whole situation. So he got up and started making his way to the hotel that Theo mentioned he found.
Nate arrived at the hotel, checked in with the receptionist, and made his way to the room Theo was in. "Did you find your dad?" Theo asked when Nate walked through the door. Nate shook his head before sitting Theo down and explaining what he saw with the suited men. "What? Are you serious?" Theo was understandably skeptical. "I'm serious, these guys in suits were going around turning people into one of them!" Nate was having trouble convincing his boyfriend of his story, but it's a hard thing to explain when Nate himself does t even fully understand what's happening. He had so many questions. Were these guys in suits human, or was this some sort of alien invasion? How did these suits even work, were the ties some sort of machinery? And how did these beams they fired not only change people's clothes, but hypnotize them as well? Was it even hypnosis, or was is some brain parasite, or even possession? Theo quickly stopped questioning Nate's story, deciding to trust him.
But as the two discussed the situation, Nate heard a sound coming from down the hall. Click, clack, click, clack. Nate quickly realized that the sound was footsteps from dress shoes on the hardwood hallway floor.
Nate rushed over to the door, shushing Theo. Looking through the peephole, Nate saw a man in a suit walk past the door. Taken aback, Nate grabbed Theo and quietly dragged him out the door and down the hallway in the opposite direction. He knew they had to get out of here and fast.
The two boys rushed down the stairwell to the main lounge but when they arrived, Nate froze in his tracks. The receptionist, who was wearing a red hotel uniform when Nate first walked in, was now sitting at the front desk fixing his tie and wearing a red suit.
Nate knew that trying to run past the newly suited man was a bad idea. He had access to the intercom system after all and could easily call all the suited men in the hotel on Nate and Theo.
Theo suddenly had an idea, grabbed Nate's arm, and led him back up the stairs and out an emergency exit. The two boys ran from the hotel unable to get to thier car due to the rapid increase in suited men patrolling the parking lot.
Almost a months time later, Nate and Theo had found a hideout from the suited men. A place that no one would have any reason to be or suspect. The boys had been working on an escape plan for the past few weeks during nighttime, and during the day, they would go out and sneak around town to observe the behavior of the suited men. Nate would monitor the city, and Theo would watch the town's border gate, which was guarded by two suited men who appeared shortly after the hotel incident.
After weeks of observation the boys laid out the information they gathered in order to form a plan.
First, they found that the suited men were locking down the city. Constant patrolling, investigating abandoned houses, and even stealing cars to prevent and easy form of escape. Nate's car was stolen from the hotel parking lot. Luckily Theo was able to find partially repair, and hude away a broken down vehicle found near thier hiding spot.
Second, the behaviors of the suited individuals. Altuough it felt like a zombie apocalypse, it didnt look like it, and the suited men didnt act like zombies. When chasing and converting non suited citizens, they dont get feral or aggressive, they stay composed and refined. Outside of conversion, they still seemed cognizant, intelligent, and able-bodied. They would even communicate with each other, like talking about current happenings, plans, or intrests. They would smile and laugh with each other like any normal conversation between non suited individuals.
They could also be seen building, or at least doing some sort of fixing. They would be working on places like stores, apartment complexes, and even post offices altering them. Repourposing them for an unknown cause. There were trucks driving throughout the town as well, transfering unknown materials.
Third, Nate found that although the suited men were still human, they didn't seem to need food, any men seen near or inside grocery stores were just patrolling rather than finding food. At least it allowed for the boys to have a reliable food source during thier time hiding away, as long as it was safe to grab. Similarly, Theo concluded that the suited men didn't need sleep either, as he watched the town gate for weeks and never saw the guards switch out or even take breaks. While watching the gate, sometimes other suited men would pull up, either on foot or in a stolen vehicle, and would be let through the gate to go to who knows where. Theo couldn't make out what the men would say, so he had limited information.
Lastly, Nate found that there seems to be some sort of job system or hierarchy within the suited population. He found that the suited men who worked as guards or patrol, were law officers before being suited.
The ones that were building or transporting materials, held similar jobs pre-suiting as well. Even the one taking stray cars, Nate recognized as an auto repair worker he use to live down the street from. This is also why it was surprisingly safer to go out during the day since there were less men walking about aimlessly, they were mostly focused of some type assignment. But at nighttime, while some men still continued thier task, many others started roaming the streets.
With the information the boys gathered, while still leaving them with questions, it was enough to form a plan. They would escape tomorrow at sunset through a backroute that was usually left unguarded. Although Theo was confident and focused on the plan, Nate's mind was racing. He wondered if the outside world was still the same. How far had this suited invasion spread, if it had spread at all?
And secretly, Nate still wondered about his dad. He still had this hope that mabey his dad was safe and hidden, or managed to escape. However he knew that he had to put the feeling behind him so he could focus on the plan for tomorrow.
After all was said and done, the boys decided to go to bed for the night, and started thier nightly routine of checking all entrances and windows to make sure no threats were close by. But when Nate opened the front door to make sure no threats where lurking around, he saw a strange peice if paper waiting at his feet right outside the door, it was a note.
Nate, it's me your father. I can't believe you're here, and alive! I saw you one afternoon sneaking through town but for your safety, I couldn't follow you. I'm currently bieng hunted down by some of those suit guys and following you would just put them on your trail. However I have a hideout that we can meet up at. After we meet up we can plan our escape.
There was an address at the bottom of the note, Nate knew exactly where it was. But he was immediately skeptical, was this some sort of trap? Why would his dad not just call him? Was it really that dangerous for his dad that he couldnt try to find them later? It was also highly unlikely that Nate's dad was still out there, but then again Nate wasn't sure how many survivors there were, there could be more than he thought. He never did see his dad in one of those suits, and over the course of the month, he had seen pretty much everyone in the town. Not to forget, the note did address him by name. Also, if the note was from one of those suited guys and they really did see Nate or Theo, why would they wait to send a note instead of just ambushing them immediately?
Although Nate felt uneasy about the situation, the inconsistencies which made the possibly of a threat seem unlikely, as well as Nate still secretly hoping that his dad is actually safe, caused him to stifle his fear.
Nate waited for Theo to go to sleep, since he knew Theo would never let him take the risk. He then wrote a quick note saying that he had gone out to survey the exit route one last time, and placed the note next to Theo for him to see once he wakes up in the morning. Nate quietly left the hideaway and made his way through the town even quieter. Until he reached the address that was on the note. It was a bit out of the way from everywhere else, not the place anyone would be seen hanging around. A decent hiding spot.
Now, here he was, standing in front of the door unsure if he should open it. Nate almost wanted to turn around and just let this whole thing go, but the chance that his dad was safe and just through this door caused Nate's familial concern to get the better of him.
Nate opened the door, and stepped into the main room. And in the center of the room, Nate saw two men in suits. The first man, Nate didnt recognize. He was facing the doorway and holding his arms out. He was big and had a strong physique, but his face looked like he was struggling and in pain.
The second man was in front of the previous one, but had his back turned to the doorway, his attention focused oh the man in front of him. He seemed to be inspecting the first man's suit, tightening thier tie. His body was smaller than the first man, but looked older.
The first man noticed Nate and instantly started pleading for help. "HELP ME, OH GOD PLEASE HELP ME!" The man's yelling quickly ceased as he let out a strained moan and lost consciousness. His arms fell to his sides and his head flopped forward, his eyes closed and his chin touching his chest. However, his body remained standing.
The second man turned around to see the cause of the now unconscious man's outburst. Nate locked eyes with the man as he realized, it was hid dad. "Oh, son. You came a little earlier than expected." Nate's dad smiled innocently, as the other man slowly started to raise his head. "But no matter, I just finished up here anyway. Now we can truly get started."
Nate's dad stepped to the side, revealing the other man standing there fully awake with malicious smirk on his face.
He stood robotically as Nate's dad stared at him, as if he was communicating telepathically. Nate's dad did a quick nod towards the man, and as if ordered, the man's eyes locked on to Nate as he lunged towards him. Before Nate could react, the man had grabbed him and wrapped his arms around Nate's neck. Nate had no chance of fighting off the big man, his strength almost seemed superhuman. Nate started to lose consciousness, the last thing he saw was his dad slowly approaching him with a malicious smile growing across his face.
Nate awoke in a daze, unable to move while his vision adjusted to the lights of his mysterious new location. It was a big, open room with a hardwood floor, studio lights, and countless suits lining the walls. Nate knew he had never been in this room before, yet the place still felt familiar.
While looking around, Nate heard footsteps from in front of him, his head whipped around to face forward, and his eyes immediately locked onto the figure approaching him. It was his dad, with a sly smile on his face.
"Good morning Nathaniel." Nate's dad said with a calm voice as he flashed a warm and almost comforting smile. Nate, now fully awake and aware of his situation, tried to stand up but still couldn't move. He looked down and realized that both his arms and legs were strapped to a chair by metal cuffs, while the chair itself was bolted to the ground.
Something about the chair's design gave Nate another familiar feeling, except this time he figured out where he was. Nate's dad, noticed the recollection cross Nate's face. He slowly approached Nate with a cocky strut. "That's right, you're inside my new and improved tailor shop." Nate's dad smiled triumphantly. "Well, the newly added basement portion to be exact." Nate donned a look of confusion, which his dad picked up on and continued to explain. "Not only have we redesigned the shop in general, but we've also added this underground area which is connected to the underground tunnel system that spreads across town. It allows for quicker more efficient travel between our important facilities, surely you've noticed our men working on those buildings throughout town?"
