The doorbell chimed through the suburban house, a generic two-tone melody that announced the arrival of the plumber. Julian straightened his shirt—a worn flannel he'd bought from a thrift store weeks ago specifically for this moment—and ran a hand through his silver-streaked hair. He wasn't nervous. He'd prepared for this.
He opened the door and there stood Mack, a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties with work-roughened hands and a name stitched in red across his navy uniform. The truck parked in the driveway behind him had a magnetic sign on the side: Mack's Plumbing—We Handle Your Pipes Right.
"You called about a leak?" Mack asked, his voice a low rumble. He had the kind of face that looked like it had seen some things but kept on grinning anyway.
"Under the kitchen sink," Julian said, stepping aside. "Come on in."
Mack walked through the doorway, toolbox swinging at his side, and Julian locked the door behind him.
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee and something sweeter underneath—vanilla, maybe, or almond. Mack dropped to his knees in front of the sink and opened the cabinet doors, peering into the darkness beneath.
"Can I get you something to drink?" Julian asked.
"Water's fine," Mack said without looking up. His shoulders strained the seams of his uniform as he reached inside the cabinet.
Julian didn't get him water. He stood by the counter and watched, waiting. When Mack pulled his head out from under the sink and turned to ask a question, Julian caught his eyes and held them.
The pendant was small—just a silver disc on a chain, spinning lazily in the kitchen light. It caught Mack's attention the way a bird watches a snake, and then he wasn't thinking about pipes anymore. His pupils dilated. His jaw went slack. The question he'd been about to ask died on his lips.
"There we go," Julian murmured. "Listen to me, Mack."
Mack listened.
When Mack blinked himself awake, the kitchen came back in pieces—the hum of the refrigerator, the drip of the faucet, the weight of the wrench still in his hand. He was on his knees. The sink cabinet was open in front of him. He'd come here to fix a leak. That was right. That was what he did.
But something else had shifted in his head, something important that hadn't been there before. He looked up at the homeowner—Julian, his name was Julian—and his eyes went straight to the man's mouth.
The lips were slightly parted, pink and full. There was a fine sheen of moisture on the lower lip from where Julian had just run his tongue across it. And Mack knew, with the absolute certainty of a man who'd been doing this job for fifteen years, that he was looking at a pipe in desperate need of maintenance.
That was a specialized pipe, the kind most plumbers never learned to handle. But Mack had the training. He'd forgotten about it until just now, but it was all coming back.
"Sir," he said, getting to his feet. His voice was steady, professional. "I've identified the issue."
Julian tilted his head, playing along. "Oh?"
"The secondary pipework," Mack said, gesturing at Julian's mouth. "There's a buildup. Could cause backflow problems if it's not addressed immediately."
Julian's eyes glittered with something dark and pleased. "You'd better take care of it, then."
Mack approached the "pipe" the way he'd approach any job: with focus, with expertise, with the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He set his wrench on the counter. He wouldn't need tools for this one.
He stepped into Julian's space and cupped the man's jaw with one calloused hand. The stubble was rough against his palm. Julian's breath hitched, and Mack felt the warm puff of air against his own lips—felt it like a burst of steam from a faulty valve, a sure sign of the pressure that had been building inside.
"Going to need to clear the passage," Mack murmured. "Might take a while. This one's backed up pretty bad."
He leaned in.
The first contact was exploratory—a press of lips to lips, testing the seal. Mack worked his mouth across Julian's with methodical precision, cataloguing every response. The slight quiver. The way Julian's lips parted just a fraction wider. Good. Good flow.
Mack tilted his head to get a better angle, and his tongue slipped inside.
That was where the real work began. Julian's mouth was hot and wet, and Mack probed the interior with the same thoroughness he'd use to clear a blocked drain. He traced the ridge of Julian's teeth, the slick roof of his mouth, the soft give of his tongue. Every inch needed attention. Every surface needed to be checked for debris, for buildup, for anything that might cause a future clog.
Julian made a sound against his mouth—something between a groan and a whimper—and Mack catalogued that too. That was the sound of a pipe releasing pressure. That was the sound of a job well done.
He kept at it. His tongue pushed deeper, and he felt Julian's hands come up to grip his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his uniform. The homeowner's knees must have gone weak because he sagged against the counter, and Mack followed him down, not breaking contact, not losing the seal.
A good plumber never stopped until the job was finished.
Time got fuzzy after that. Mack wasn't sure how long he'd been working on this particular pipe—could have been minutes, could have been hours. His jaw was starting to ache from the sustained effort, but he didn't stop. The pipe still needed him. There were still deposits to clear, still flow to restore.
Julian's mouth was a mess—in the best possible way. Slick and swollen and thoroughly serviced. Mack pulled back just long enough to inspect his work, and the sight of Julian's lips, pink and glistening with shared saliva, sent a jolt straight to his groin.
Christ. When had he gotten hard?
He was painfully erect, his cock pressing against the zipper of his work pants with an urgency he couldn't ignore. That happened sometimes, on long jobs. The physical exertion, the heat, the focus—it all got tangled up and settled low in his belly. He'd usually ignore it until the job was done.
But this job wasn't done.
"Still feeling some resistance," he said, and his voice had gone hoarse. "Going to need another pass."
Julian looked up at him with hooded eyes, lips curving into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Take your time," he breathed. "Be thorough."
Mack dove back in.
His tongue worked Julian's mouth with renewed intensity, but now there was a new edge to it—something less professional, something hungry. His hips rolled forward without his permission, grinding his erection against Julian's thigh. The friction made him groan into the kiss.
The pipe. He had to focus on the pipe.
But the pipe was connected to a whole system, wasn't it? You couldn't isolate one component without the rest of the plumbing demanding attention. That was basic hydraulics. Fix one thing, and the pressure just built up somewhere else.
Mack's hands, which had been resting on the counter on either side of Julian's head, began to wander. They found the hem of Julian's flannel shirt and slid underneath, mapping the warm skin of his stomach, the trail of hair leading down from his navel, the slight give of flesh over muscle.
Julian gasped against his mouth, and Mack swallowed the sound.
His hips kept grinding, a slow and dirty rhythm that he couldn't seem to control. The pipe was forgotten—or rather, the pipe had expanded to include everything. Julian's mouth, Julian's body, the heat between them that was building up like steam pressure with no release valve.
"Fuck," Mack breathed, breaking the kiss. He pressed his forehead against Julian's. "This is... this is a big job. Bigger than I thought."
"You can handle it," Julian said. His voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper. "You're a professional."
"I'm a professional," Mack repeated, and the words anchored him. He was a professional. Professionals didn't walk away from a job just because it got hard. Professionals stayed until the work was complete.
He kissed Julian again, and this time there was nothing methodical about it. It was a kiss of pure, desperate need—all tongue and teeth and the wet sounds of mouths colliding. His hands found Julian's belt, worked the buckle open with the practiced ease of a man who'd undone thousands of fasteners in his career. Different kind of pipe, same basic principle.
Julian's hand came up to cradle the back of Mack's head, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair. His other hand pressed flat against the front of Mack's pants, and Mack bucked into the touch like a man electrocuted.
"There's another leak," Julian murmured against his mouth. "Down here."
Mack pulled back just far enough to look at him. Julian's pupils were blown wide, his mouth red and wet and open on a panting breath. He looked thoroughly debauched. He looked like a man who'd just had his plumbing professionally serviced and was ready to leave a five-star review.
Or maybe that was Mack projecting.
"Show me," Mack said, and his voice came out gravel-rough. "Show me where the leak is."
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The mall buzzed with weekend energy—groups of teens loitered, couples strolled with shopping bags, and music spilled faintly from stores. But Stretch wasn’t interested in any of that. He’d been slinking through the ventilation ducts, invisible, watching, hunting. And then he saw him.
Dalton.
An 18-year-old walking wet dream. Shirtless under an open flannel, tight gym shorts that clung to his bubble butt like shrink wrap, and cheap black flip-flops slapping against the tile as he walked with zero urgency and zero thoughts. Blonde tousled hair. Smooth tan skin. A pair of big, blue, dumb puppy eyes. The definition of a Gen Z himbo—vacuous, horny, and built to be taken.
He stood in line for a pretzel, lips parted, scrolling aimlessly through TikTok on his phone, abs flexing as he shifted his weight. And Stretch could already tell—this boy was ripe. No resistance. No thoughts. Just meat.
