#cigar lover

[leathermasterjerry]

Daddy in full gear, the black leather white shirt formal look... not to keep it formal with you, boy:-)

[swappetf11]

The first time David Whitaker tried to go undercover in his own company, he wore a ten-dollar polo from a strip mall, khaki pants a size too tight, and an ill-fitting baseball cap he found in the back seat of his driver’s car. He looked like a man playing dress-up—more sitcom character than sanitation technician.

Still, he tried.

He showed up at the Midlands BioWaste Division unannounced, with a fake name, a fabricated work order, and a cheap badge that looked real if you didn’t look too long. His assistant, Andrew, had arranged it all—found a makeup artist to darken his skin slightly, widen his nose with putty, even add faint calluses to his palms using silicone. The wig was glued down with care, short and curly, and he’d grown out just enough facial hair to pass for a bearded guy who didn’t quite keep up with his grooming.

When he walked in that morning, he believed—deeply—that he could pass.

“Hey, new guy,” one of the crew had barked. “You lost or something?” David gave a tight smile, trying to adjust his voice. “Nah, man. I’m supposed to be with Tony’s team?” The other man squinted. “You got a whole-ass camera crew followin’ you?”

“No,” David said quickly. “Just… orientation. Transfer from another plant.”

But someone was already pulling out their phone. Someone else muttered, “That look like Mr. Whitaker to you?” and then, louder, “Yo, isn’t that the CEO dude?”

The prosthetics had taken four hours to apply.

They lasted twelve minutes.

David didn’t make it past the safety training room. He’d barely sat down before a supervisor recognized the shape of his jaw, the cadence of his voice, the way he walked with his hands half-clenched like he always did on investor calls.

By noon, the whole floor knew.

He had to call security—not to remove anyone, but to extract himself.

That night, sitting shirtless in his penthouse, scrubbing adhesive from his cheeks with industrial remover, David stared at himself in the mirror.

It wasn’t just that he had failed. It was that who he was was un-hideable. He had crafted a life so specific, so visible, so perfectly elite, that no disguise—no matter how well done—could ever let him fade.

“I don’t want to play pretend,” he said aloud, to no one.

He wanted something real. Something where he didn’t have to act like a different person. He wanted to become one.

That’s when he made the call.

Two weeks later, in a nondescript facility under a NovaGro lab in Raleigh, he stood in a concrete chamber lined with biometric locks and fiber-optic panels.

Alina, head of Transformation Ops, met him with a tablet and a thick file. Her eyes flicked down to the bruises still faint on his cheek from removing the nose prosthetic too quickly.

“You’re sure?” she asked. “This isn’t reversible. Not in the short-term. It’ll be full integration. Your body, brain, endocrine system, vocal cords, memories—will all take on the template of the subject.”

“I’m not interested in partial,” David replied, already pulling off his tailored jacket. “No cameras. No makeup. I want a life that’s not mine. I want to feel what it is to be them.”

Alina nodded. “We ran compatibility scans. Based on your baseline metrics, there’s one candidate we believe will give you the most extreme—and instructive—contrast.”

She tapped a file and turned the screen toward him.

Jamal T. Thompson.

David stared at the photo. Then another. And another.

Sweat glistening down heavy shoulders. A grin that curled upward only on one side. Southern-born. Grew up in a single-bedroom home with four siblings. Works waste ops. Likes basketball, black-and-milds, homemade biscuits. Gay, proudly. And solid. Stocky. Compact like a brawler. Loud laugh. Tattoos up both arms.

The file scrolled, showing more pictures, video clips, audio samples.

David leaned closer, watching the way Jamal’s body moved, the way he talked with his hands, the ease with which he leaned into his own life.

David whispered, almost surprised at himself, “He’s… perfect.”

“We thought so,” Alina said. “You’ll be his twin. Not just in body. But in culture, behavior, hunger, and temperament. You’ll feel what he feels. Desire what he desires. You won’t just know what it’s like to be him. For a time… you will be him.”

David nodded slowly. “Then let’s begin.”

This time, there’d be no wig. No latex. No cheap accent. This time, he’d disappear entirely.

And when he came back?

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, ozone, and engine grease. David stood on the metal platform in nothing but a black cotton robe, arms outstretched like he was about to be crucified. Overhead, a dozen articulated scanner arms moved around his body, flashing beams of blue light across his skin, taking full biometric and skeletal reads.

He’d already shaved—everywhere. Head, face, groin, chest, legs. They needed a blank canvas. His scalp felt raw, almost vulnerable. His jawline, now completely exposed, looked sharper than he remembered. Alina had noted that with a slight smirk.

“You’re going to miss that cleft chin,” she said, scrolling through readouts. “Jamal’s got a softer jaw. You’ll be chewing differently. Speaking differently. Swallowing’s going to feel odd at first, especially with the shift in tongue thickness and palate height.”