Nate struggled to release himself from the chair as his dad rambled on. "I must say, I'm surprised you still recognized this place. With how long you've been gone, abd the whole redesign." Nate's dad kneeled in front of Nate putting his hand on his son's shoulder. "Doesn't this bring back memories? Did you miss your old man?"
Nate stopped struggling in his restraints, finally was able to find his voice. "You aren't my dad." Nate's dad feinged a hurt expression. "Aww, don't be like that, Nathaniel." Nate's dad rose from his knee, as he began moving backwards. "I missed you. I missed my son." Nate's dad moved over to a clothing rack with two hangers on it. One was empty, the other had a full suit hanging on it. "But no matter. I know you've got alot on your mind right now and it's probably just the stress talking." Nate's dad took off his tuxedo jacket, hanging it on the empty hanger. He grabbed the clothing rack and started wheeling it towards Nate, setting it right beside his chair. "Besides, once we're done here, I'm sure you'll... change your mind."
Nate's dad took off the pair of suit pants from the other hanger and laid them over his shoulder. "Oh! I suppose I should give you a little explanation of things you might've seen. I'm sure you're very confused right now." Nate's dad bent down, removed one of the cuffs holding Nate's legs, and started pulling down his pants leg. Nate tried to fight back, but with only one leg free, which was already being held down, he didn't get far. His pants leg was removed and the cuff was put back on as his dad moved over to the next leg, continuing his monologue.
"Not that it really matters to explain to you now. Once we're finished here, your mind will be connected to the hive, you'll understand everything." Nate's pants had been fully removed. His dad then removed both cuffs on his legs, took the suit pants from his shoulder, and started to force them on Nate's legs. Nate kicked and squirmed in an attempt to fight back, but the more the pants made thier way up his legs, the slower and weaker his kicks became.
Nate's dad kept talking, unfazed by his son's struggles. "But, I might as well explain anyway. We don't want things to get awkward, do we?" Nate's dad let out a small chuckle. "You're my son afterall, we can talk to each other right?" Nate didnt respond, he simply glared angrily in response to his dad's smiling face, while the suit pants were finally pushed over his legs fully, zipped and buttoned. With the pants now properly equipped, Nate found that he could no longer move or feel his legs. He also couldn't help but feel like he was hearing a faint whisper in the back of his head, as his cock grew slightly harder...
Nate's dad smirked knowingly as he made his way back to the clothing rack, and grabbed a pair of shoes and socks from the bottom. "You're probably wondering how we go about turning men into our suited soldiers." Nate's dad bent down preparing to remove Nate's shoes and socks. Nate could simply watch and listen to his dad drone on as he was unable to move his legs, and could barely move his feet.
"Well, the secret is in the suits themselves. Each part of our suits are imbued with a hypnotic power that forces the wearer under the control of our growing suited empire." Nates shies and socks were now fully taken off and black dress socks had slipped over Nate's feet and pulled up all the way to his knee under his pants. Nate's dad took the black dress shoes and began to put them on Nate's feet. He was met with even less resistance from Nate thanks to the socks.
"While our suits are how we bring new men into the fold, there are two main methods that we use to suit someone up. First, is the conversion ray. You've probably seen it many-a-times now. A beam of pure hypnotic power that can weaken the mental defenses of the target as well as change clothes into our special suits. The conversion ray is a power that all of our suit's ties have and it's a automatic way of suiting someone up in order to make them a suited soldier. It's the way I was converted, it does stings a little, but the newly converted targets never seem to mind."
Nate's dad smiled as if he was reminiscing. Meanwhile, both shoes were on Nate's feet and once again Nate lost complete sense of feeling in his feet. He was also certain he was hearing a voice whispering in the back of his head, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. His cock got slightly harder agian, except this time he noticed. A confused panic grew on Nate's face as he questioned to himself, was he getting hard? Why couldn't he move his body?
Nate's dad ignored his son's panic has he pulled out a remote. With the remote he unlocked all the cuffs keeping Nate stuck in the chair. Nate didnt get up, he couldn't. All he could do was swing his arms and shake his upper body.
"Stand up for me, would you Nathaniel?" Nate's legs betrayed his mind as he stood up from the chair and his legs went into a straight and formal stance. Nate's dad smirked as he went over to the clothing rack and pulled off a button down shirt.
"The conversion ray is a powerful tool, but it's not perfect. If the target is fast or moves around too much, it can be hard to get a good enough hit to start the converting process. And if the target is strong enough they can resist the effects. Most of the time, targets can last a short while, but they all succumb eventually. But not always... take that big guy back at that house for example. He wasn't the fastest, but he was tough. His trashing about made it hard for me to get a good shot. That's where the second method comes in."
Nate's dad had begun dressing Nate in the button down shirt. Nate tried to fight back, but with his legs frozen, his dad was able to hold him down, with a surprising amount of power dispite his dad's older and more frail body, while his arms were pulled through the shirt holes. His dad continued talking while he slowly buttoned the shirt around Nate's body, each button taking away more control from Nate's upper body, making the the voice in the back of his head more prominent, and causing his cock to grow harder...
"If the conversion ray doesn't work out, then the target gets knocked unconscious and sent here, to the tailoring department. That's where I come in." Nate's dad flashed a proud smile. "When I was converted, Master took note of my shop and my skills. So, he put me in the executive position of designated tailor. Nate was confused at the mention of "Master," but was too worried about trying to escape to question it. His dad didn't seem to get held up on it anyway, since he just kept talking as if the term was natural.
"Once someone gets sent to me, I take measurements of thier body, decide which type of suit and what material would give the most hypnotic power, and sometimes get a bit crafty, in order to get the perfect suit for them. Then I personally suit them up and bring them into our suited empire, just like how I'm doing with you. I did all the measurements while you were unconscious, luckily you didn't wake up in the middle of it like that last guy, that was a hassle."
The shirt was now fully buttoned up on Nate's body, and hus dad started to tuck the bottom the shirt into his pants. Nate's dad had a very wide smile on his face as he continued talking. "Sure, we could've just used the conversion ray on you, but I wanted to have the honor of bringing my son into the fold." Nate noticed a bulge in his dad's pants, as if the idea of assisting with his son's transformation into a suited zombie turned him on. "I'm just glad my plan worked." A split second of shock crossed Nate's face at the mention of his dad's plan, which his dad seemed to notice.
"Oh yes! My plan, you still aren't aware of that story." Nate's dad bent down, straightening out the dress shirt that had he just finished tucking in. "Well, that phone call you got wasn't actually part of the plan. Before I got tied, I tried to call for help. All the officers on duty that day had been tied already, so I called you as my last resort. Fortunately, I was found and quickly converted. I had a feeling that after the phone call you would be on your way to make sure I was safe, so I made an executive order to be on the lookout for you. And sure enough, you came here because you were worried about your old man. I'm flattered, really."
Nate's dad spoke with a sarcastic tone which annoyed Nate. The thought of his dad being controlled by something, and then made to mock Nate's concern for him frustrated Nate. But he could do nothing about it as his body refused to move.
"I knew you were here after seeing your car being brought in to the hanger, but we didn't know where. Until one of my men came to me with news. He had saw you sneaking through the streets and trailed you back to your hideout. From there we set things in motion. Originally, I planned to lure you to a house with a note, and ambush you with a bunch of men. But in-between the time I picked the house and the time of the plan, that big guy must've found the house and started using it as a hideaway. After finding him in there, I figured he was strong enough and I could just use him instead. But he put up more of a fight than I expected. Because of that, I ran a little low on time and... well you know how that went."
Nate's dad stood up and walked over to the clothing rack. "Good thing it all worked out in the end." Grabbing the tie from the hanger, he made his way back to Nate. "Now for the best part..."
Nate's dad flung the tie around Nate's neck and tucked it under his shirt collar. "Out of all the parts in our suits, the tie is the most important. Not only is it necessary in order use the conversion ray, but it also has the most hypnotic energy out of all the pieces. In fact, once someone is fully under, they don't even need the jacket or vest, the tie provides enough control to keep them under." Nate's dad gestured at his suit jacket sitting on the first hanger of the clothing rack. "That is to say they needed the jacket or vest in the first place."
Nate's dad began to tie the tie around Nate's neck, Nate tried to prepare himself for what was to come. The tie had been knotted and was now being tightened around Nate's neck. As soon as the tie knot touched Nate's throat, he felt a wave of unknown force wash over him. His entire body went numb, his vision went blurry as his head felt foggy, his dick became substantially harder and he was able to clearly hear and understand the voice in his head. It was his own voice telling him to give in, that it would feel so good, and he should stop fighting it.
Nate struggled against his own mind while his body remained calm and still, besides the growing bulge in his pants. Nate ignored the voice in his head, reapeating the phrase "got to escape," to himself over and over agian. Focusing on his need to escape, he managed to reclaim his mind, the voice in his head got a bit quieter and the bulge in his pants softened slightly.
Nate's dad watched, a sinister smirk on his face with a hint of awe and pride. "I'm impressed Nathaniel, usually the tie is enough to bring someone under. I raised a strong boy." Nate's dad smiled triumphantly as Nate glared at him angrily. "I guess we'll need to keep going then."
Nate's dad walked over to the clothing rack, taking the last two articles of clothing off of it, a vest and a suit jacket. He threw the jacket over his shoulder and walked back over to Nate with the vest in hand. "Raise your arms for me please, Nathaniel?" Nate's arms shot out to the sides, his body eager to obey. Nate's dad guided the vest onto his body and began buttoning it up.