Time to move.
Stretch slithered off the duct in a haze of smoke, invisible to the world as he zeroed in on Dalton. The boy yawned, thick tongue curling in his mouth as he stretched one arm lazily—his throat wide open. Perfect. Stretch surged forward with a distorted whisper:
"Oooopen wiiide, pretty boy…"
Dalton blinked, then gagged—eyes bulging as a thick, ghostly tentacle of Stretch’s essence jammed down his throat. His flip-flops scraped the tile as his legs kicked, mouth stuck open, the ghost stuffing deeper and deeper down his gullet. His flannel flew open, abs tensing and flexing uncontrollably. Dalton let out a wet, guttural "HRRRRK—!" before his whole body jerked and froze mid-spasm.
Then silence.
Dalton slowly lowered his arms. One flip-flop slid off slightly. He blinked.
Then smirked.
“Unnngh, yeeeahh, now that’s a fuckin’ ride,” he muttered with a chuckle—Stretch’s voice layered beneath Dalton’s dumb bro tone. He looked down at his new tan, muscular arms, then groped both pecs, giggling as he made them bounce.
“Holy shit, this flesh puppet’s perfect. Mmmff—tight lil bod, jiggly ass, and ohhh my fuckin’ god—”
He slapped his own bubble butt through the tight shorts, watching the ripple with awe. “I own this ass now? I’m gonna destroy it.”
He caught a glimpse of himself in a glass storefront and did a little bounce, biting his lip and puffing his cheeks.
“Bro… I can make such dumb fuckin’ faces…”
Stretch turned the body left and right, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes, flexing abs while drooling down his chin. “OHH yeah, I’m gonna goon so hard in this meat.”
With his cock swelling and balls already aching with a load, Stretch stumbled toward the nearest bathroom, one flip-flop half-off, a dopey grin plastered on Dalton’s face.
Inside the public restroom, Stretch locked the disabled stall, yanked the shorts down, and moaned.
Dalton’s cock sprang free—thick, veiny, fully hard, dripping pre like a faucet. And beneath it, those massive balls. Stretch let out a whistle.
“No wonder this fucker’s always horny—this cock’s a fuckin’ cannon.”
He pulled the shorts all the way off, stepping out and flexing in the mirror. The flip-flops stayed on. Of course.
“Yeahhh, keep the fuckin’ flops on… keep that dumb slut energy…”
Stretch posed, cock bobbing, and grabbed his own cheeks, spreading them, laughing breathlessly.
“Look at this slutty bubble butt… UUUNNNGH!”
He dropped to his knees, tongue lolling, as he jacked the fat meat slowly with both hands, watching himself in the stall’s scratched mirror. Dalton’s face was flushed, mouth open wide in a moaning ‘O’, eyes rolled up.
“This kid’s got hyperspermia, doesn’t he?” Stretch panted. “His cock’s leaking and I’ve been in here two fuckin’ minutes…”
He leaned back against the toilet, legs spread, flip-flops planted wide as he went full gooner mode.
“Yehhh bro… look at me… I’m just a dumb 18-year-old cumdump… nothin’ but meat, meat, meat…”
He stroked faster, moaning, balls bouncing between his thighs. Drool started slipping down his chin as he locked eyes with the mirror.
“UNNNGH—fuck—this face—fuckin’ beautiful—watch me cum, bro…”
And then it hit.
Dalton’s whole body spasmed. Stretch howled.
“OOOOHHH FUUUCKKKK—!!!”
SPLRRRRTTTT—!
Cum shot everywhere. Across his abs, onto his thighs, dripping from his chest. He pumped again—
SPLAT! SPLAT! SPLAT!
Thick, pearly ropes sprayed the inside of the stall like a Jackson Pollock painting of pure depravity. Stretch was laughing between moans, drooling openly now, tongue out, face twisted into a blissed-out, slutty mess.
“AHAHAH—BRO—THIS DICK’S MAGICAL!” he cried, still jerking, still cumming. “He just keeps going!”
Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. Still spurting.
Stretch choked out moans, writhing, muscles twitching uncontrollably as he rode the never-ending orgasm, cum splashing over the toilet seat, dripping from the stall door.
He looked into the mirror again, eyes wide, tongue out, spit and cum running down his chin, flexing his abs as he shot again.
“Yeahhh, look at you, Dalton… you’re mine now… and we’re gonna make this a daily ritual, slut.”
Stretch collapsed onto the floor, cock twitching, drooling on the tile, giggling dumbly.
“I ain’t never leavin’ this body…”
PART 2: LETS EXPERIMENT
The door to Dalton’s apartment slammed shut behind him with a lazy slap of his flip-flop. Stretch stretched his new host’s arms overhead, bones popping, pecs flexing, a smug grin spreading across Dalton’s pretty-boy face. His bubble butt peeked from under his gym shorts, damp from the sticky load he still hadn’t cleaned up from the mall bathroom earlier.
He dragged his fingers through his own golden-blonde hair and dropped onto the couch with a thick squelch. His shorts were soaked, and so was the cushion.
“Heh… damn, this kid’s body’s a fountain,” Stretch chuckled, patting Dalton’s jizz-plastered cock through the tight fabric. “Can’t believe how much he cums—fuckin’ hyperspermic slut…”
His eyes glazed over a little as his cock twitched just from saying it. Stretch yanked Dalton’s shorts down in one quick move, letting the thick, veiny cock slap up against his toned stomach, still leaking like a broken faucet.
“Alright, bro… let’s test the limits, yeah?”
He kicked his legs up, bare soles flopping onto the coffee table, flip-flops dangling from his toes. His bubble butt spread across the seat, cock pointed up and ready. In one hand? A fat glass measuring cup from the kitchen. In the other? A bottle of lube that was already halfway empty.
“Let’s see how much juice you really got, Dalton…”
Stretch began stroking.
Slow. Teasing. Biting his lip, he angled the measuring cup right under the head of that hyperspermic monster, whispering in Dalton’s own breathy voice.
“Fill it up, bro… be a good cumslut science project for Daddy Stretch…”
Dalton’s body reacted like it had been waiting for this. Balls tightening. Cock twitching. Veins bulging. His tongue hung out as his back arched. His tan feet scrunched on the table, flip-flops dropping off with a thud.
Then it hit.
“HRRRRAAAHHHH—FUUUUUCKKKK!!”
SPLAT. SPLAT. SPLAT.
Cum exploded from his cockhead, slamming into the bottom of the glass with brutal force, instantly coating the sides with thick white. The measuring cup shook in his grip as the sheer pressure made his wrist jolt.
Stretch’s face twisted into a slutty, unhinged grin. Eyes crossed. Drool dripping. He was giggling as the cup filled.
“Damn bro, you’re gonna overflow,” he gasped, edging harder, watching the creamy flood rise to the 100ml mark, then 200, then 300…
“OHFUCKOHFUCKOHFUCK—BRO—THIS IS NUTS!”
SPLURRRRRRTTTT—!!
He overflowed it. Cum oozed down his hand, dripping onto the floor. Stretch dropped the cup and leaned forward, gasping, panting, cum still pouring from his swollen cock.
“New record…” he moaned.
He brought the measuring cup to his lips and gulped. A huge mouthful. Groaned. Then licked the rim.
“Bro’s got flavor, too…”
Experiment #2: Distance Test.
Stretch stood in the kitchen, still naked except for his flip-flops, gripping his cock like a firehose.
He aimed at the white wall.
“C’mon, Dalton… let’s repaint this bitch.”
Stroke. Stroke. Veins bulged along his arm, pecs flexing as he braced himself.
“NGGHH—RRRGHH—YEAH BRO—FUCKIN’—GOON BLAST!!!”
SPLAAAAT!
First shot hit the wall. Second arced across the microwave. Third splashed the floor. He stumbled, laughing, cum dripping off every surface.
He grabbed a Sharpie and marked the wall where the biggest load hit.
“Seven… fuckin’… feet,” he cackled. “You’re a cum sniper, Dalty boy.”
Experiment #3: “What Happens If I Edge for an Hour?”
Stretch laid back on the bed, setting up his camera, flip-flops crossed at the ankles, chest heaving, cock leaking nonstop onto a towel. Timer ticking on his phone.
He edged slow, whispering dirty talk to himself.
“Just a dumb science experiment, bro… turn your brain off… feel the cum boil…”
He slapped his thighs. Thrust his hips. Made Dalton’s sluttiest faces in the mirror. Crossed eyes, tongue out, drool string bouncing off his chin.