David just nodded. “I’m ready.”

“You say that now,” she muttered.

The table rose with a hydraulic hiss, angling him backward. Soft cuffs secured his ankles and wrists. His heart began to race—not from fear, exactly, but the kind of adrenaline he hadn’t felt since his Series B pitch fifteen years ago.

A nurse dabbed his temples with cold gel. “You’ll be under in sixty seconds. Just focus on what you’re doing this for.” “I am,” he said quietly. “I built this company with people like Jamal on the ground floor. I need to know what it really cost them.”

The IV slid in. The lights dimmed.

Warmth hit him first—a heavy, smothering warmth, like waking up beneath a lead blanket soaked in sweat. His limbs felt thick, like they were submerged in syrup. He tried to roll to one side and couldn’t—his body didn’t move how it used to. Muscles responded, but not with the sharp, clean coordination he knew. These were denser muscles. Bulkier. Slower. The joints flexed differently.

David’s eyelids peeled open with effort. The ceiling was low. Concrete, unfinished. A fan spun lazily above, stirring air that smelled like antiseptic, cocoa butter, and… funk. His own funk. That realization hit somewhere deep in his groin.

“Good morning,” came a voice. A man in slate gray scrubs stepped into view, tablet in hand. His badge read Technician HERNANDEZ.

David grunted.

The voice that came out wasn’t his. It was deep. Resonant. With a Southern rasp to it. It rumbled through his chest and vibrated at the base of his skull.

“Yeah…” Hernandez chuckled. “She’s calibrating. That’s yours now.”

Another tech appeared. A Black woman with long braids and a no-nonsense air. “Vitals holding. Let’s start full integration.”

David felt the soft weight of a robe over his body. His hands rested across his belly. Or rather—Jamal’s belly. Round, heavy, firm with thick muscle and a layer of fat. He lifted one hand slowly.

The skin was deep brown. The fingers thick. The knuckles worn. A callus sat below the ring finger—decades of hard grip. The nails were blunt and imperfect. Hair dusted the back of the hand. A dark tattoo curled along the wrist: BLESSED, in bold gothic font.

“Try wiggling your toes for me,” Hernandez said.

David shifted. The sensation was dull at first, then overwhelming. His feet were broad—flat. The soles ached even as he flexed them. He had never felt such pressure just from lying down.

“That’s all you,” the woman said. “Your new feet. Years of concrete floors in those. No arches. When you stand, you’re gonna walk wider, heavier. You carry weight differently now. Thighs rub. Calves thick. Your center of gravity’s lower, further forward.”

David grunted again.

“You’re sedated slightly,” Hernandez said. “Not fully. Just to keep the memory integration smooth. You’ll feel flashes. Desires. The sound of your new laugh. How you like your eggs. Let that stuff settle naturally.”

David nodded. Or tried to. His neck was thick. When he lifted his head, the weight of it shocked him. His traps tensed automatically—meatier now. It wasn’t pain. Just… density.

“Go slow,” the woman murmured. “Gettin’ up’s gonna feel like moving furniture inside your skin.”

David flexed his abs—only they weren’t abs. They were thick slabs of core muscle padded by soft fat. He felt the roll bunch and shift as he leaned forward. The robe stretched.

“Take a look at your chest,” Hernandez said.

He did. Broad pecs—soft but firm—hung heavy. His nipples were darker, thicker, surrounded by curly hair. He reached up and felt his beard. Coarse. Damp with sweat. It connected to thick sideburns and a tight fade that met a shaved neckline. The skin of his scalp was different too—more sensitive.

“Can you speak for us?” the woman asked.

David licked his lips. They were full. When he parted them, his tongue felt wide and heavy. He blinked, then rasped, “Mornin’.”

Even he startled at the sound. The accent. The rhythm. It didn’t just sound like someone else. It felt like someone else.

“Good,” Hernandez said. “Nice and gravelly. You’ll smooth out by lunch.”

David took a slow breath. Beneath the robe, he could feel his balls resting heavy against his thighs. His cock hung warm and wide, resting sideways. He could feel it in a way he never had before—every swing, every pulse.

“Alright, Jamal,” the woman said, eyes warm but focused. “Let’s sit up.”

He gripped the sides of the bed. His hands grunted against the rails. Arms strained—thicker now, tattooed, bunched with strength. His belly compressed as he sat forward. Sweat beaded along the curve of his spine.

He sat up.

And groaned—his own sound now, low and guttural.

“We’ll walk you through standing in a moment,” Hernandez said. “But first… we’ll give you a few minutes to explore. You need to understand what you’re working with.”

They both stepped back.

David looked down at his body—his new body—and let out a long, shaky breath.

He reached for the belt at the front of his robe. His pulse ticked faster. The cotton was damp against his chest. His new scent rose from under the fabric—earthy, sour, familiar in a way he didn’t want to admit yet.