"You're probably wondering what will happen after we finish up here." Nate's dad finished buttoning the vest, took the jacket off his shoulders, and started to put it on Nate. "Well, when I was informed that you were spotted in town and followed back to your hideout, I was told that someone else was seen meeting up with you." Nate grew panicked upon hearing about Theo, while Nate's dad smirked at his son's sudden stress. "So I was thinking that once you're part of the team, we can go and pay this friend of ours a visit."
Before Nate could even think of a response, his dad buttoned the final button on the suit jacket sending an immense surge of pleasure through his body. Nate's mind immediately went foggy agian, as the voice in his head returned and his cock was as hard as it was to think.
Nate's father smiled proudly. "Look at you now, Just like your old man! I have to say, I'm proud of you Nathaniel." Nate's father gripped Nate's arms in a tight embrace as Nate's mind slowed. As he stopped thinking, Nate flashed a dumb smile, Excited by his dad's praise.
"Thaaat's right... just give in. Feels good doesn't it?" Nate's father held his son by the arms, a bulge growing in his pants as he watched his son's resistance dissolve. Nate on the other hand was barely keeping himself together. His body felt flooded with ecstasy, and the voice in his head kept repeating the same thing. "Give in, it feels good, don't resist." The voice was right, Nate's father was right, it did feel good. Nate started to moan softly without realizing. He was to busy thinking to himself. "This did feel good, why did he fight this for so long? Theo would love this..."
Wait... Theo? Would he like this? No, this isn't right. Nate couldn't let himself be used as a tool to capture Theo. Nate snapped to his senses as if awaking from a deep sleep. His body jolted and stumbled back out of his dad's grasp before falling back under the control of the suit and taking on an ordered military-like stance agian.
Nate's dad was visibly shocked before straightening his suit and composing himself. "I'm truly shocked, after all this you're still able to fight? I guess we have no other choice..." Nate's dad walked over to the clothing rack, grabbed his suit jacket and put it on. Stepping away from Nate, he seemed to pull out a device from within his jacket and began talking into it. Nate was unable to make out what was being said, but the conversation only lasted a short while. Nate's dad walked back up to Nate, having regained his cocky aura.
"Don't worry Nathaniel, I know someone who's willing to help us out, it's only a matter of time now..." Nate's dad had a smug smirk on his face. "Here, sit down it'll be a while." Nates body walked over to the chair and sat relaxed, the complete opposite of how Nate was feeling." Nate's dad, noticing the fear in Nate's eyes, chuckled to himself. "Don't worry, it'll all be over soon... How about you take a little nap to calm down?" Nate saw his dad grow a malicious smile when suddenly, it felt as if he was slammed into a brick wall. Unable to stay awake, he quickly passed out.
Rise and shine my dear boy! Come on now open them up let me see. Oh oh! it looks like somebody’s leaking! The correction has definitely worked now hasn’t it!. What a beautiful sight those eyes are Nathanial. No, not a single thought can possibly exist behind them can they? That’s how it should be for you. You’re such a good boy! Yes you are! Yes you are! Let daddy do all the thinking for you. Daddy knows best. You just need to listebn and obey. Good boy. Oh wow already a puddle in your pants. You must be shooting boatloads listening to daddy aren’t you Nathaniel?Such a good obedient boy. Such a perfect boy. Such a well dressed boy. Such a good suited boy.
Daddy is so hard hearing you moan in pleasure. See why I did this to you? Such a beautiful mindless smile. So dumb. So innocent. Incapable of independent thought. You’re so handsome. Your beautiful muscles look even better under that suit. You’re never wearing something without a collar again. I don’t want your good looks going to waste wearing improper clothes and living a life that involved doing things other than being right by the side of your father. It’s where you belong. And clearly you like the sound of that don’t you son? Such a good obedient suited boy for daddy
Yes sir
Ooooft WOW. Hearing that just gave my cock such a good throb Nathaniel. What a good boy for daddy you are! You know just how to turn him on and please him. Now come up boy, you’ve got my cock racing you’re going to have to fix that. As my son it’s your job to satisfy my needs. My cock created you and you’re the best to service it. Serving and taking it is a reward for you boy! The best thing you can do is make me blow a load in you, that’s where my loads are supposed to be
Yes Sir. My fathers cock is a reward sir.
Oh FUCK JESUS CHRIST your reward loves it when you’re a good son. Come with me boy NOW! Daddy’s dick can no longer wait a second
Yes Sir
Actually scratch that we’re doing it here you’re too perfect Nathanial I’m about to blow
Yes Sir. Thank you sir for rewarding me with your cock sir!
Such a good boy I can see by the smile you’re excited for your reward. What a good suited submissive son. Sucking cock in a suit and tie like how all sons should. Open your mouth son. Good boy
—————————————————————————Daddy just stuck his cock inside my mouth. I’m so happy to have my reward. Thank you father so much I’m so happy you chose me to be of use to you. I love being obedient.it makes my cock go hard. I’ve splurged so much cum every where in my pants the past few minutes but I’m still leaking. That’s how much I being daddy’s good boy and obeying. Sir just started to cum, I must show gratitude by drinking it all. I’m so horny and turned on by doing what I’m told,I don’t want to have any of sirs cum meant for me drop anywhere and make a mess. I need to be a good boy and keep everything tidy. Fuck I just started to cum again. I have to obey sir and keep sucking. I love obeying sir. I will guzzle it all down and not leave a drop. I love obeying while wearing a suit. Thank you sir for putting me in my place where I should be
Hey ya’ll, I’ve been thinking a lot lately and I want to focus on a series of stories with a similar premise to start off with. The idea comes from a favorite story of mine, Enrique’s Antics.
This series would focus on a passed along oil recipe which allows the user to slip into another person, taking them over like a skin suit. Out of all possession methods, this is the one which excites me the most, and I want to explore it as an anthology. For now, I would like to introduce the first one of these, Daryl’s story.
Daryl
I’d been watching Frank Harlan from my living room window for the better part of a year, my thick gut pressed against the sill while my cock throbbed in my sweatpants every time he stepped out to mow the lawn or haul groceries. He was everything I wasn’t on the outside—burly, solid, late fifties, with a heavy dad-bod belly that hung just right over his belt, thick arms corded from years of construction work, a salt-and-pepper beard that framed a square jaw, and a deep, rumbling voice that carried across the fence like gravel wrapped in velvet. His chest hair peeked out the top of every worn plaid shirt, and the way his jeans hugged the heavy bulge between his thighs made my mouth water. I was the chubby, quiet guy next door—soft all over, pale, smooth-skinned, with a belly that jiggled when I walked and had always made me ashamed of myself.
The favor had been simple: two weeks ago my car battery died in the driveway after getting home from my shit gas station job. Frank came over without being asked, flashlight in hand, and got me running again in ten minutes flat. He’d clapped me on the shoulder with that strong hand, grinned behind his beard, and said, “Anytime, neighbor. That’s what we’re here for.” I’d jerked off three times that night just replaying the weight of his palm on me.
Tonight I couldn’t hold back anymore.
I mixed the drink in my kitchen. Really it was just a bottle of bourbon I mixed with a ton of sleep medicine. Then I poured the magic oil into a wide-mouthed jar, the thick golden stuff already shimmering under the light, warm to the touch like it had a pulse of its own. I’d found the recipe in an old leather-bound book at a back-alley occult shop. I had passed it so many times on my way to work, but something almost mystical made me pull into the alley next to it, and be greeted by the mysterious merchant inside. He was almost eager to sell me the book at a discounted rate, and I could have sworn he licked his lips upon my purchase. I read through the book and found the description for this oil. Lather yourself up, and it was like you were clay, and could enter the body of any host of your choosing, given you had access to the proper opening. It seemed impossible and stupid to try, but my infatuation with Frank became too much for me to handle just fantasizing about anymore.
I knocked on Frank’s front door at 9:00 pm. He answered in a faded blacm T-shirt that stretched across his barrel chest and loose basketball shorts that did nothing to hide the heavy swing of his cock. His belly pushed the hem up just enough to show a strip of hairy skin.
“Hey, Daryl,” he rumbled, smiling. “What’s up?”
“Brought you a thank-you drink,” I said, holding up the bourbon. “For the jump-start. Figured you might be winding down after work.”
He laughed that low belly-laugh and took it. “You didn’t have to, but I won’t say no.” He took a long wiff, nostrils tantalized, then another. “Damn, that’s smooth. Come on in, I’ll grab us a couple of glasses”.
We sat in his living room for maybe fifteen minutes, talking about nothing. Weather, the neighbor down the street who kept parking on the grass. I watched the drug hit him in slow, perfect stages: his eyelids drooping, his words getting thicker, that strong body slumping deeper into the recliner until his head lolled back and his mouth fell open with a soft snore. His belly rose and fell, the front of his shorts tenting slightly from the way he was sprawled. Perfect.
My heart hammered as I locked the front door, killed the lights, and stripped right there in the living room. My own soft, heavy body spilled out. Pale belly, thick thighs, cock already half-hard and leaking. I unscrewed the jar of magic oil. It was warm, almost hot, and when I poured the first thick rope across my chest it felt like liquid sunlight. I rubbed it in slow, greedy circles, coating every inch of my skin until I glistened head to toe. The oil sank in, and for a moment I felt utterly ridiculous. But then I could feel a tingle ring through me. My skin shimmered gold, every roll and curve now impossibly glossy, frictionless, ready. My cock looked obscene, fat, dripping, sliding through my own oiled fist like it was made of warm glass.
