3 Ghosts, 1 Brit
AI GENERATED STORY. For @echovelvet278 <3
Connor had just finished his evening gym sesh, skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat under the tight grip of his white Under Armour tee. The fabric hugged every contour of his thick pecs, the short sleeves biting into those beefy biceps like they were struggling to contain him. Grey sweatpants hung low off his sculpted hips, a clear bulge bouncing with every lazy step across his bedroom floor.
He plopped down onto his bed with a groan and reached for his phone, basking in the moody neon glow of his bedroom—fuchsia and purple LED strips framing his mirror and ceiling. He angled his camera, trying to catch that perfect post-gym thirst trap. Jawline on point. Beard freshly trimmed. Arms flexed just enough.
"Goddamn, I’d fuck me," he chuckled to himself, posh British accent smooth and smug.
What he didn’t notice—at least not right away—was the mirror flickering. Not his phone. The actual wall mirror. It shimmered for a moment, subtle, as if something inside it had exhaled.
Then it started.
At first, Connor thought he was just seeing things. His reflection moved slower than him. Half a second behind, almost like a lag. He tilted his head. So did the reflection. But with a smirk… he hadn’t made.
"The fuck…?" he muttered, stepping closer.
The reflection’s face twitched. Its grin grew wider. A long trail of drool leaked from its open mouth, eyes glazed over in goon bliss. His reflection suddenly stripped on its own—shirt vanishing in a ghostly blink. Sweatpants dropped. There was his cock, hard and twitching, bobbing up against his abs as the mirror version started gooning, slow strokes, mouth slack.
"Wot the fuck is this?!" Connor shouted.
The reflection moaned, mimicking his voice—but twisted.
“Mmmm, I’m just a dumb British goon puppet… Look at me stroke my royal sceptre, innit?”
His jaw dropped. “Wha–oi, shut up!”
The reflection didn’t stop. In fact, it got louder. Sloppier. Its hand moved faster, stroking that thick cock, making exaggerated moaning noises as drool poured down its beard and chin.
"Ooohhh Stretchy, you feel 'ow tight 'e is? Bet I can make 'is legs give out just from a few tugs—"
"Ughhh lemme in already!" came a second, deeper voice—Fatso’s—booming from the mirror as the reflection slapped its belly. "I wanna feel all this jiggly British flesh!"
Then, from behind Connor—a stench.
Like mildew mixed with swamp breath and gym socks soaked in piss. His nostrils flared as he turned—
Stinky. Hovering above his bed, neon light passing straight through his translucent, slimy form, mouth wide, tongue flopping out.
"Wot the actual fuhhh–"
FOOOOMPH.
Stinky exhaled right in his face. A cloud of glowing green gas blasted Connor’s features. His eyes widened. He staggered backward, coughing, gagging—
SLIP.
His foot slid on a puddle of ghostly ectoplasm Fatso had leaked onto the floor. The slime squelched under his heel.
“Shiiii—”
THUD.
He crashed to the floor, head hitting the base of his dresser. The room swam. The mirror above him warped, the reflection still furiously jerking off and now moaning all three ghosts’ names in unison.
Connor’s eyes fluttered. Limbs twitching. Drool already pooling from his mouth. And that’s when they struck.
All three ghosts dived at once, Stretch snaking down from the ceiling, twirling around his limbs. Stinky burst from behind, plunging through his open mouth with a final stinking giggle. Fatso flattened himself into a puddle of jiggling goo and soaked straight into Connor’s crotch, merging with his cock and belly like living molasses.
His back arched violently. Fingers splayed. Muscles flexed as the spirits tore through his nerves and bones like kids opening a candy wrapper.
One body. Three freaks inside.
His mouth opened and moaned—not his moan, but theirs. Gurgling. Shifting accents. Twitching lips. Posh one moment, sniveling and nasal the next, deep and booming after that.
Inside the vessel, the ghosts screamed at each other:
"Oi! Stretch! Stop makin’ 'im walk like a soddin’ puppet on strings!" "I’ll walk him how I want, dicknose!" "Fellas... look at this cock. We’re all jerkin’ it together tonight."
His right leg spasmed, then the left. His arms jerked upward, guided like marionette strings. His head lolled side to side, a thick line of drool slipping from the corner of his parted lips.
A deep, crackling breath wheezed from his lungs.
"Hnnnghh–oooohhh fuhhhhuckkk, this flesh is tight."
Stretch's voice, nasally and delighted, came out first—warping Connor’s once-posh accent into something sleazy and elastic. He rolled the shoulders back, admiring the way the muscles pulled under the skin.
"Yooo this body’s got that jiggle-jiggle bounce, bro," Fatso added, his booming voice bubbling with laughter. The belly puffed outward slightly, growing fuller, heavier with every breath. The pecs wobbled as Fatso made him grab one, giving it a filthy squeeze. "Soft and thick—just how I like ‘em."
Stinky burst out laughing through Connor’s mouth, the sound a mix of wet snorting and throat-slapping wheezes. "Ohhh yehhh, he’s gonna stink reeeal good in a few minutes. Can already feel them pits gettin' ripe. Let’s stroke 'im stupid!"
All three ghosts now fought for dominance as Connor’s possessed hand dropped into the waistband of his sweats, fingers wrapping tight around his fat, hardening cock. His head tilted back, tongue hanging out, eyes fluttering with an unholy glow.
The stroking began.
One hand moved in frantic pumps—jerky, desperate, like it was trying to milk gallons out on the first stroke. The other slowed it down, tightening grip, teasing the head. A constant tug-of-war between Stinky’s chaos, Stretch’s sensuality, and Fatso’s hunger.
His hips jerked to one side. Then the other. Then both. He spun around in place, his cock bouncing free as he pulled his sweats down, fully nude now in the pulsing glow of the room. Sweat poured from his brow, his chest, his armpits—but not his sweat anymore. It stank of ghost lust, of otherworldly filth.