He loosened the knot.

And slowly, deliberately, opened the robe.

The cotton robe fell open.

Heat rushed up from his groin like steam from a manhole. His chest expanded on instinct, like he had to make room for what he was seeing—what he was now.

His belly rose in a wide dome, a stretch of rich, dark skin mottled with freckles and a faded scar to the left of his navel. His pecs were thick, meaty, each with a dark nipple that pointed slightly outward, ringed in curly hair. A gold chain rested in the valley between them. His thighs spread wide beneath him, black and powerful, touching from mid-groin to knee. A stretch mark shimmered silver on one hip.

David’s breath caught as his eyes dropped lower.

His cock was half-hard already, wide at the base and resting sideways against his thigh, heavy and uncut. The skin there was darker, smoother. It looked used to friction. Behind it, his balls hung low and full, twitching slightly from the breeze of the overhead fan. His pubic hair was trimmed—more from wear than grooming—and sweat made it glisten.

Jesus… that’s mine now.

He swallowed. His new tongue rubbed differently inside his mouth. Focus. Just breathe.

He reached out slowly with both hands. The palms trembled—calloused, broader than his old ones. When his fingers touched his belly, a shock ran up his spine.

“Shit,” he muttered. But the voice came out with drawl and grit: “Shiit…” The way the ‘i’ curled and the ‘t’ dropped… it wasn’t David’s accent anymore. That was Jamal’s.

He tried again, softly, talking to himself. “C’mon now. Ain’t no reason to be actin’ scared.”

What the fuck did I just say? The voice didn’t sound scared at all. It sounded practiced, like this body already knew how to calm itself down. The cadence. The rhythm. It wasn’t rehearsed. It just was. He touched his pec next. It gave under pressure, but bounced when he let go. Then he pressed in again—thicker, weightier than anything he’d ever had on his chest. His fingers lingered on his nipple. It twitched.

David exhaled through his nose. “Damn, this body don’t miss. Who even talks like that? He did now, apparently.

He ran both hands over his stomach, feeling the way it sat. Solid. Not flat like before, but strong. He twisted a little, watching how it folded, how the weight shifted. When he bent forward, his thighs compressed his balls in a way that made his whole lower body twitch. Not pain. Just… mass. Heat. Life.

The scent from under his arms hit him next—cocoa butter and musk, something faintly like peppercorn and sun. That’s me now. I smell like that. I carry that.

He reached up and touched his face. The beard was dense, wiry. A little damp. He rubbed his cheek, watching the way his hand looked against his own skin. Dark on dark. Real.

He stood.

Slow. Careful.

His thighs tensed to lift him, and he immediately felt his center of balance had changed. Wider hips, heavier ass. His feet settled flat on the floor with a dull thud. Toes splayed wide, grounding him.

“Feel like I gotta… walk different,” he murmured.

The woman tech nodded. “You do. You’ll lead with the thighs now. Your knees don’t lock the same. And your back’s shaped to lean just slightly forward.”

David stepped once. Then twice. The robe swayed open behind him.

He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck, chuckling low. “Damn. I walk like my ass just told the room I showed up.”

The accent was undeniable now. Southern. Smooth. Deep in the throat. That wasn’t David pretending. That was Jamal, rising to the surface

“Vitals holding,” Hernandez said. “Integration is stabilizing. You’re thinking like David but moving and speaking like Jamal. Your subconscious is doing its job.”

David scratched his chest absently. “This is wild… I ain’t never— I mean—I’ve never felt this grounded in my body. It’s like… I take up space now. People gonna look at me different.”

“That’s the point,” the woman murmured.

David turned and looked at her. “Yeah… yeah, I see that.”

His hand brushed his cock, shifting it to the left side out of habit. It bounced slightly, swaying from the base. He caught himself smiling.

“This man got a lot goin’ on,” he laughed.

[ikaikaaaron]

[briarsnstogies]

I was the most requested caddie at the club. Every round with me included all the bourbon, cigars, and nut busting you wanted. I had a two holes no waiting policy, always swallowed, and never complained about the big ones being too big. I made 200k in tips and shafts and drivers alone.

[jeephendrix]

Long Live the Queen Forbidden Fruit Oscuro 6 x 60

[nw7us]

LFD for the win! This is the 8.5-inch-long, 60-ring-size La Flor Dominicana Double Digger Maduro for the afternoon. About a 90 minute cigar... or maybe 120 minutes, if you savor it.

The flavors are well blended, woody cocoa, getting richer as you get further in. Plenty of smoke, and not obnoxious to non-smokers. This is a top favorite of mine, and I love the nicotine hit.

This is a serious commitment. Have you had one? What do you think about it?

[t-esther]

Glock 21 Gen5 45 auto comes with beam,scope,2mags and a box of 30ammo $400 tap in

[pullonthatcigar]