Frank was still out cold. I knelt between his spread thighs, hooked my slick fingers into the waistband of his shorts, and peeled them down along with his boxers. His cock flopped out heavy and thick, half-hard even unconscious, nestled in a thick bush of dark, graying hair. His balls hung low and full. I dragged his shirt off next, revealing the full glory of his burly torso. Hairy chest, soft belly with a deep navel, strong arms, and the faint scars of old work injuries. I left him naked on the recliner, legs spread wide, that hairy ass exposed.
I poured the last of the oil straight onto his crack, watching it drip and shimmer over his hole. Then I climbed up, oiled body sliding against his like warm silk. I started feet-first because I wanted to feel every inch of him swallow me from the inside out. I pressed my toes against his pucker. It was tight at first, but the oil did its job; his ring stretched with a wet, obscene pop as my feet sank inside. The heat was immediate. Hot, velvety guts gripping me like a living glove. I groaned low, pushing deeper, my calves sliding in with a long, slow squelch. Frank’s belly bulged outward as my legs filled his intestines, the outline of my feet and shins visible under his skin like some obscene puppet.
“Oh fuck… yes…” I whispered, voice shaking with lust.
I kept going, inch by filthy inch. My thick thighs disappeared into him, stretching his hole impossibly wide, the golden oil mixing with the natural slick of his body until everything was a glistening mess. His cock twitched and started to harden against my oiled belly as I fed more of myself inside. When my hips reached his entrance I paused, grinding my fat, dripping cock against his taint for a moment, then shoved. My entire groin slid in with a wet, vulgar slurp, my balls popping through his ring one after the other. I could feel his prostate kissing the underside of my shaft as I kept pushing, my own heavy belly now compressing and sliding into his colon. The stretch was obscene, his abs distended grotesquely around the shape of my softer gut, then smoothed out as I settled deeper.
My chest went in next, nipples dragging along his inner walls, sending sparks through both of us. I had to tilt my head back, arms raised, as my shoulders popped through that ruined hole. The pressure was insane! Every muscle, every rib, every heartbeat of his body squeezing and massaging me like a second, hotter skin. I felt his lungs expand around my own chest, his heart thundering against my back. Finally my head , face-first into the slick heat. The world went dark and wet and perfect as his hole closed around my scalp with a final, lewd pop.
Then came the settling.
I flexed inside him, and his body answered like it was mine. My mind stayed completely me, but the flesh I wore was all Frank. I opened his eyes. Looked down at his thick, hairy chest rising and falling with my breath. Ran his big, calloused hands over his belly—my belly now—and felt the weight of it, the way it spilled just right. His cock—my cock—was rock-hard, veins pulsing, a fat bead of pre dripping from the slit. I squeezed it and groaned in his deep, gravelly voice. “Holy shit…”
I stood up slowly, feeling the new power in these legs, the way his heavy balls swung between my thighs, the way his ass, still slick with leftover oil and my own residue, clenched around nothing. I was taller, broader, stronger. The contrast made my stolen cock throb: my soft, chubby self now wrapped inside this burly, bearded, belly-heavy man.
I padded naked through his house, the floorboards creaking under his heavier weight, and climbed the stairs. His teenage son, Jake, was out for the weekend at a wrestling tournament, thank fuck, so the house was mine. I pushed open the door to Jake’s room and the smell of teenage sweat hit me. There, draped over the back of a chair, was the light grey wrestling singlet. I picked it up, feeling the slick, stretchy fabric between Frank’s thick fingers. My new cock jumped.
I stepped into it slowly, savoring every second. The spandex stretched obscenely over my new thighs, hugging the thick muscle and the soft give of the belly. I pulled it up over my hips, and the pouch cradled my heavy balls and throbbing cock like a second skin, the material already darkening where pre leaked through. The straps went over my broad shoulders, digging in just enough to make the chest hair puff out around them. The singlet was tight, designed for a lean eighteen-year-old wrestler, but on Frank’s burly frame it looked obscene: the fabric strained across my gut, outlining every roll, the leg holes riding high and framing the thick bulge and the curve of my ass. I turned in the mirror, admiring the way the singlet gleamed under the lamp, shiny with the faint residue of oil and sweat already seeping through.
I couldn’t wait.
I wrapped Frank’s big hand around the spandex-covered cock and started stroking, long, slow, filthy pulls. The material made wet, sticky sounds as it slid over the leaking head. I watched in the mirror: this burly, bearded dad in his son’s wrestling gear, belly pushing the fabric out, nipples hard against the straps. I imagined Jake’s teammates seeing me like this and the thought made me growl in Frank’s voice.
“Fuck… look at me… wearing your boy’s singlet while I wear you…” I pumped faster, hips rolling, the spandex creaking. My balls drew up tight. I came with a roar, thick, ropey spurts jetting straight into the pouch, soaking the dark blue fabric until it turned glossy and wet. I kept stroking through it, smearing the hot cum all over my stolen belly, across my chest, down my thighs, using it like extra lube so the singlet clung even tighter, translucent in places, reeking of Frank’s musk mixed with fresh seed.
I was panting, grinning behind the beard, when I finally stepped out of the room and headed to Frank’s closet. I rummaged until I found what I wanted: a tight black button-up shirt that would strain over the cum-stained singlet, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged the thick thighs and the still-leaking bulge. I left the top two buttons open so the hairy chest and the faint hint of the singlet underneath peeked through. No underwear, just the filthy, cum-smeared wrestling gear underneath everything, rubbing against me with every step.
I looked in the full-length mirror one last time: Frank Harlan, burly, bearded, belly-heavy, dressed like he was heading out for a beer—but underneath it all, his teenage son’s wrestling singlet was soaked with my load, and the man inside him, already planning who I was going to hit on at the bar downtown.
I grabbed Frank’s keys, felt the heavy swing of his cock against the cum-slick spandex, and stepped out into the night.
Reprise of original story by El Fantasmo Poderoso - “Untitled”: https://maletransformation.blogspot.com/2018/05/caption-this-12th-may.html?m=1&zx=f6a3bdac62b9b9e1
Part 1: Hello
Two weeks I've been haunting this apartment.
Two weeks of watching Bradley live in his body like he doesn't even know what he has. Like it's nothing—like waking up inside all that muscle and heat and hair is just Tuesday for him. Like rolling out of bed with that heavy cock swinging between his thighs and scratching his ass on the way to the bathroom is something a man can just do without understanding the obscenity of the privilege.
I've watched him shower. I've watched him eat. I've watched him do pull-ups in the doorframe of his bedroom with his shirt off, the muscles of his back contracting and releasing like something mechanical, something engineered, sweat carving channels down the groove of his spine until it disappeared into the waistband of whatever he was wearing. I've watched him jerk off twice—once in the shower, quick and efficient, bracing himself against the tile with one hand while the other worked his cock in fast, brutal strokes; once in bed, slower, scrolling through something on his phone, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his hips lifting off the mattress when he came.
I memorized the sound he made. This low, guttural thing, more exhale than moan, like the pleasure was being punched out of him. Like he was surprised by it every single time.
And now here he is.
The mattress is bare. He hasn't unpacked the sheets yet—they're in a box somewhere in the hallway, buried under a lamp and a tangle of charging cables and a case of protein bars. He came back from his run twenty minutes ago, kicked off his sneakers by the door, drained half a Gatorade, and collapsed face-up on the bare mattress like a man who'd been shot.
He's still in his running shorts. Black. Loose. Ridden up on his thighs where he fell, bunched around the thick swell of his quads. Underneath—and I know this because I've watched him dress, because I've studied him—is a jockstrap. Grey. The waistband sits just above his hip bones, visible where the shorts have shifted, and the pouch cradles everything he's got in a way that makes the whole arrangement obscene even when it's technically covered.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. That's dessert.
Right now I'm standing at the foot of the mattress, looking at his feet.
God, his feet.
They're hanging off the edge, too big for the mattress to contain, and I've been fixated on them since the first morning I watched him pad barefoot to the kitchen. Size thirteen. Wide across the ball, the toes thick and squared-off, dusted with dark hair across the knuckles. The soles are rough—runner's feet, calloused at the heel and the ball, the arches high and defined. His left foot is cocked sideways, the ankle rolling out, and I can see the tendon shifting beneath the skin every time his breathing moves his body. His right foot points straight up, toes splayed, and there's a smear of dirt on the big one from where his sneaker rubbed.
They're enormous and blunt and graceless and I want to put my mouth on them so badly that if I still had saliva, I'd be drooling.
The smell hits me next.
It shouldn't—I don't have a nose, don't have olfactory receptors, don't have the biological machinery to process scent. But something about proximity to living flesh, something about the wanting, creates a phantom sense that's almost better than the real thing. Bradley's sweat is sharp and clean and animal—salt and exertion and the faintest trace of whatever body wash he used this morning, something with eucalyptus, almost completely obliterated by the honest musk of a body that just ran six miles in the August heat.
I lean in closer and the smell intensifies. His calves are damp, the fine dark hair matted flat against the skin. His inner thighs are glazed with it. And when I drift upward, following the scent like a current, I find the source: the creases of his hips, the pouch of that jockstrap, the dense thatch of hair that I can see curling above the waistband, all of it radiating heat and musk so thick I can practically chew it.
But first—first, because I've waited, because I've been good, because I've spent two weeks watching without touching—I let myself look at all of him.