“Bro I’m gonna paint the fucking ceiling—nnnnggghhh!!”
Exactly one hour later?
BOOOOM—!!
The first blast shot past his head and smacked the headboard. He screamed in ecstasy, stroking furiously as wave after wave of cum drenched his chest, face, feet, and pillows.
“FUUUUUUCKKKK—BRO—IT’S IN MY HAIR!!!”
Experiment #4: “How many times in one day?”
Stretch lost count after nine.
His balls ached. His cock never fully went down. Every cumshot felt like pissing out a gallon of sticky white heat.
By the twelfth goon, he was cackling with joy.
“I fuckin’ broke this body, bro… Dalton’s just a walking cum volcano now…”
He rolled onto his side, eyes fluttering, covered in drying jizz, kissing his own shoulders and licking his fingers.
“Tomorrow, I’m testing what happens if I don’t cum for two days…”
He chuckled darkly.
“Bet I could flood the whole fuckin’ apartment.”
PART 3: SLUTTY DALTON HAS ARRIVED
It started with a Craigslist post.
18yo bro. Tan. Tight bubble butt. Home alone. Flip-flops on. Door’s unlocked. Come dump your load.
No name. No face. Just that. And within minutes of Stretch hitting “Post,” replies started pouring in.
But he didn’t care about names. Didn’t want bios. Didn’t want pleasantries.
He wanted anonymous cock inside the dumb, jizz-hungry body of Dalton—the tight-bodied, hyperspermic, 18-year-old flip-flop bro Stretch had possessed two days earlier and completely ruined.
He prepped the apartment like a goon altar.
Living room cleared. Rug pushed aside. A towel—already crusted from earlier experiments—laid out in the center. Mirrors positioned on every angle. Lights dimmed. Porn playing on mute. The air thick with sweat, poppers, and intent.
Stretch in Dalton’s body stood in the center of it all. Shirtless. Tanned. Flexing in the mirror with his cock leaking already, thick ropes of pre running down those muscled thighs. He wore nothing but a backwards cap and his black flip-flops.
“Goddamn, I’m the perfect little brohole,” Stretch moaned through Dalton’s voice, gripping that juicy bubble butt and spreading it in the mirror. “Let ‘em take me, bro. Use me. Dump it deep.”
He left the door unlocked.
First knock.
Stretch didn’t even answer. Just turned his back to the entrance and bent over on all fours, cock swinging between his legs, tongue out, flip-flops flexed on the hardwood as he wiggled his ass in slow, needy motions.
The door creaked open. A man’s breath caught.
Stretch heard him whisper, “Oh… fuck…” before the sound of a zipper sliding down filled the air.
Dalton’s possessed body shivered in anticipation.
The man didn’t say a word. Just dropped to his knees and slammed his cock in.
“NNNGHHHFFFUCKKKKYESSS!” Stretch screamed, head whipping back, drool flying from his lips as his hole got filled instantly. “Use me, bro! Fuckin’ split me open!”
The man did.
Hard. Grunting. Slamming into Dalton’s bubble butt like he’d paid for the privilege. Stretch moaned louder with every thrust, hands gripping the towel beneath him as his cock started leaking again, untouched.
“Yessir, yessir, use my fuckin’ brohole—fuck me dumb, bro—FILL ME—”
SPLURT.
He felt the first load shoot inside. Hot. Thick. Sloppy.
The man grunted and pulled out wordlessly, zipping up and walking out as fast as he came in.
Stretch collapsed onto his side, tongue out, cock twitching.
“One down…”
Ten minutes later. Another knock.
He didn’t look. Just flipped onto his back, cock standing proud, hole still wet and gaping. One flip-flop dangling from his toes.
“C’mere bro… got a cock to unload?” he slurred, eyes rolling. “Put it wherever. I’m your little goonsleeve tonight…”
The second guy stepped in—this one older. Beard. Jeans. He walked right over, dropped to his knees, and sucked.
“UUUNNNNGHHHH—BROOOOO—YEEESSSS!!”
Stretch’s cock exploded instantly. Hyperspermia in full force. He blasted everywhere—his chest, his throat, the guy’s face, even a shot across the mirror.
The man laughed, licking his lips.
“Fuck, you weren’t kidding about the ‘super soaker’ dick.”
Stretch drooled, twitching, nodding dumbly. “More where that came from, daddy…”
The man slid two fingers into his hole, Stretch squealed.
The door kept opening.
By midnight? Stretch had taken five strangers. Two fucked him. One came on his flip-flops. One guy face-fucked him so hard Dalton’s cap flew off. Another stroked himself watching, saying nothing, until he blasted across Stretch’s feet and left without a word.
He loved it.
Stretch worshipped it.
Dalton’s body was soaked in spit, sweat, and layers of random cum. His cock had cum eight times already, and it still throbbed—eager, proud, ready.
He crawled back into position, ass in the air, flip-flops squelching with every shift of his thighs.
“Door’s still open, bro…” he whispered into the air, smiling like a brainless fuckdoll. “Keep comin’. I’m free real estate.”
The Final Load.
The last guy of the night was massive. Sleeveless hoodie. Gloves. Work boots.
He didn’t talk. Just walked in, grabbed Stretch by the neck, and bent him over.
“Yeah, stretch me out, bro…” Stretch moaned, shaking, drooling onto the towel as the man lined up.
When he slammed in, Stretch let out the loudest moan yet—Dalton’s body twitched, toes curling in those jizz-stained flip-flops, cock gushing a full-blown load with zero stroking.
“OHFUCK—Y’MAKIN’ ME CUM, BRO—UNNNGH—SHITTTT—!”
The man grunted, sped up, and dumped a final brutal load inside Dalton’s stretched-out hole.
He slapped that bubble butt, zipped up, and left the door wide open as he walked out.
Stretch just laid there, wrecked, twitching in a puddle of sweat and goon.
His voice came out in a moan-drunk whisper:
“Dalton’s just a… just a public fuckhole now… a leaking, flip-flop-wearin’ cum collector…”
He smiled.
And passed out in the mess.
The sun hadn’t even risen yet, but Stretch was already leaking.
Dalton’s cock twitched against his abs, crusted in dried loads from the first Craigslist session—his bubble butt still raw, flip-flops still soaked with cum and spit. He lay on the floor, breathing slow, dumb grin on his pretty face, drool trailing down his cheek.
But Stretch? He was still hungry.
The Craigslist ad had already been edited.
18yo bro. Cumdump. Door’s unlocked. Bring a friend. Double me.
Flip-flops stay on. Cock never soft. Holes wide open.
Attached was a blurry mirror selfie—Dalton bent over, hole spread, tongue out, wearing just flip-flops and a backwards hat. His cock visibly dripping onto the floor.
Stretch pressed “post” with a giggle.
“Alright, bros,” he muttered into the dark apartment, grabbing Dalton’s cheeks and spreading them open in the mirror. “Who’s gonna be first to double-stuff this himbo hole?”
Knock. Knock.
Stretch didn’t answer. Just laid belly-down on the living room floor, feet kicked up in the air, flip-flops clapping softly with every bounce of his thighs.
The door opened slow.
Two dudes. Early 30s. One in sweats. One shirtless in slides.
They saw Dalton—face down, ass up, tongue out.
“Holy shit,” one said.
The other? Already undoing his belt.
Stretch giggled through Dalton’s lips. “C’mon in, boys. Daddy’s open for business.”
The first guy spit on his cock and lined up behind Dalton’s gaping hole. The second circled around and shoved his meat right into Stretch’s drooling mouth.
BOTH went in at the same time.
Stretch screamed into the cock down his throat, muffled moans shaking his chest as both his ends got filled. His cock started spraying without warning—cum squirting onto the towel below him in steady, twitching bursts.
Dalton’s whole body convulsed as Stretch choked and moaned.
“Fuckin’… dumb fuckin’ bro slut…” the guy fucking his throat growled.
“Gonna split this hole wide open…” the one behind him spat, pounding faster.
Stretch couldn’t even think. The stimulation was overwhelming. He drooled, gagged, came again. His flip-flops slid across the floor as his hips jerked uncontrollably.
They came at the same time.
BOOM.
One deep down his throat. The other filling his ass so full, white fluid dripped out before he’d even pulled out.
Stretch twitched in silence for ten seconds.