"Ooooooh look at 'im dance," Stretch purred, forcing the body to grind against the air, rolling its hips like a stripper in slow motion. "Bet he’s never moved like this in his whole life. Let’s make the slut twirl."
"Nooo, make 'im bounce that fat tummy while he strokes!" Fatso demanded.
The body obeyed both—dancing and stroking, drool dripping off his chin, belly slapping rhythmically as his thighs trembled. The ghosts howled with laughter inside his skull, arguing over every twitch and grind.
"Stroke faster!"
"No—spank the cock! Do it!"
"Slap his fuckin’ belly, it’s wobblin’ so nice!"
SLAP. His palm hit his gut. SLAP. Again. Sweat flew. The mirror reflected a broken thing—eyes glowing different colors, tongue wagging, cock pumping as the voices inside exploded in orgasmic howls.
His body was no longer a man’s. It was a haunted, shared shell, possessed from head to toe, every movement a compromise between three degenerate ghosts.
"Make 'im beg for it!"
"Use his posh little mouth to say something filthy!"
His lips twitched, forming words from nowhere:
"Please… make me cum for my ghost daddies…"
The ghosts roared. Stinky wheezed so hard the body buckled forward. Fatso bounced the hips like a wrecking ball. Stretch twisted the spine until it popped.
Then—
CUM.
The possessed body exploded, ropes of hot, pearly ectoplasm bursting across the mirror and the floor. The orgasm wracked through him for a full thirty seconds, knees shaking, belly jiggling, cock throbbing.
He collapsed—cum-soaked, trembling, twitching, tongue out, mouth locked in a crooked, gooned-out grin.
Silence.
Then Stinky giggled. "I wanna take ‘im shopping like this."
Stretch chuckled. "Might make him dance on a table next time."
Fatso licked his ghostly lips inside the vessel. "Nah… we’re just gettin’ started. Let’s goon 'im up again."
PART 2 ITS MORPHING TIME
Connor’s twitching body lay sprawled on the cum-streaked floor, mouth parted, tongue out, eyes glowing with three ghostly colors. Sweat pooled beneath him. Drool clung to his beard. His bare chest rose and fell like a machine on autopilot.
Inside him, Fatso moaned. Loud. Hungry.
"Time to beef him up, lads. Wanna slap somethin’ juicy while he jerks."
A low gurgle bubbled deep inside the belly. Muscles softened. The once-tight abs pushed outward, bloating into a pillowy, jiggle-heavy dome. Stretch marks popped faintly along the sides as Fatso pumped more girth into the flesh. His pecs ballooned, puffed like overfilled dough. Nipples swelled, darkened, standing out like ghost-thick cherries on top of puffy cakes.
His thighs thickened. His ass grew—two massive, plush orbs you could bounce a dumbbell off. The body twitched as it changed, slapping its own belly, guided by Fatso’s lust.
SLAP. WOBBLE. MOAN.
"Yeeeeaahhh… thicc little Brit goon-puppet. All soft. Full of ghost gravy. Bounce that gut while you stroke, bruv."
He obeyed. Giggling now. Slapping his gut and jerking his cock—thicker now too, but still short. Still waiting.
Then came the stink.
Stinky, buried in his armpits and pores, cackled.
"You got him too bloated, Fatso. Let’s melt the fat off and stink him up proper."
A wave of heat flushed through Connor’s flesh. Sweat poured. Armpits drenched instantly. His chest glistened, glowed, dripped. His thick body steamed like a roast pulled from the oven. The jiggle didn’t go away—it just firmed up. Underneath the sweat, he became solid. Thick. Muscular. Veins popping.
The smell? Rank.
Stinky made it worse—souring the sweat, adding that ripe, funky gym-stink that only came from three-day-old boxer briefs and unwashed armpits. He forced Connor to flex, to stretch, to roll his soaked belly. To dig his hand into his piss-drenched waistband and take a deep sniff.
"Hnnnnnghhh—yeahhh, you reek. You fuckin’ reek. Just like we wanted."
Tongue lolled. Cock twitched. Voice glitched as Stinky puppeted the throat again.
"Gonna stroke meeee sweaty ghost cock—smell it, taste it, drown in it—"
The whole room stank. The mirror fogged. Sweat pooled under his squatting thighs. His thick feet slid in the puddle, toes curling.
Then—
Stretch.
"Move over, pigs. Time to turn this sweaty meatstick into a goddamn polearm."
Ghost energy coiled around Connor’s cock like a snake, squeezing, stretching, pulling. Veins bulged. The head flared. Inch after inch pushed forward, dragging toward his knees, then past them. Balls swung low, pendulous, bloated with ghost slime. The cock bounced against his jiggly abs with every groan.
Stretch puppeted the arms now, forcing them to stroke with grace. Long, slow glides. Palms coated in sweat and pre. The cock was almost elegant in its new length, but the moaning mess above it was anything but.
Connor—gone.
His mouth hung open, voice slurring out in a perfect storm of cock-worship and accent-melting filth:
"Stroke itttt, stiiiink it, make me STRETCH my load—hnnnNNNNgghhh—"
One hand on the shaft.
One hand gripping the back of his sweaty neck, forcing his nose into his armpit.
"Smell it! Taste the stink!"
"Bounce the belly!"
"STROKE THE FUCKING COCK!"
All three screamed, inside and out.
Then—release.
The cum exploded in three directions: onto his chest, across the floor, and high—high enough to hit the light strip. His body jerked, knees buckling, ass jiggling, cock twitching in long, slow throbs.
He collapsed forward, face in a pool of sweat and spunk, tongue stretched out, ass high, body steaming.
Mission complete.