He's on his back. Arms thrown wide, palms up, fingers loosely curled. His chest rises and falls in the deep, heavy rhythm of total exhaustion, the tank top soaked through and plastered to the architecture of his pectorals. His nipples are visible through the wet fabric—dark, peaked from the air conditioning, the areolae wide and slightly puffy in a way that makes my non-existent mouth water. The tank top has ridden up past his navel, exposing the corrugated plane of his abs, and there—right there in the shallow basin of his belly button—sweat has pooled.
An actual pool of it. A tiny, glistening reservoir of salt and effort, trembling with each breath, catching the late afternoon light like something precious. Like an offering. His abs contract and the liquid shivers, a single drop spilling over the rim and tracking sideways down his oblique, following the cut of muscle toward his hip.
His mouth is open. His tongue—pink and thick and wet—is hanging out, lolling against his lower lip like a dog's after a long run. His eyes are closed, lashes dark against his cheekbones, and his jaw is slack in a way that makes his face look younger, dumber, utterly vulnerable. A strand of spit connects his lower lip to the mattress.
And his hair.
I moan. The sound comes out hollow, reverberant, the acoustic signature of a dead man's longing, and Bradley doesn't hear it.
His hair is dark and thick and wild, fanned across the bare mattress in waves that catch the light and hold it. It's damp at the temples, curling where the sweat has reached it, and the rest is a chaotic sprawl of texture—coarse at the roots, softer at the ends, the kind of hair that resists a comb and rewards fingers. I can see the density of it even from here, the way it springs and layers, the way light doesn't pass through it so much as get absorbed.
I reach out and slide my fingers in.
The sensation is devastating. My hand is barely substantial—more suggestion than flesh—but the hair is so thick, so present, that it pushes back against my touch. I feel the individual strands separating around my fingers, the warmth of his scalp beneath, the faint grit of dried sweat. I curl my fingers and pull.
His head shifts. A sound escapes him—"nnnhh"—low and bovine, pure animal response, his brow furrowing without waking. The hair resists the pull, the scalp stretching, and when I release it the strands spring back into their chaotic arrangement like they're alive.
I do it again. Harder.
"Mmmnfh." His lips close around his tongue, then fall open again. The tongue slides back out. A fresh strand of spit descends to the mattress.
Fuck, he's beautiful.
I let go of his hair and trail my fingers down. Forehead. The bridge of his nose—strong, slightly crooked, broken once maybe. The ridge of his cheekbone. The rough scrape of stubble along his jaw, dense enough to rasp even against my insubstantial touch. The column of his throat, where I can see his pulse beating slow and steady, the skin flushed and damp.
Down. Past the collarbone. Past the wet cling of his tank top, where I press my palm flat against his chest and feel his heartbeat thudding against my non-existent skin. The heat of him is extraordinary—furnace-warm, the kind of heat that only a body pushed to its absolute limit can generate. I spread my fingers wide and feel the swell of his pec beneath the fabric, the firm resistance of developed muscle, the nub of his nipple catching against my palm.
He twitches. His chest presses up into my hand, seeking pressure, and a sound leaks out of him that's almost a word but isn't. Just sensation, translated into breath.
I slide lower. Past the ribcage, feeling each bone beneath the intercostal muscles. Past the abs, my fingers dipping into the ridges between them, collecting the sweat that's gathered in every crevice. When I reach his belly button I stop.
The pool of sweat trembles against my fingertip.
I press down. The liquid is warm—body-temperature warm, salt-dense, and when my finger breaks the surface tension it floods outward across his stomach in thin rivulets that race each other toward his hips. Bradley gasps in his sleep—"ah"—and his abs clench, the muscles locking into sharp definition, the remaining sweat squeezing out of every groove.
I bring my finger to where my lips should be and taste.
Salt. Minerals. Life. Twenty-three years of nothing and this single drop of another man's sweat tastes like the entire ocean.
My hands are shaking now. My form is flickering, destabilizing with want, and I force myself to solidify. To focus. I've waited two weeks for this. I've waited twenty-three years for this. I am not going to rush.
I hook my fingers into the waistband of his shorts and pull them down.
Slowly. Past the jut of his hip bones, past the cut of his Adonis belt, past the grey waistband of the jockstrap that I've been thinking about since the first morning I watched him pull it on. The shorts slide down his thighs—the hair there is thick and dark, matted with sweat, the quads enormous even in repose—and I work them past his knees, past his calves, past those magnificent feet, and drop them on the floor.
Now.
Now I can see him.
The jockstrap frames everything like a fucking gift basket. The pouch is damp—sweat-soaked, clinging to the shape of what's inside—and I can see the outline of his cock, soft and heavy, curving to the left, the glans a distinct ridge beneath the grey fabric. His balls are full and low, the weight of them pulling the pouch down, and on either side the elastic straps cut across his hips and disappear beneath him, leaving his thighs and his ass completely bare.
And the hair. Christ, the hair.
It spills over the waistband of the jockstrap in an unruly thatch—dense and dark and curly, climbing from the pouch up toward his navel in a thick trail that spreads across his lower belly like a declaration. I reach down and run my fingers through it, and the texture is coarser than his head—wiry, springy, warm. I grip a fistful and tug, and Bradley's hips jerk off the mattress.
"Uuunhh—" His eyes flutter. His tongue retreats into his mouth and he swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, then his jaw falls slack again and the tongue slides back out. "Nn... nnhh... wha..."
I release his pubic hair and watch it spring back into its wild arrangement. Then I grip it again, lower, closer to the root, where it's thickest and the skin beneath is hottest.
Pull.
His cock twitches inside the jockstrap. I can see it move—the fabric shifting, the outline changing as blood begins to flow. His balls draw up, then drop again, and a sound comes out of him that's pure, liquid need:
"Ohhhhh fuuuck..."
Still asleep. Barely. Dreaming of hands that don't belong to anyone he knows, touching him in ways he can't explain, pulling at hair no one else has ever gripped.
I lean forward and press my face into the pouch of his jockstrap.
The smell nearly destroys me.
Musk and sweat and man—concentrated, fermented, trapped against his body by elastic and cotton for the duration of a six-mile run in August heat. His cock is warm against my cheek, his balls heavy against my jaw, and the hair that escapes the edges of the pouch tickles my incorporeal skin. I breathe in and the phantom scent floods through me like a drug, like a possession in its own right, like the smell itself is colonizing whatever's left of my dead senses and replacing them with him.
"Bradley," I whisper into the damp fabric. "Oh, Bradley. You have no fucking idea what's about to happen to you."
His cock is thickening now, responding to the proximity of my want. I can feel it growing against my cheek—lengthening, hardening, the shaft pressing outward against the pouch until the fabric stretches taut. The head emerges past the waistband, flushed and swollen, a bead of precum glistening at the slit.
I pull the jockstrap down.
His cock springs free and slaps against his belly, eight inches of thick, veined, alive flesh, and the sight of it—framed by that incredible thatch of dark hair, glistening with sweat, the foreskin pulling back as the erection reaches its full, furious hardness—sends a shockwave through my spirit that nearly scatters me into nothing.
I hold myself together through pure, ravenous will.
"Okay," I breathe. "Okay, baby. Here I come."
I straddle his hips and lower myself onto his cock—not around it, not containing it, but into it. I align my spectral pelvis with his, feel the heat of his erection passing through my form like a brand, and I let myself sink.
The first contact is—
I can't—
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Physical sensation punches through twenty-three years of nothing like a fist through wet paper. The nerve endings of his cock light up inside me, become me, and I can feel everything—the cool air on the shaft, the pulse of blood in the dorsal vein, the ache of engorgement, the slick warmth of precum sliding down the glans. My soul wraps around his flesh like a hand around a throat and squeezes, and Bradley's body convulses beneath me.
"AAAHH—oh fuck oh fuck oh FUCK—"
His eyes snap open. Wild. Unseeing. His hands claw at the mattress, his abs lock into rigid definition, and his cock—my cock, increasingly mine—surges with a pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I can feel his soul inside the flesh, thrashing, confused, a tenant who just heard the lock change.
"Shhhh," I croon, my voice echoing from inside his own pelvis. "Shhhhh, Bradley. Don't fight it. Feel how good this is. Feel how right this is."
The glow begins—soft at first, a luminescence beneath the skin of his cock, spreading outward from the glans toward the base. Where my soul touches his flesh, light blooms, and the light is hungry. It eats. It drinks. It devours the prior occupant's claim on this magnificent piece of anatomy, and every inch it conquers sends another bolt of raw, screaming pleasure through both of us.
Bradley's tongue is out again, his eyes rolling back, his chest heaving. His hands have found his cock—wrapped around it on instinct, the grip tight, the knuckles white—and he's stroking himself with the desperate, mindless rhythm of a man who's lost control of his own body.
"Wha's—happening—can't—oh God oh God nnnnhhhh—"
I sink deeper. Past the cock, into the balls, feeling the weight of them settle into my awareness like stones dropping into water. Heavy. Full. The spermatic cords tighten and release, tighten and release, and I can feel the pressure building in the vas deferens, the seminal vesicles filling, the entire reproductive system gearing up for an orgasm that will remake the landscape of his soul.
"That's it," I murmur, my voice now coming from his own groin, vibrating through his pelvic floor. "That's it, Bradley, keep stroking, keep going, you're so close, you're so close—"
"Please," he sobs. Tears are running down his temples into his hair. His tongue is hanging out, drool coating his chin, his whole face contorted into a mask of pleasure so extreme it's indistinguishable from agony. "Please, I can't, I can't, it's too much, it's too—"
"You can," I tell him. "You will. And when you come, you're going to feel me everywhere. Every muscle. Every nerve. Every single hair on this beautiful fucking body."