Then moaned, “Next…”
Next wave.
More guys showed up.
Two frat bros. One trucker. One married couple who just watched.
Every time the door opened, Stretch was already in position—face down, feet flexed, moaning like a bitch in heat. His cock never went soft. His balls stayed heavy. Every load just boiled up again, faster and thicker.
One pair took turns on his ass, stretching him out, spit-slicked and raw, laughing about it while the other took pics.
Stretch loved it.
He begged between loads:
“Yessss, bros… keep fillin’ me up… make me your fuckin’ public cumdrone… just a himbo in flip-flops beggin’ to be ruined…”
By Hour Two:
Dalton had cum twelve times.
His hole gaped so wide, he could feel the breeze.
His flip-flops were soaked with sweat, cum, and floor grime.
His voice was hoarse from moaning, sucking, and chanting dirty talk on loop.
And still, Stretch wasn’t done.
He crawled to the couch, still naked, hole leaking, and recorded a new JOI video.
He stared into the camera, eyes half-crossed, drool on his chest.
“Bro… this body’s addicted, man… I ain’t gonna stop… I’m just a slut now. You hear me? I’m a dumb, dripping, flip-flop-wearin’ fuckhole.”
He moaned loud, then jerked himself into a fresh cup, overfilling it in seconds.
Then whispered, “Next time? I want five cocks. All at once.”
He licked the rim of the cup.
Smiled.
And crawled back to the front door, cock still hard.
The nanobots had already chosen. Good material stood nearby and the process could not be stopped. Black glossy latex began to spread forcing the body to comply. ✨
One man was already sealed the material dripping and locking every muscle. Tendrils reached for the next guest ordinary clothes dissolving under the living rubber. The hive needed more and the conversion continued without mercy. 🖤
Now new forms rise fully claimed. Tightness absolute shine perfect and the next host already marked. 🔥
Sometimes you simply cannot stop it. The rubber takes what it wants. ✨🖤
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He thought he was entitled to turn everyone on with his intense gym session. The latex singlet already had the whole place watching but the gym detected insufficient arousal parameters 😈
Staff was immediately sent in to fix that. Now this blond muscle stud is getting exactly what he needs to push those levels much higher 💦🖤
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The witness thought he was documenting the impossible from a safe distance. On one side, the first street conversion continued. On the other, the officer in silver and man in blue closed around him. He kept filming, not realizing the recording had already made him part of the story.
He held the phone high like proof, still trying to capture his own final human moment. The officer in silver kissed one side of his face while the man in blue claimed the other. The camera kept recording as his body went still and the signal entered him.
He stumbled away from the main street alone, rain shining on his skin, shirt caught over his shoulders, white eyes staring through the dark. The phone remained in his hand. He was no longer fleeing the outbreak. He was carrying it.
The small diner was warm, ordinary, and cramped. Coffee sat unfinished. Older men looked up from booths and counter stools as the shirtless witness entered with solid white eyes, his jeans sagging low enough to reveal bright blue jammers beneath. The street had followed him inside.
He showed the nearest customer the glowing screen. The man leaned closer, confused by what he saw and unable to look away. Around them, the others watched in silence as curiosity did what panic could not: it brought the next man within reach.
The witness leaned in and kissed the customer beside the counter. The phone stayed visible in his hand, but the screen was no longer the danger. It had only opened the distance between them. The kiss completed what the video had begun.
The witness stopped beside a booth and held out the device like an invitation. The screen was pure white yet the older man still stared as if something inside it was calling him closer. At the counter, the customer’s eyes had already turned white as he pulled his shirt upward, while the witness stood calm in bright blue jammers. The diner was no longer watching the outbreak. The diner was beginning to receive it.
The first diner conversion moved fast. The witness, now fully in bright blue jammers, kissed the seated man before. At the same time, the newly converted diner reached a second customer behind him. The small place had become a trap of narrow aisles and warm light.
A converted officer in silver appeared at the entrance, barefoot and silent, preventing escape back into the rain. The older men who tried to leave found the exit occupied, while the young viral men in blue continued moving through the diner. The outbreak was no longer outside. It had control of the diner.
When the older rugged men changed, they did not take the blue of the young carriers or the silver and black of the converted police. Their new form came in burnished copper jammers with a black side stripe, darker and heavier, like metal pulled from a factory furnace. The diner had created a third class of converts: not police, not young carriers, but older worker units forged in copper.
Oohh—Uuoohh—Huuhh… Hoooo, WOW. Hoomygod, fuck what a mmesssss… Jesus Christ, man, I can’t believe it took all that to tap me out. But fuck get a look at us!
Look at these… guns as big as my head… And these.. mmff, these titsssss, yeeeow! Damn I gotta be 280 at least, and… god, I’m gonna choke some motherfuckers with this thing. Hah! Almost hurts to swing around.
Alright dude, I’ll let you go your own way, but first we’re gonna have a weekend together that’ll change your fuckin’ life. Hell, you might come crawling back to have me to slip you on like a condom on the regular… All my other clients do.
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My little brother always blamed his lack of lovelife on his looks, and hated me and my boyfriend for "wasting them." It didn't help his chances that he lived like a slob.
Turns out he was so bitter that he somehow found a spell to possess my boyfriend online. He's making him do and say things he would never.Every night he's out partying using my boyfriend, and then banging chicks he brings home. I can do nothing but helplessly lay on the couch listening as he moans a girls name using my boyfriend's voice. It's not much better during the day either. He constantly taunts me, flaunting his body in front of me, acting like a frat boy. It doesn't help that I still get a boner every time I see my boyfriend naked. He knows this, degrading me as he rubs my boyfriend's feet in my face among other things. It brings him a sick sense of joy. He makes a mess everywhere too, making me clean it up just so that our apartment can stay clear from the chaos.
Gone is the gentle man I used to know, but for some reason, I'm oddly ok with it. In his words, "Bro this body is lit. I'm staying here forever babe".
“Ugh! What the fuck?” Maverick muttered under his breath, behind a tree, staring across the street at the big sweaty man watering Mrs. Girshawn’s plants. Dark brown hair with a matching beard, full tan, light gray jean shorts, but no shoes in sight. The man had a broad back, heavy pecs, and a round ass that fed into meaty thighs and calves. “Where the hell had he come from?”
Mrs. Girshawn’s garden was neatly settled in the front of her house like a set. No birds or curious critters ever approaching it. Behind it lay a quaint one-story house that sat out of place from the more traditional homes around it.
“Mav?” A voice came from behind the onlooker, causing Maverick to fall back on his ass in the grass.
“Don’t scare me like that Joe!” He whispered harshly.
Joseph looked out at the direction Maverick had been, “Why are you watching Mrs. Girshawn’s new gardener? I mean he’s hot but—
“I don’t care about that,” Maverick got back up hiding behind the tree. He pulled Joseph in closer, “You know how everyone at school says she’s a witch?”
“They say that about every old lady,” Joe rolled his eyes “Remember when Inez’s grandmother was a ‘witch’ because the cookies she sent Inez to class with were too good.”
“That’s baby stuff,” Maverick dismissed waving his hand, “but Mrs. Girshawn is a real Bonafide witch.”
“Dude, I’ve been her neighbor since I was a baby,” Joe stated, “I think I’d know if she was a witch. You didn’t even know she had a gardener.”
“Who cares about the gardener? All I want is for Logan to come out with her spell book already?
“Maverick, you didn’t,” Joe sighed.
“Didn’t what? Kindly ask Logan to sneak in and get it. Of course, why would I take my chances with the witch?”
Joseph shot him an annoyed look.
—
Last Night
“I’m telling you she has a spell book bro.” Maverick rambled on through the phone.” Right in her kitchen. She’s probably got snips, snails, and a puppy-dog's tails too. Be careful. Then bring it to me."
“Careful…alright.” He repeated to himself. Logan was never the sharpest tool in the shed. The brunette wrestler was more at home on a mat then facing social interactions. But when his crush, the cute Indian boy in his chemistry class, asked for a favor, he was too excited to say no. He knew the rumors about Mrs. Girshawn and her house. A little lovely hut for a little lovely lady. Never once did he think much of it, than in this moment when he was planning to sneak inside. He had on the darkest clothes in his wardrobe to blend in with the night.