I plunge my phantom hands into his—merging with his fists where they grip his cock, my fingers lacing with his, my knuckles pressing outward against the interior of his skin. His hands glow. The light races up his forearms. And now I can feel his grip from the inside—the pressure of each finger, the calluses on his palms, the desperate tightness of a man trying to hold onto his own pleasure.
I stroke. We stroke. His rhythm and mine, synchronized, my knowledge of his patterns—gathered over two weeks of watching, memorizing, wanting—feeding back into his own hands until the technique is something neither of us could achieve alone.
"Come," I command, and push my soul outward in every direction at once.
The orgasm detonates.
Bradley howls—a sound so raw, so stripped of everything human except need, that it bounces off the bare walls and comes back changed. His back arches off the mattress. His toes curl—those big, beautiful, size-thirteen toes—and his feet flex hard enough to cramp. Cum erupts from his cock in thick, ropy arcs that splatter across his chest, his chin, the dark hair matted to his abs. His hands keep stroking through it, slicking through his own spend, and each wave of pleasure is a wave of me, flooding outward from his groin into his legs, his stomach, his chest, his arms—
I pour into him like water into a vessel.
His legs first—the thighs, the calves, those magnificent feet. I feel the arches stretch, the toes spread, the calluses press against the mattress as sensation floods into every capillary. Then upward—his core, the abs still clenching with orgasmic aftershocks, the obliques, the intercostals, each rib expanding as his breathing becomes my breathing. His chest—the pectorals, the nipples that harden as my soul passes through them, the collarbone, the shoulders. His arms—biceps, forearms, the hands still wrapped around his cock, still slick with cum.
And finally, gloriously, his head.
I slide into his skull through the back of his neck and feel his mind open like a door.
Bradley's consciousness is a warm, dim, chaotic thing—half-formed thoughts, fragments of dreams, the muzzy afterglow of the most intense orgasm of his life. I settle into it like sinking into a hot bath, and where my awareness touches his, his dissolves. Not violently. Not painfully. Just... absorbed. Metabolized. Converted from Bradley into fuel for me.
The last thing he thinks, before I swallow him entirely, is: that felt so good.
"Yeah," I whisper, with his mouth, in his voice—deeper than I expected, rougher, still ragged with the echoes of what just happened. "Yeah, it really fucking did."
I lie there for a long time.
The cum is cooling on my chest—my chest—tacky and thick, matting the hair between my pectorals. My cock is softening against my thigh, still twitching with residual pleasure, and my balls feel wrung-out, empty, satisfied in a way that resonates through my entire new body. The jockstrap is tangled around one ankle. My shorts are on the floor.
Slowly, I sit up.
My hands—my hands, big and calloused and still sticky—press against the mattress, and I look down at myself.
The glow is fading, the last traces of the soul-transfer sinking beneath the skin like bioluminescence in deep water. I can feel Bradley's remnants dissolving inside me—his memories, his habits, his muscle patterns, all of it breaking down into raw material that my soul absorbs and reorganizes. His gym routine. His coffee order. The way he pushes his hair back with both hands when he's thinking.
I reach up and do it now—push my fingers through my hair, feeling the weight and thickness, the way it resists and then yields, the coarse texture at the roots that softens toward the ends. I grip a handful and pull, hard, and the sensation sends a ripple of pleasure down my spine that terminates in my still-sensitive cock.
"Mmnh." I close my eyes. "Fuck, that's nice."
I swing my legs off the mattress and plant my feet on the floor. Size thirteen. Broad and heavy and mine. I press them flat and feel the carpet fibers between my toes, the coolness of the floor beneath, the satisfying thud of weight meeting surface.
I stand.
My body is a cathedral.
Every muscle hums with stolen life. I stretch—arms overhead, back arching, chest expanding—and the feeling is so overwhelming that I laugh. A real, full-body laugh, Bradley's voice carrying my joy out into the empty apartment, bouncing off boxes and bare walls.
The cum on my chest cracks and flakes as my skin stretches. I look down at it—at the dark hair beneath, at the softened cock nestled in its thatch of curls, at the powerful thighs and the enormous feet planted on the carpet—and I feel something I haven't felt in twenty-three years.
Hunger. Real, physical hunger, growling from a stomach that is gloriously, tangibly mine.
But first.
I see the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand—Marlboro Reds, half-crushed, with a yellow Bic lighter tucked inside the cellophane. Bradley's muscle memory reaches for them before I even decide to, and I let it guide me.
The balcony door slides open. Night air hits my damp skin and I shiver—actually shiver, goosebumps racing up my arms, my nipples tightening, my cock stirring lazily at the sensation.
I light the cigarette and pull. Deep. Expanding my new chest to its absolute limits, watching the ember flare orange, feeling the smoke fill lungs that are pink and healthy and strong. I hold it until my ribs ache, then release in a long, slow stream that curls around my reflection in the glass door.
The man looking back at me is magnificent. Tall. Built. Chest hair still flecked with drying cum. Hair a wreck. Eyes—my eyes now, dark and heavy-lidded—half-closed with satisfaction. The cigarette dangles from lips that are swollen and wet, and I watch myself take another drag, watch Bradley's habitual look-at-me expression settle onto features that belong to me now.
I flex. Just because I can. The bicep swells, the vein pops, and I grin around the cigarette like an animal baring its teeth.
"Hey," I say to my reflection, smoke leaking from the corners of my mouth. "I'm Bradley. Nice to fucking meet you."
Part 2: Carnaval
I've been alive for nine days and I've already found my first toy.
His name is Frank Chen. Five-foot-seven, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet, which he frequently is because he sweats when he's nervous and he's nervous every time he's near this body. Twenty-seven years old. Wire-frame glasses that fog up in the gym. Platinum-blond hair with dark roots growing in, styled in that deliberately messy way that takes forty-five minutes and three products to achieve. Smooth everywhere—arms, legs, chest, the narrow strip of stomach visible between his crop top and his leggings. He's got eyeliner on. He always has eyeliner on.
He's been Bradley's client for almost six months. Twice a week, Tuesdays and Fridays, one hour of resistance training that's really just sixty minutes of proximity worship. I know this because I watched it from the corners of this apartment for two weeks before I took Bradley's body, drifting through walls, following him to work, cataloguing his life like a burglar casing a house.
Frank hired Bradley because Bradley was straight.
That's the thing I find funniest. The kid didn't want a trainer—his form is garbage and he clearly doesn't care about fixing it. He wanted a shrine. Something massive and male and permanently out of reach that he could orbit around twice a week and then go home and jerk off about. Safe desire. Controlled yearning. The exquisite torture of wanting something you know you'll never have.
I've watched Frank stare at Bradley's armpits.
Not casually. Not the way you might glance and look away. I mean fixated—positioning himself on Bradley's left side during overhead press, leaning in close enough to catch the smell, his nostrils flaring, his pupils dilating behind those wire-frame glasses. Bradley's pits were a spectacle even before I moved in: dense dark hair, always damp by mid-session, the deodorant burned off within the first twenty minutes, leaving nothing but raw human musk trapped in those deep hollows. Frank would stand at spotting distance and breathe, and his cock would start to thicken in his leggings, and Bradley—the old Bradley, the straight, professional, oblivious Bradley—never noticed.
I noticed.
I noticed from the corner of the ceiling where I hovered, formless and starving, and I filed it away for later.
Later is now.
It's Tuesday. I've just finished a set of pull-ups that I didn't need to do—this body is already built, already strong, and the ghost who lives inside it doesn't give a shit about maintaining Bradley's fitness routine. But the pull-ups make my arms pump full of blood, make my tank top ride up, make the sweat flow freely into the places where Frank's attention lives. I'm baiting a trap with my own body, and the bait smells like a locker room floor.
I haven't showered since yesterday. Deliberately. I went for a run this morning, came back, didn't wash, pulled on the same tank top I wore to yesterday's evening session. The fabric is stiff with dried sweat at the collar and pits, re-wetted now by the fresh layer, and the smell coming off me is aggressive. Sour and thick and animal—the kind of stink that makes people on the subway shift seats.
I love it. This body produces scent like a fucking factory, and every rank cloud that rises from my skin is a reminder that I'm alive, that I have glands and bacteria and the biological machinery of odor, that I can be smelled.
Twenty-three years of nothing, and now I reek. It's beautiful.
Frank is across the gym, pretending to check his phone. He's wearing black compression leggings and an oversized lavender hoodie that slips off one narrow shoulder, and his glasses keep sliding down his nose because his face is damp. He's been watching me do pull-ups for the last ten minutes. I can see his cock outlined in the leggings—half-hard, curving to the left against his thigh. He doesn't even know he's obvious.
I drop from the bar, wipe my face with my forearm—smearing sweat, not removing it—and walk toward him.
"Frank!"
He startles. Almost drops his phone. "Hey! Yeah, hi. I was just—I finished my circuit."
"Cool." I stop too close. I always stop too close now—well inside the radius where my smell becomes a factor. I can see the moment it hits him: his nostrils widen, his jaw loosens, his eyes unfocus for just a second. "Hit the sauna with me."
Not a question. The old Bradley would have made it a question. But I'm not interested in being polite. I'm interested in seeing what happens when I stop keeping Frank at arm's length and start pulling him in by the throat.
"Sure," he says, and his voice cracks on the single syllable.