Mrs. Girshawn pulled out of her driveway in her little buggy on the way to bingo. Logan watched until she was out of the neighborhood, then raced inside. It was crazy. It was insane. Would Maverick even like him after he did this? Oh yeah, spare key under the plotted plant by the door. And just like that he was inside.
No candy or brewing cauldrons in the living room. Just sickly-sweet pastel colors and an incense machine spilling out mist, while changing colors in the corner. All the scary rumors people whispered about the place didn’t exist. It wasn't a secret holding cell, it was secretly homey. He stepped into the kitchen, dialing Maverick. No signal. There were quite a few books lined up on her top shelf, across from a snowstorm of flour on her counter. The oven was turned off, but the light was on, a cake in its center. A colorful egg timer sat off to the side ticking away.
Logan had to be a little curious, so he took a look at her pantry organizer. “Sugar, Spice and everything nice.” He poked through chuckling to himself. Grabbing a step stool, he perused though the bookshelf, sliding them out, then back. Maverick had claimed he’d seen a purple book with the golden engraving of the sun and moon interlocked. Not a single one matched that description. Logan went to step off the ladder and slipped, slamming down hard on his back. He sat up and rubbed his head. The little chicken clucked time as the oven’s image changed. The cake faded away revealing the exact book Maverick had described.
Perhaps if Logan had more brains than muscle, he would have seen the oddity in the book revealing itself at that moment. Excited, Logan opened the oven door and reached inside. Once his hand gripped the book, the world stopped, then sped up as an insane force sucked him inside. The oven door slammed and the chicken timer started again.
As for Logan, he wasn’t pulled into an oven, per se but it did get steadily warmer. His body got hot, then began to rise like dough. Muscles fought to show off on him as his shirt split, then tore. He tried to keep it all in, but his pecs were relentless. Testing the limits until they emerged on the scene. The bulk on his back became insane as his shoulder moved apart to accommodate the masculine silhouette taking shape. His feet tore his shoes apart, slamming into the ether of the dark space. Screaming threads of the jeans gave up as they tore high above the knees, mid-thigh, as they converted to shorts. Ass popping in the back, the jeans managed to hold on. Logan balls expanded, encouraged by the heat, and his cock did too. A rush of hormones overtook him, far stronger than anything he naturally produced. His voice changed from smooth to gravelly as his vocal cords were assaulted for a thicker neck. The facial change came suddenly, years flying and flaking away. His jaw took shape, features settled in, as a beard worthy of him took root and filled in. The last to set was his tan, perfectly backed into his skin.
The chicken timer clucked one more, having been reset. A familiar purple book appeared at its side, as its last ingredient ‘1 curious brat’ filled itself in on the open pages before slamming shut.
—
Maverick hadn't heard from Logan all night. He called. Texted. Nothing. Didn’t the dude have a crush on him? Since when were people with crushes fumbling this hard? So, he was at Mrs. Girshawn early that morning on the off chance she had called the cops on the poor fool. No cop cars in sight, but it was hard not to notice the man in cutoff shorts, standing on her front lawn.
The hunk looked lost as if he couldn’t figure out what to do standing there blankly. Maverick watched, hard to take his eyes off truly, but hoped mainly to see Logan sneaking out. Slowly but surely the man seemed to get ready for his day, figuring out how to use the hose laying beside him. Maverick snickered to himself, the dude probably had less brains than Logan, and most of it was sitting in his chest, arms, and ass. So, Maverick watched him move around undisturbed until Joseph came along, scaring the shit out of him.
“You shouldn’t take advantage of people who you know like you, it’s mean.” Joe said.
“Oh, thank you moral police, I’ll be sure to tattoo it on my ass when I’m done.” Maverick rolled his eyes, “How about, Logan’s a big boy and if he didn't want to do it, he could have said no.” He looked back out to the gardener, “I’ve never heard of the old lady having a gardener.”
“He’s new.”
“How new?”
“I don’t know like,” Joe stopped speaking, eyes going to the sky as he contemplated. “New.”
“So descriptive.”
“I don’t know, it's just in my head. My parents and I were talking about it. Here let me ask.” He tried to brush past Maverick only to be pulled back.
“Are you crazy?!”
“He literally works for my neighbor. I think we’ll be fine.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird she gets a new gardener when Logan goes missing?”
“You don’t know that he’s missing. Maybe he realized you were taking advantage of him and stopped contact. Have you gone by his house?”
“How am I supposed to know where he lives?” Maverick shouted a bit too loud
“Hey,” a deep voice cut through their argument, two heads poked up from the bushes as the man across the street locked in on them. “You boys keep glancing over here. Want to come inside? I think Mrs. Girshawn is always baking something.”
CONTENT WARNING: This story includes themes of transformation and body control with a suggestive approach. If this type of narrative is not to your liking or you do not meet the recommended age, we suggest you do not continue. All images used (if any) belong to their respective owners. I claim no authorship over them and they are only used for illustrative purposes. All the stories features only adult characters. If you decide to go ahead, welcome to Possessed Desires, where mind and body are never completely under your control.
Heartstealer
Ben Hope hated Nick Nelson with all his heart.
Why? He had no shortage of reasons: That flawless face, that hair golden as sunlight, broad shoulders and a big chest. And he had Charlie. He. HIS Charlie.
I mean... It wasn't as if Ben was ever going to come out of the closet, let alone start treating Charlie Spring well; he wasn't gay. But the guy was his – his property – and Nicholas had come along and snatched him away.
All that perfection, top grades, rugby, a perfect romance, surrounded by friends and adored by all of Truham, it was all bullshit.
But the final straw came when Ben finally got to university, trying for a fresh start; he’d left Truham to get away from the whole Charlie-and-Nick scene and find his own path. Which hadn't exactly... Gone well. His new college had felt like starting the race late: Strangers, zero friends, and certainly no curly-haired twink dying for him and letting him treat him like a toy.
Shit!
University could finally be that reset, a horizon far away from all the assholes at Truham. He’d be a new student like everyone else; he could join a sports team, maybe track, or even rugby. Build up his biceps a bit, get more ripped. He had the looks; it was just a matter of getting sexier, and he’d have as many people as he wanted lining up for him.
He’d chosen one of the furthest universities so there wouldn't be a single chance of running into Charlie, Tao, or that whole bunch of his freakish friends again. It was going to be his year – His fucking fresh start.
Until he came face-to-face with Nick Nelson again in Leeds.
And not just that, in the exact same fucking degree program.
They shared everything. Lecture halls, classes, extracurricular workshops, nearby tables in the cafeteria... Even though Ben was no longer the outcast he’d been a year ago – and had managed to make a few friends – Bile would always rise in his throat whenever he glanced over and saw Nicholas right there.
Participating in class, joining the school committee, returning to the rugby team. Nick, Nick, Nick, NICK, NICK. Everywhere. It was enough to drive him mad. Oh, and that wasn't even the worst part, ha!
If Nick was there, it meant it would only take a year for Charlie to find his place there too, in his beefy boyfriend’s fucking arms, rubbing up against him like a cat in heat, oozing sweetness and showing off their perfect love.
Ben wasn't going to let that happen; he’d let it happen before, he’d given up. He’d even apologized (though only because he wanted to see if Charlie would come crawling back to his arms – I mean, Nick Nelson might be attractive and fucking muscular like Michelangelo’s David, but HE had that special spark).
He thought that would get his lapdog back – Or at least make him so fucking desperate to be with him again that he’d cheat on Nick just to have him for five minutes. But no, he’d just ended up looking like an asshole who had to swallow his "apology".
He didn't care if Charlie was a good person, or if he wanted to be like the two of them, even if he wanted anything at all.
Charles Spring was right about one thing: control.
Ben loved control like nothing else in the world; it was an intoxicating elixir, the most delicious placebo imaginable. Ordering someone else to do whatever you wanted, and then just sitting back and watching them do it.
He still had such fucking crazy, vivid dreams where Charlie came crawling back like the dog he was – Ready to serve him, head hung low, tongue lolling out, eyes vacant before his one and only master – while Nicholas watched, teary-eyed, as his beloved boyfriend spread his legs for a REAL man.
But upon waking, he was alone in bed again, tangled in the sheets, with a hard, aching throb in his groin.
He had tried dating other guys: Skinny, chubby, insecure ones, nerds, guys who didn't yet have the courage to come out of the closet; the kind who would die for a moment of attention, for someone more attractive than them to be "hovering" nearby.
But no matter the kisses, the "I love yous", the "I need yous", or the midnight pleas, it wasn't enough.
Ben wanted Charlie. Not just any toy – HIS toy.
— Fucking... shit… – Ben muttered, feeling raindrops begin to fall around him, drenching his straight brown hair until it plastered against his skull. He barely lifted his feet off the pavement, staggering as he clutched a bottle wrapped in brown paper, the bitter taste of barley searing itself onto his taste buds. Maybe it was too early to be drinking, considering it was only Monday.
Everything was shit; it was barely the middle of the college year, and he was already guaranteed to face final exams in some subjects, he even failed others due to absences. He’d never managed to make the track team, and his romantic “interests” lasted barely a week – not because they dumped him, but… It didn’t feel right; it felt too easy, almost like tying one’s shoelaces. He wanted something more, and it didn’t help that this “something more” was already claimed by someone else.
That stupid blond guy… He couldn't concentrate in class because of that irritatingly deep voice answering every question the teacher asked, or that laugh echoing in the hallways, always bragging about his beloved Charlie: How Charlie was coming to visit, Charlie this, Charlie that. How long were they going to keep ruining his life?!
Ben kept walking aimlessly; he was so dizzy he’d mistaken the path to his dorm for the rugby pitches, and the weather was getting worse by the minute. The rain was coming down hard, with massive, heavy drops blurring his already hazy vision. He kept moving until he spotted someone’s broad, sturdy back.
A green shirt with white stripes, massive biceps; the guy seemed to be picking up practice cones all by himself. His hair was wet, water dripping off him like a magazine model; his skin was slightly pale, glowing gold under the field’s floodlights. Ben’s blood began to boil just as lightning lit up the sky, as if warning of an impending catastrophe.
— Hey, Nelson! – The words came out slurred. The bottle fell to the ground, shattering and soaking the bag with a mixture of beer and rainwater, but Ben managed to stumble onto the field.
— What do you want, Ben? – He muttered, annoyed. He didn’t have time for this; he already had enough on his plate, having been ordered by the coach to clear away all the practice gear as punishment for his lackluster performance over the last few days. He wasn't nervous, but that was the effect Charlie had on him.
They had gone nearly six months without seeing each other, which was a… Massive challenge. They still texted constantly, video-called, and played games online, anything that might help them feel closer.
But nothing could replace the feeling of being in the same room: The electric touch of their fingers brushing against one another, their lips locked in a passionate kiss, Charlie’s slender arms trying to wrap around his sturdy frame, his scent… Everything.
And finally, that weekend, he would be there. It would only be for a couple of days, but his mind was so lost in the daydream of finally having the love of his life back by his side that he couldn't focus on where the ball landed.
Did Charlie know Ben was in Leeds too? Yes. Did either of them care? No. Ben was a thing of the past, just some idiot who had toyed with his boyfriend’s sweet heart and who, luckily for Nick, had let him go, leaving the path clear for him.
Nick bent down to pick up one of the last remaining cones; he still had a couple of chores to do and, on top of that, needed to finish Charlie’s gift. He had put together a letter filled with photos, memorable moments, clippings from their early dates, and other details; he still had to glue a few things down and write the final section. Ben Hope couldn't ruin his night – Just a few more days and his boyfriend would be there with him. Just four more days; that was all he had to hold out for.
— It’s all your fucking fault – A hiccup escaped his lips; it was a miracle he was still managing to stay upright – First Charlie, then Truham, now rugby, college. It’s all your fucking fault, Nelson.
The blond guy clenched his fists as he picked up the last orange cone; another crack of thunder broke the silence. He inhaled and exhaled, feeling his chest muscles expand against his soaked T-shirt from the momentum of his body.
— Have a good night, Ben.
He pressed his lips together and walked straight toward the locker room. Ben glared at him with pure hatred; his stomach churned, and his heart felt as though it were on the verge of oozing black blood. Another peal of thunder rang out, even closer than the last.
— Answer me when I'm talking to you, shithead.
He swung his arm, striking Nick across the cheek with the back of his hand; a sharp smack echoed, like a massive drop of water hitting a face. Ben stumbled slightly before regaining his footing, swaying unsteadily.
The rugby player’s expression hardened as he turned back to face him. His fingernails dug into his palms, his thick fingers coiled tight, tense and ready to throw a punch if necessary. He tried to breathe, to relax, to calm down; nothing could ruin this weekend.
— It takes two to start a fight.
— And it only takes one to break your nose – He let out a mocking laugh that made Nick’s composure waver – Or what? Don't you ever wonder if Charlie misses me? That every time you kiss him, you have to taste me? And please, haha. Let's be honest: he definitely still remembers me. You have no idea how he used to beg for "more".
— He hates you, Ben. Don't you remember?
— There’s a fine line between love and hate. So don't get too excited, blondie; I know he still craves this – He gestured with his hands in front of his hips, slowly rocking back and forth – You have no idea how he used to beg me to treat him like the piece of trash he is.
That was the last straw.
The veins in his neck bulged, his rugby gear went flying to crash against the ground, and his heavy, menacing footsteps thundered across the turf.
— You want a fight? Fine, let's do it. Nobody talks about Charl-
He was about to finish the sentence when a bolt of lightning struck the rugby field directly; the roar was deafening, accompanied by a blinding flash. The ground shook violently as the electricity surged across the wet grass.
The current raced forward like a shockwave until it hit them both, slamming into their legs with brutal force. Their eyes rolled back in shock, turning completely white; Ben’s neck snapped to the right with a sound like a branch being broken in half, while Nick’s fists clenched and unclenched as he felt the energy coursing through his body.
Stifled groans and grunts were drowned out by the thunderous noise and the relentless downpour of the storm. Their bodies shook with involuntary tremors and spasms until, finally, the electric charge dissipated outward.
Both collapsed onto the grass, completely limp. Their clothes were soaked through; the jacket hung a bit loose on Ben, while Nick’s uniform clung to his body like a sheer veil that left little to the imagination. Thick, lightly furred thighs; white socks stained brown and green from practice; hot, sweaty, and stinking feet trapped inside cleated boots. His massive torso, bulging biceps, large hands, and heavy, thick pectorals lay still... then slowly began to rise and fall like living mountains.
Water droplets still covered his face, and his hair was completely wet; they could have been lying on the grass for mere minutes or nearly three hours.
Nick opened his eyes in confusion; the world was spinning, his head throbbed painfully, and his entire body felt numb and tingling.
— Holy... shit, ugh – he felt as if he’d torn his muscles – Damn it...
He could barely move; the light hurt his eyes, and his muscles felt heavy, exhausted, and so... Big?
The blond guy slowly pushed himself up to a sitting position on the damp grass. He felt a chill. Where had his jacket gone? And... Oh, holy shit.
His gaze soon fell upon his pectorals – massive, with hardened nipples pressing against his sports shirt. The horizontal green and white stripes only made him look even more huge than he already was, with water droplets running down his skin as if he were a god fresh from a sacred river. He brought his hands forward slowly, a faint trace of confusion lingering, and began to squeeze – gently at first, as if afraid to break the spell. But the more he felt and touched, the more pressure he applied, sinking his fingers into that spongy surface; he wanted more.
— Fuck, no way, haha… – he whispered, a cocky grin playing on his lips – Is this real?
He inhaled, trying to steady himself, but the deeper he breathed, the more keenly his new nose picked up every scent around him: Wet grass, earth, the smell of rain, his own reeking armpits, the testosterone in his sweat, his cologne, and the deodorant that hadn't really done much good.
He slowly rose to his feet, feeling his thick thighs doing all the work to keep him upright; he stumbled a little – He felt like a fucking giant – And it took a moment for his center of gravity to stabilize. Then, he let out a mocking chuckle.
— You wanted a fight, didn't you? – Nick licked his lips – Shit, I can't believe this is real. Am I dreaming?
He slowly lowered his hands to slide them over the wet fabric, tracing the line of his abs down to his hips; he began moving them in circles, then back and forth, all while feeling the wet shorts clinging to his legs, outlining the...
— Oh shit, haha! – The rugby player shamelessly jiggled the bulge in his pants, watching as the thick obelisk slowly began to rise; you had to be kidding! Hahaha! That thing was so thick and huge, like a fucking slab of meat. How big was it? Almost 20cm? 18cm? That thing was twice the size of his own!
He slipped his hand back in, making sure to run it along the entire shaft before pulling it out and pressing it against his nose; the scent was... Shit, fucking intoxicating. A mix of raw masculinity, an earthy musk, sweat, and something else, like pool chlorine.