The sauna is empty. Blue light, eucalyptus steam, the hiss of water on stones. I hold the door for Frank—playing gentleman while my eyes track down his body—and let it seal shut behind us.
Frank settles on the far bench. Legs crossed. Towel around his waist. Looking everywhere except at me.
I sit across from him, and I take my shirt off.
I don't make it subtle. I grab the hem and peel the tank top up and over my head, slow enough that the fabric drags across my skin, slow enough that the trapped smell releases in a visible shimmer of steam. The shirt comes away with a wet schlck sound and I toss it beside me on the bench, and now I'm bare from the waist up—this massive, hairy, sweating torso on full display, still flushed from the pull-ups, the muscles gorged with blood.
Frank's eyes snap to my chest and then—predictably, beautifully, pathetically—to my armpits.
I give him what he wants. I raise both arms and lace my fingers behind my head.
The position opens everything up. My pits are twin craters of matted dark hair, soaked through, the skin beneath flushed and shiny. Two days of unwashed sweat has turned the hair into wet clumps, and the smell—trapped under fabric for hours, now suddenly freed into the humid air of the sauna—rolls across the space between us like a weather system.
I watch Frank's face. I watch his nostrils flare. I watch his lips part. I watch his cock, visible through the towel now, jerk from half-hard to fully rigid in the space of a single breath.
"So," I say, keeping my arms up, keeping myself open. "Six months, Frank."
His eyes snap to my face. Guilty. Terrified.
"What?"
"Six months you've been staring at me like you want to crawl inside my skin." I grin, and it's not Bradley's professional smile. It's mine—wolfish, hungry, too many teeth. "You always pick the left side during overhead press. Always lean in close. You think I haven't figured out what you're smelling?"
The color drains from his face so fast I think he might pass out. Then it floods back twice as bright, a blush that starts at his cheeks and races down his neck, across his collarbones, disappearing under the lavender hoodie.
"I—that's not—I wasn't—"
"Shut up."
He shuts up. His mouth closes with an audible click, and behind those fogged glasses his eyes go wide and wet.
"Come here."
"Bradley—"
"Now, Frank."
His legs carry him. I can see the internal war playing out on his face—the disbelief, the terror, the desperate throttling want—but his body's already decided, already standing, already crossing the distance between the benches on trembling legs. He stops in front of me, looking down, his hands twisting in the hem of his hoodie.
I reach up, hook my fingers into the towel around his waist, and rip it off.
His cock springs free—slim, cut, flushed dark at the tip, already dripping a thin strand of precum that stretches and breaks against his thigh. He gasps and tries to cover himself. I slap his hands away.
"Sit."
I grab his hips—my hands span his entire waist, thumbs nearly touching his navel, fingers wrapping around to his spine—and I yank him down onto my lap.
Frank yelps. This high, breathy, fractured sound that bounces off the sauna walls, and then he's straddling me, his bare ass on my thighs, his cock pressed between us, his hands scrabbling at my shoulders for balance. His glasses have gone completely opaque with fog. He's blind and hard and shaking and sitting on a body that doesn't belong to the man he thinks it does.
"Oh my God," he whispers. "Oh my God, this isn't—you're not—"
"Breathe in, Frank."
I grab a fistful of his bleached hair—the dark roots are coarse against my fingers, the platinum ends brittle with processing—and I shove his face into my left armpit.
He hits the thatch of wet hair face-first and the sound he makes is—
Christ.
It's not a moan. It's not a gasp. It's this wrecked, guttural, sobbing keen that comes from somewhere behind his sternum, from some place where he's been storing this want for six months, and the pressure of its release is almost visible. His whole body goes rigid against me, then boneless, then rigid again. His fingers claw into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks. His cock lurches against my stomach, painting a wet streak across my abs, and his hips start rocking—involuntary, rhythmic, desperate.
"Nnnhhh—oh fuck—oh fuck—Bradley—aaaahnn—"
And I can feel it.
That's the thing. Twenty-three years dead and I'd forgotten what it's like to have someone pressed against you—the specific weight and heat of another human body, the friction of skin on skin, the vibration of their voice conducted through their chest into yours. Frank is small and light and feverish and he's grinding against me like he's trying to merge with my body, and every point of contact is an explosion of sensation that I have to grit my teeth to absorb.
His tongue comes out. I feel it—hot and wet and frantic—lapping at the hair in my armpit, and the feeling is so bizarre, so specific, that I bark out a laugh.
"There it is," I growl, tightening my grip on his hair. "There's what you've been wanting. Get in there. Taste it."
"Mmmmhh—" He's licking in long, flat strokes, his tongue pressing deep into the hollow, and I can feel him collecting the sweat—the accumulated filth of two unwashed days concentrating on his taste buds. His glasses are digging into my ribcage. His hips won't stop moving. "Aaahh—you taste—oh God you taste—"
"Like what?" I shove his face deeper, grinding his nose into the densest part of the thatch, and I can feel his breath stuttering against my skin, hot and uneven. "Tell me."
"Like—nnhh—like everything I—" His voice breaks into a whimper. "You smell so fucking good, you smell like—I can't—I've wanted to—please—"
"Other side."
I wrench his head out of my left pit by the hair and shove it into the right. He goes willingly—eagerly—burrowing in, his tongue already working, a string of spit connecting his lower lip to the matted hair he just left. He's making sounds that aren't words anymore, just desperate, wet, animal noises muffled against my skin, and his cock is leaking so profusely that my entire lower stomach is glazed with it.
I let him stay there. I let him worship. His fingers roam my chest—tracing the hair between my pectorals, grazing my nipples, gripping the thick meat of my traps—and every touch sends data flooding through nerve endings that still feel brand-new. The heat of the sauna, the heat of Frank's body, the slick friction of sweat on sweat—it all compounds into a roaring wall of alive that makes me want to howl.
But I don't want tender. I don't want worship. I want to find out what this body can take.
I pull Frank's face out of my armpit and hold him at arm's length. He's a disaster—glasses crooked and fogged, lips swollen and shiny with spit and sweat, a strand of armpit hair stuck to his chin. His eyes, unfocused behind the lenses, are blown so wide they're nearly all pupil. He looks drugged. He looks ruined.
"Fuck me," I say.
His brain visibly short-circuits. "...what?"
"Your cock." I reach between us and wrap my hand around it. It's slim and hot and so hard it barely has any give, the head a deep flushed plum, the shaft slick with the precum that's been flowing since I pulled him onto my lap. I squeeze, and Frank's whole body convulses. "I want it inside me. Now."
"But—but you're—you don't—" He's stammering, his hands shaking on my shoulders. "You're straight, Bradley. You've never—and I don't top, I've never topped anyone, I wouldn't even know how to—"
"I don't care what you usually do." I stroke him once, root to tip, my grip rough, too tight, deliberately graceless. He whines like a kicked dog. "I'm telling you to put your cock in my ass and fuck me. So that's what you're going to do."
"I'll come immediately," he whispers, and his voice is so small it's almost funny. "Like—the second I'm inside you. I'll last maybe three seconds."
"Then you last three seconds and we go again. Stop arguing with me."
I spit into my palm—thick and deliberate—and reach behind myself. Frank watches, his mouth hanging open, as I shove two fingers into my own ass without ceremony. The burn is immediate, vicious, and magnificent. I grit my teeth and scissor my fingers apart, stretching myself open with the efficiency of a man who doesn't care about discomfort. This body can take it. That's what it's for.
"Oh my God," Frank breathes. "Oh my—are you—just like that? Don't you need—"
"I need you to shut up and hold your cock steady."
I pull my fingers out, grab Frank's hips, and lift him. He weighs nothing—this body can overhead press twice his weight—and I position him like a doll, lining his cock up with my hole.
"Push," I tell him.
"Bradley, I really don't think—"
I pull him forward and impale myself on his cock.
The sound I make comes from somewhere primal—a raw, guttural "FFFUCK" that tears out of my stolen throat and fills the sauna. The pain is extraordinary. The pleasure is extraordinary. Frank's cock is slim enough that the stretch is manageable but long enough to hit deep, and the sensation of being penetrated—of having something inside this body, filling a space that the old Bradley never knew could be filled—rewires my entire nervous system in real time.
"Oh—oh—oh—" Frank is babbling, his hands clutching my chest, his eyes squeezed shut. "Oh God oh God you're so tight, you're so hot inside, I can't—Bradley I can't—"
"Move." My voice is a snarl. I grab his ass—one cheek per hand, his entire backside fitting in my grip—and I start driving him into me, setting the pace myself, using his body like a fucking tool. "Harder. Come on, Frank, fuck me like you mean it—"
He tries. He's sloppy and frantic and his rhythm is a mess, his hips stuttering in short, desperate snaps, but I don't need technique—I need sensation, I need the raw data of friction and pressure and the obscene wet sound of his cock pistoning in and out of my spit-slicked hole. I angle my hips until his shaft drags across something that—
"AAAHH—"
Oh.
Oh, that's a prostate.
I've never had one of those. Twenty-three years dead and forty-one years alive before that and I never—the old body was straight, missionary, vanilla—I never once—
"Fuck—right there—right fucking there, Frank, don't you dare stop—"
The pleasure is incandescent. Every thrust sends a bolt of lightning from my ass to the base of my cock to the top of my skull, and my stolen body is responding with a ferocity that borders on violence—my abs locked rigid, my thighs trembling, my cock slapping against my stomach with every impact, fully hard and drooling a continuous rope of precum into the hair below my navel.