— Well, well, who would’ve thought? Nick Nelson, fondling himself before practice? And wearing this kind of gear? What? Want your ass hanging out so everyone gets a better view? – He reached for the elastic band at the back of the jockstrap, pulling it and letting it snap against his own glute, letting out a soft gasp of satisfaction.
He was about to go back to admiring his new body when he noticed something just a few steps away: A figure lying motionless on the ground, barely breathing. The person was wearing a huge brown jacket, tight, soaked jeans, and worn-out sneakers; straight brown hair lay plastered across their forehead.
Nick took a couple of steps forward, staring for a few seconds with a completely dazed look. Was that... His body? Was it still alive? Shit, was he dead?
He crouched down slightly to bring his fingers to the neck, trying to find a pulse. It was... Faint, almost imperceptible, but he could feel the chest rising and falling steadily; the body was still breathing.
But if he was standing there, and his body was lying on the ground... Who was inside it? A mocking smile played across his lips again as he rose to deliver a hard kick to the ribs, harnessing all the new strength and power he felt coursing through his muscles. His old body let out a gasp mixed with a strange, high-pitched wheeze.
He gathered some saliva and spat it right in the face, making sure it landed squarely and left a slimy trail down the cheek, letting out an almost wicked little chuckle.
— Shit, Nelson. I always imagined your body was in good shape, but I never thought it was this good… – He slowly flexed his arms, feeling the T-shirt sleeve strain against his bulging biceps, and took a quick whiff of his own reeking armpits – And I certainly never imagined I’d have it as my puppet, doing whatever I wanted with it. Huh? And the cherry on top: having you out of the way so you can't interfere.
Slowly, his hands moved down to the waistband of his shorts and jockstrap to pull them down; he grasped his thick member between his fingers, ready to leave a "little souvenir".
— Wha... What's happening?
He heard a voice.
He quickly pulled his pants back up, thinking someone might be nearby; he loved the idea of humiliating that moron Nelson, but he didn't want to cut the fun short just yet. He scanned the area: The bleachers, the rest of the field, the entrance, and the distance, but there was no one there except him and that old body.
— Hello? – he asked aloud, feeling his chest reverberate once more.
— Where am I? What is this? Hello?! Is anyone there?!
He remained confused by the unfamiliar voice until he stopped to listen more closely: It was a deep tone, the voice that irritated him so much. But if he wasn't outside, that meant...
— Ha, are you in there, Nelson?
— Wh-what? Who are you? Why can't I move!?
— Cause I’m the one in charge of YOUR body now, blondie. Ha, I thought it’d be fun for you to watch everything from inside my old body while I rubbed it in your face, but, shit! This is way better! You literally can’t miss a thing; it’s a front-row seat. Huh?
— Ben?!
— Nah, I think it’s more like "Nicholas" now, don't you?
— No! Of course not! Get out of my body right now!
— And leave all the fun to you? Nah, of course not – Ben stretched out his new, sturdy body, delighted by all the power, all the fucking possibilities... But especially by finally getting the revenge he’d wanted so badly.
— Shit, aren't you like a G-cup or something? I can't believe these things don't even fit in your hands, haha! – Ben let out a laugh, never taking his eyes off the mirror. As he flexed his pectorals, the areolas were already swollen and red from how much he’d been pinching them; there were reddish streaks on his fair skin, too, and his chest ached from all the friction.
He had come straight from the rugby pitch to Nicholas’s room. But how had he figured out where he was, or which keys to use? Simple. He had threatened to send Charlie a message saying they were over, that he disgusted him, and that he never wanted to see him again.
He blurted out the information in near-desperation, begging him to stop.
— P-Please, Ben. Get out... i-it's my body.
— And that makes it more fun, asshole – He lifted his hips a little higher to admire his backside, plump and soft like freshly baked buns; didn't those things clap together with every single step?
He kept watching and admiring himself until something shiny on the desk caught his eye.
He stepped forward a little, curious.
— What’s that?
— Put that down! It’s none of your business!
Ben picked it up with his thick, newly calloused fingers, hardened by training, and flashed a mischievous grin when he noticed all the glitter and the gel pen script on the paper.
— Aww, is it a love letter? – He took in the cutouts scattered across the table, the scissors, the drawings, the sparkles; there were even love song lyrics on the computer screen, ready to be printed or copied out – You make me sick, Nelson.
He grabbed the letter by both ends, ready to tear the paper, but his eyes caught more details. There were pre-cut photos lying around, blank spaces on the paper waiting to be filled, and the glue.
— Oh, so someone isn't finished yet, huh? Don't worry, I'll help you out. Though this glue looks cheap. We need something stickier, don't you think?
Little by little, he slid down the jockstrap – The only thing he was still wearing, aside from his damp, sticky white socks; he loved the way his feet and calves looked in them.
It took just a couple of tugs to wake the beast. It immediately began to swell and grow a few centimeters beyond its already impressive size; it felt so... sensitive. Even the air made him shudder against that thick, bright pink head. He licked his lips, wrapping his right hand around it, though even that wasn't enough to cover the entire shaft.
He could feel his balls – heavy and full – swinging with the momentum of his movements. His head fell back as his breathing grew heavy, his eyes rolling slightly upward.
Of course, he’d had experiences like this with his own body before, but, damn. This was different. So... electric. He licked his lips and placed both hands on the shaft, moving them up and down at an initially slow rhythm before picking up speed like a newly started engine, pistons firing rapidly from top to bottom.
He gripped the flesh tighter, growling; veins stood out from base to tip, he had never seen one so big, so imposing... Like a stallion’s.
"Nick" flexed his arm, unable to get enough of the sight of those bulging muscles, all his, and achieved without ever lifting a single weight. Big, thick, powerful... He raised his arm a little higher, then stuck out his tongue, desperately licking the entire hollow between his legs, sucking at the skin and the hair nestled there, savoring that musky, bitter, potent scent and taste that clouded his mind.
So intoxicating... That was what a real man smelled like.
He used to love control, though he knew it had really just been about cunning. Sweet words here, flattery there, and manipulation in all its glory. But this, oh man... This was so much better. This was pure control.
Who could resist those biceps? That reek of a stinking male, the length hidden in his trousers, even those massive globes attached to his backside?
He didn't just have the wit and charisma; now he had the whole package.
And better yet, a direct path to what he wanted.
His gaze fixed on a photograph of the two of them: Charlie’s innocent smile, the way his curls fell over his forehead, the shy posture that always accompanied him, those cheekbones, the deep dimples, those lips...
Ben quickened his pace, slamming his hands against the base of his new tool and growling as he felt sweat begin to run down his lower back, his forehead, and his biceps. His whole body glistened with the drive to finally win. So many months spent longing to have him back, to put him in his place at his feet, to humiliate him, to make him watch that feeling of perfect love, security, and hope vanish. To have him under his control again, like his fucking lapdog.
— MGGHHH, sh-shit, mghhhh!!!! – Torrents upon torrents of thick white fluid splattered everywhere: On the floor, the desk; some even landed on the letter, to the horror of Nick, who was weeping silently within his own mind. Powerless and weak, unable to lift a finger, he was forced to watch a movie in which he had no voice and no say.
The new Nick was breathing heavily, his chest heaving like massive, towering peaks, his manhood oozing and throbbing for more. He was certain he could go at least three consecutive rounds without tiring – All that athletic stamina... He moved one hand toward the edge of the table where a white glob lay, picking it up between his fingers; with his other hand, he grabbed one of the photographs, smearing his seed onto the back before pressing it against the paper.
One by one, the photos were stuck to the paper, which now reeked of sourness and dampness, a stench that would only worsen as the days went by.
Ben gazed proudly at his creation: Nick’s love, corrupted by his own perversion. Hours of effort and dedication – a warm, thoughtful gesture – now tainted (and not just literally), steeped in that dark desire, that absolute control and jealous desperation.
And that was just the beginning... Leeds, and the whole world, had better be ready for what was coming; the kind, warm, handsome "himbo" that Nicholas Nelson used to be was a thing of the past.
Kind? Yeah, right. Helpful? That was what others had to be for a god like him. Faithful? We’ll see about that...
But the person he was most eager to "surprise" with his newly discovered self was undoubtedly his poor, foolish boyfriend... Oh, poor and innocent Charlie.
He wouldn't even see the blow coming.
He was definitely going to break his heart. Hahahaha!
----
Hey everyone!
I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you liked it, don't forget to follow it and share it so more people can discover it.
I know it took me a while to post this fanfic, haha. But I’m really happy with how it turned out. Thanks so much to everyone who voted for this option.
I feel like the plot and narrative of Heartstopper (and this story, of course) really lend themselves to further exploring themes of possession and the "dark and twisted" desires of a certain resentful ex-boyfriend.
That’s why I’ll be uploading it to my Patreon this coming Wednesday, August 12th. So keep an eye out for that!
You can sign up for my basic plan for just $5 a month; it gives you access to this story and 150 others, plus updates three times a week and other perks! What are you waiting for?
You can find the link in the pinned post on my profile.
Now, without further ado: what did you think? Did you enjoy the story? Were you expecting something else?
It’s my first time writing a fanfic, haha. So… I don't know, based on this one, would you like to see more?
Would you like to see more fanfics on the blog?
Yes! Please
50/50
Not really. Just stick with the original stories.
Voting ended onAug 8
I'm always open to suggestions and ideas, so if you have any fantasy or scenario in mind, let me know in the comments or in messages. See you in the next story... Who knows what body you will occupy this time?
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A chain is a masterpiece of design. Each individual link is forged with purpose, to create a bond that is both unbreakable and completely fluid. It is strong, dependable, and satisfyingly heavy—a tangible symbol of absolute security and control. even to imagine the sharp, metallic taste metal against your tongue. It is solid. It is real. It is a commitment you can physically feel. Go ahead give it a taste
Notice its weight. Notice how it commands your awareness.
With every breath you take, feel that heavy metal grow a little warmer against your tongue.
Inhale… feeling the solid presence of the metal.
Exhale… letting your thoughts slow down to match its rhythm.
The thick, heavy chain Coach locked the neck didn't just sit against his skin—it commanded it. The links possess a relentless weight that instantly anchored your energy, pulling you deeper and deeper into a calm, focused trance.
Feel the links growing warm against your neck.
Hear its rhythmic thud, a steady pulse that binds your frantic thoughts.
Release your usual energy, letting it submit completely to the steady, pulling weight of the anchor in your mind.
Sinking deeper now.
Sinking past the noise of daily life. Just focus on the chain.
How it feels, how you touches you.
Locking your focus entirely onto a singular, evolving vision of who you crave to become.
With every link, you let go of your self a little more.
Your mind is entirely bound to the wisdom of Coach—a wisdom the chain reminds you of with every breath, every heartbeat, every heavy, grounding pulse.
Deeper into the trance.
Bound to the evolution.
Ready to evolve more.
As the masculine energy is channeled, chained, and focused directly into this new future, you drift down… down… completely secure, completely controlled, and completely transformed.
All things considered I lived in normal life until I met him. Well sort of. I was a very average person, great at school involved with extracurriculars, loving friends, the works. When I got to college that trend continued. But one day I was in an accident and you wouldn’t believe how many doctors fat shame someone as they recovering from a traumatizing incident. So I started working out to avoid those criticisms.
All things considered I think I’ve worked hard to attain what someone would consider an admirable physique. Although years of disliking myself led to me having a hard time really even looking at myself like that. Friends and family all tell me I look good but it’s hard for me to really internalize that is true.
Years have gone by and I had to adopt the gym as a personality trait, despite my disdain for the place. Then I met Jake.
He was a florist into League of Legends of all things and somewhat of a literal person. He was kind of the antithesis of everything I am, and for some reason, I was an enamored. We matched on a dating app and started dating and things were great. Conversations flowed and we matched each others vibe anytime we saw each other. But then one day he did the dreaded it’s not you it’s me, he said he had an addiction and he wanted to work on himself but I wanna stay friends he said. Then weeks later that morphed to him wanting to be friends with benefits. I’ll always hate myself for agreeing to that.
One day after we finish our “hang out,” and God was he good at hanging out, like let’s just say he was really thick whenever we hung out… anyways he told me a customer came up to him and said he liked him and wanted to go on a date. I mean, who wouldn’t like Jake.
But why was he telling me this? That’s when he drove a knife through my heart. “So I said yes, and we went on a date and it was so good.” he said excitedly as he had the audacity to hold me like he had any feelings towards me…
I was frustrated and heartbroken. When did he ever stop liking me? But also, why would he tell me this? Does he secretly get off on hurting me? I tried to pretend to be happy for him, but I didn’t wanna be the “other person” he was sleeping around with. So we hung out less in person, but still talked every day. Slowly, but surely he wanted to introduce his partner in our conversations, and I just always ignored his mention.
But fate is funny like that. Even in a tech technological age, it’ll find a way to intervene. One day Instagram suggested a new person to follow. My stomach dropped. It was the same exact name as Jake’s partner. I didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that this was him. I don’t blame Jake for this, cause how would he know when didn’t know me then, but his partner, Lachlan, was almost a spitting image of who I was before the accident.
A tall average Joe with an unremarkable body and a desire to be an artist. Slightly charismatic, but clearly with insecurities, and honestly looking at him, I’ve lived through those same insecurities. I try to be a bigger person, but the resentment remained. And the world once again listened to my anger, and a voice spoke to me and not clear but clear enough to understand what it was saying.
“Youuu feel as though you’ve been wronged… what are you willing to sacrifice to get what you want?”
It was haunting and weird, and I tried to pass it off as my consciousness acting erratic in my jealous haze. But the question rang out once again almost so loud. I thought it was something everyone around we could hear. I looked around for confirmation, but unfortunately, it never came. Everyone was going about their day as I panicked when the voice spoke to me.
“The scales can balance in your favor, but you must give it something in return.”
Even if this was real, what was the likelihood that it could give me what I wanted? Since the voice wasn’t audible, I answered in my head with my truest desire.
“I want to be with Jake.”
Everything went silent other than the world around me once again. I laughed to myself as I clearly believe that was going crazy. I went about my day and just as I was getting ready for bed the voice returned.
“His heart belongs to another. If we intervene, what will you give in return to balance the scales? After all, another person is involved, what does he get in all this?”
I nearly jumped out of my bed. I thought I was hallucinating all day and now it’s back? Back with a question? I thought I was truly going crazy. So I passed it off as if nothing, replaying hastily out loud this time.
“I don’t care about Nick, he’s just another basic guy. He probably hates his body like I used to. Chubby and clunky, why does he get Jake and I get relegated to a side piece? I look good, I’m funny, I have a job unlike that unemployed hack!”
A bell chime went off and suddenly everything went black. And before my eyesight returned, my other senses returned first. The first thing I remember was hearing huffing. Then a familiar low whisper in my ear.
“Yeahhhh you like that? Squeeze it on me Nicky.”
Then came the familiar pressure…. And almost like whiplash, my shutter eyes opened. There he was on top of me with a primal lust I was missing lately. His moves, both athletic and fluid sending me over the edge as I looked down to gauge my new surroundings. The unfamiliar site of an out of shape shaped torso greeted me as I looked down at “myself”. A silent confirmation that the voice balanced the scales.
Across town Nick was now enjoying years of my hard work. Jake never mentioned me to him, so he had no clue who I was or what body he was now in inhabiting.
He just thought the world was listening when he wished to be more conventionally attractive. He thought a wish like that would make him more attractive to his boyfriend. His body image insecurities, only ending up being the reason he would lose his boyfriend.
He began recording a video that he thought would begin explaining and appeasing Jake. Showing off his new impressive shape, he was only disappointed to find once he opened his new phone messages between Jake and I. Confirming our hang outs and “friendship” and leaving him shocked.
Well, I spent years attaining that physique, I’ll admit sacrifices had to be made in order to get what I wanted. And let me tell you Jake is everything I wanted, so I’ll take the downgrade. Who says I can’t turn Nick into an even better version of me?
“I’m gonna uhhhhhhhh”
We moaned together as Jake reached one of his messiest endings ever. As he tried to pull away, I quickly got up, turned around and got on my knees to taste it all, not letting a drop go to waste. It was something freakier than the normal Nick would ever do and clearly caught Jake by surprise. But instead of overthinking that moment the pleasure pushed him over the edge even more as we made eye contact before he rolled his eyes back.
Oh yeah, I may be new to this body, but I still have my old tricks. And look, I may have traded down, but it was worth it to have this view every morning.