Frank is crying. Actually crying—tears cutting through the fog on his glasses, his face contorted, his mouth open in a continuous broken moan. He's got his face pressed against my chest, his hands fisted in my chest hair, and he's fucking me with everything his skinny body can produce.
"I'm—Bradley, I'm gonna—I can't hold it—"
"Come." I crush him against me, one hand on the back of his head, driving him down onto my shoulder. "Fill me up. I want to feel it."
"AAAHHHNNNGOD—"
He slams in deep and I feel it—the pulse of his cock, the sudden bloom of wet heat inside me, his entire body seizing in my arms as he empties himself with a scream that cracks halfway through and becomes a sob. His hips keep jerking, pumping, wringing out every drop, and the sensation of being filled—of having another person's cum flooding into the deepest part of this body—is so overwhelming that I nearly follow him over the edge.
But I don't. I hold on. I grit my teeth and ride the wave and keep Frank pinned against my chest while he shakes and gasps and slowly goes limp in my arms.
"Stay in me," I order, wrapping my hand around my own cock. "Don't pull out."
"'m not—hhnnn—can't move—"
I jerk myself hard and fast, no finesse, my fist hammering my cock while Frank's softening dick sits inside me, and the dual sensation—fullness and friction, inside and out—pushes me over in under a minute. I come so hard my vision whites out, my stolen abs crunching, my stolen voice ripping through a string of profanity that doesn't even sound like language—just guttural, animal sound. Cum splatters across Frank's chest and chin, catching in the lavender hoodie bunched around his shoulders, matting the fine hair at his temple.
The aftershocks last a long time. Longer than they should. Every twitch and spasm sends fresh pleasure cascading through a nervous system that's still learning how to process it, and I ride each wave with my eyes closed and my teeth bared and my hands gripping Frank's body like a lifeline.
Eventually Frank stirs against my chest. His cock slips out of me and I feel his load begin to leak, warm and thick, tracking down my inner thigh. He lifts his head, and I get a good look at his face: wrecked, tear-streaked, cum-spattered, glasses hanging off one ear. His eyes are huge and dark and completely disoriented, like a man who just walked out of a building that exploded behind him.
"That," he says hoarsely, "didn't just happen."
"It happened." I stretch, rolling my shoulders, feeling every muscle in this magnificent stolen body sing with post-fuck electricity. His cum shifts inside me when I move and I clench around it, savoring the fullness, the filthy proof that these nerve endings work. "And it's going to keep happening."
"Since when are you—" He waves his hand weakly at the general situation. His spent cock. My leaking ass. The sauna. Everything.
"Since now." I give him my best Bradley grin—the cocky one, the charming one, the one I watched him practice in the mirror—and then I let it sharpen into something the old Bradley never wore. "Listen, I need you to do something for me."
Frank blinks. Pushes his glasses up his nose with a trembling finger. "...okay?"
"You know that new club downtown? NASTY?"
"Yeah, the one opening Friday? I've heard about it. Why?"
"I'm working there."
His eyebrows climb above the frames of his glasses. "You're—Bradley, you're a personal trainer."
"And now I'm also working Friday nights at a club called NASTY." I lean back against the cedar wall and let my knees fall wide, letting him see the mess between my thighs—his cum still glistening on my skin, my cock heavy and satisfied against my leg. "They needed bodies. I've got a body. It worked out."
Frank stares at me like I've started speaking a language he doesn't recognize. The Bradley he knew—the professional, the straight-laced, the straight—would never have set foot in a place like NASTY, let alone signed up to work there.
"What... what are you doing there?" he asks carefully.
"Whatever they want me to do. Mostly the backrooms."
"The backrooms." Frank says it like he's testing whether the word will burn his mouth. "Bradley, those backrooms—people are saying there are literally no rules in there. No cameras, no oversight, just—"
"Just fucking." I nod. "Anonymous. Public. As rough or filthy as anyone wants it. That's the point, Frank. That's exactly the point."
He swallows so hard I can hear it over the hiss of the steam.
"You're going to be in the backrooms. Doing... what, exactly?"
I sit forward. Close the distance between us until I can smell myself on his breath—my sweat, my musk, the rank ghost of my armpits still coating his tongue.
"I'm going to be bent over whatever they put me over," I say, low and even, watching his pupils dilate, "and anyone who wants a turn gets a turn. No names. No talking. Just this body—" I run my hand down my chest, through the slick of drying cum, over my abs, gripping my cock and giving it a slow, heavy squeeze, "—getting used until I can't stand up."
Frank makes a small, involuntary sound. His spent cock twitches against his thigh.
"And I want you to come," I continue. "Friday night. Bring your friends."
"My—my friends?"
"Yeah." I release my cock and lean back again, casual, like I'm discussing weekend plans and not offering my stolen body up as a communal resource. "Those guys you go out with. The ones from your group chat. How many are there—five? Six?"
"Seven," Frank says faintly. "There are seven of us."
"Perfect. Bring all of them. Tell them there's a big guy in the backroom who wants to get wrecked, and they're all invited to participate."
Frank's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Behind his glasses, his eyes are doing something complicated—cycling through disbelief, arousal, confusion, and back to disbelief so fast they can't settle on any single expression.
"You want," he says slowly, like he's reading the words off a teleprompter in a foreign language, "seven guys. My friends. To come to a sex club. And take turns. On you."
"On this body, yeah." I slap my own thigh—the sound is loud and meaty in the enclosed space. "Look at it, Frank. It can take whatever they throw at it. I want it to take whatever they throw at it."
"Why?"
The question hangs in the steam. It's the first smart thing Frank's said all afternoon.
I don't answer right away. I'm doing math.
"Seven," I say, mostly to myself. "Seven friends. Plus you." I look down at this body—at the chest, the abs, the cock still heavy and slick against my thigh—and I run my hands down it like I'm appraising livestock. "This body has a mouth. An ass. Two hands for grabbing, feeling, poking, squeezing... if you position me right. Seven guys rotating through—" I close my eyes, and the image blooms behind my eyelids like a fever dream: this stolen flesh on its knees, every opening occupied, hands wrapped around cocks on either side, the sheer volume of sensation flooding in from five points of contact simultaneously. "Seven is conservative, actually. Seven means Bradley gets to feel full."
I said it in third person. I hear myself do it and I don't correct it.
Frank's staring at me. His mouth is slightly open, his glasses fogged, his softened cock giving a bewildered twitch against his thigh.
"Did you just—did you just say Bradley gets to feel full? You said your own name like—"
"I want to feel this body completely occupied," I say, steamrolling past it, leaning forward until I can smell my own musk on his breath. "I want every hole stuffed. I want to feel hands on every inch of skin. I want to be so full of cock that there's no room left for anything else—no thought, no identity, just sensation. Just meat being used." I grab my own pec and squeeze, hard, the muscle deforming under my fingers. "Look at this thing, Frank. It was built to take punishment. Those shoulders? That jaw? This ass?" I slap my own thigh again, heavy and loud. "This is a body that can service a line of men and come back for more. And that's exactly what I need it to do."
Frank swallows. His Adam's apple bobs twice.
"You're talking about yourself like you're... separate from your own body."
"Am I?" The grin I give him has too many teeth in it. I can feel it pulling at muscles the old Bradley never used. "Maybe I just appreciate it more than most people appreciate theirs. Maybe I know what it's like to go without, and now I don't want a single nerve ending in this body going to waste. Not one. So—" I spread my hands, palms up, like I'm offering something sacred. "Seven friends. How many of them are tops?"
Frank blinks. "I—uh—most of them? Like, five? Maybe six?"
"Perfect. Five or six guys taking turns on Bradley's ass while the rest use his mouth and his hands." I'm hard again. The thought alone did it—my cock filling out against my thigh, rising toward my stomach, the veins standing out along the shaft. "I want to feel what it's like when there's nowhere left to put another cock. We're gonna find out how many cocks I can fit into my mouth and ass at the same time. When this body is so used up and cum-soaked that it can't even hold itself upright anymore." I meet Frank's eyes. "That's why, Frank. That's your answer."
He stares at me for a long time. The steam curls between us. Water drips from the ceiling onto the hot stones with a rhythmic tsss tsss tsss.
Then he reaches for his phone.
"I'm texting the group chat right now," he says, his voice steady for the first time since I pulled him onto my lap. "If I don't do it now I'll convince myself I hallucinated this entire conversation."
"Tell them I'll be in the back. Tell them to come hungry."
His thumbs move across the screen. I watch him type, watching the reflection of his phone in his fogged glasses, and I feel a surge of anticipation so powerful it makes my stolen muscles clench.
Seven guys. Plus whatever anonymous bodies wander through those backrooms on their own. Plus Frank himself, who I already know is easy to ruin.
Nine days alive. This body is barely broken in.
Friday night, I'm going to ride it until the wheels come off.
"Sent," Frank says, and shows me the screen. I can see the message in the group chat—a wall of text that starts with you guys are NOT going to believe what just happened and ends with an address and a time.
"Good boy," I tell him, and watch him shiver.
I stand. Frank's cum drips down the inside of my thigh and hits the bench with a soft, wet pat. I don't wipe it away. I pull on my tank top—the fabric sticking to my sweaty skin, the smell of my armpits mixing with the smell of sex into something truly unholy—and head for the door.
"Friday," I say over my shoulder. "Ten o'clock. Bring them to the backroom. I'll be the one who's already getting fucked."
The door hisses shut, and I walk through the gym with cum leaking down my leg and a dead man's grin on a stolen face, already counting the hours.
gummygunk
origamiaround
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
2087
theartofmadeline
