Your shiny pal

Would you say which AI tool you are using?

You found a package in the mail. No return address. Just a small box, plain and unassuming. Inside: a sleek, black rubber singlet. Thin, shiny, and definitely too big for your skinny frame.

But... it does look kind of hot. Weirdly inviting.

Curiosity wins. You step into it, the rubber clinging coolly to your legs. As you pull it up your torso, a strange warmth spreads through your skin. Huh. It’s not as loose as it looked. Actually... it fits better than expected.

Tighter. Filled out. Your fingers pause at the straps, suddenly feeling your chest pushing against the rubber.

You blink. How long have you been standing here? You glance down and almost moan - your pecs are solid now, bulging under the singlet, your abs tight and carved. Your arms have veins. And your face in the mirror… fuck. You're a college jock now. A thick-necked, cocky-looking wrestler type. Your cock twitches in the rubber, the singlet pressing tight against your growing bulge. You flex, just to feel it more. God, you look hot.

But something shifts. You weren’t paying attention. Time's… fuzzy. Your skin itches. Heat blooms across your chest, arms, even your face. You blink, confused, then gasp - coarse hairs sprout from your pecs, crawl up your belly, bloom across your cheeks and jaw.

You claw at the singlet. You try to pull it off, but it clings tighter - like a second skin, glued down over every muscle. What the fuck?

Your voice is deeper now. You sound like a man. A grown man.

Your fingers dig under the straps- it’s fused, like vacuum-sealed. Your biceps strain as you try again. No use. The rubber isn’t just on you. It’s part of you.

You pant. You’re huge now. Thicker. Older. A full-grown, sweaty man with a heavy beard and a dense forest of chest hair poking out above the singlet’s neckline.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours? You lose track. You’re panting, covered in sweat - and hair. Chest, shoulders, forearms, legs - all thick with it. And you’re huge now. Your reflection shows a bearded, bald brute of a man. Probably in your 40s. Muscles like a strongman, veiny and pumped, stretching the rubber thin.

You stare in disbelief. Who is that staring back at you?

Finally… it stops. You breathe heavily, chest rising like a goddamn gorilla’s. The singlet makes soft creaking sounds as you move, your mountainous thighs threatening to tear the seams. It’s not glued anymore. But still skintight.

You tug at it again, groaning at the sheer size of your body. You flex in the mirror, cocky grin forming under your thick beard.

Looks like you’re keeping it.

You weren’t supposed to touch anything. That was rule number one. You’re CIA, after all. Trained for this. Observe, report, extract. No emotion. No mistakes.

But curiosity got the better of you, didn’t it?

The object was pulsing. A black, organic thing sealed in a glass chamber deep inside a lab that shouldn't have existed. The brief said it was alien. Living. A weapon. You leaned closer. You had to see. Then you felt it just a whisper - slick warmth curling around your fingers like it had been waiting. Watching. Wanting.

By the time you looked down, your hand was already gone. In its place: a glistening black coating, wet and alive, crawling up your wrist like a lover's caress.

You tried to pull back, but your body wouldn’t obey. Your suit—the one they issued you for high-clearance fieldwork - began to melt. Not from heat. From inside. Threads unraveled, fabric liquefied, sliding down your skin and exposing more of you to the thing’s embrace.

The goo was inside your sleeves. Down your collar. Under your belt. It was everywhere. You gasped. You shouldn’t be feeling this. Not here. Not now.

But your cock was aching.

The pressure in your mind grew. Thoughts began to blur. Names. Mission parameters. Your own name. All of it - fading. Drowned beneath the rhythmic pulse of the thing inside you. It wasn’t just touching you anymore. It was rewriting you.

You were vanishing. And it felt so good.

Your skin tingled as the goo hardened. No seams. No wrinkles. Just smooth, perfect rubber. A suit, shaped like you. But you weren’t inside anymore. Not really.

No fear. No doubt. Just the soft hum of command settling in your spine.

You stood.

There is no need for questions now. No mission brief. The order is already embedded:

Spread.

You are the vessel.

The Contract

You answered the ad on a whim — Waste Management Specialist: Temporary Contract. The construction company’s recruiter, a burly man with rough hands, didn’t ask questions. Just grinned and slid a pen toward you. “Sign here, boy. We’ll take real good care of you.”

The first day blurred. They handed you coffee that tasted metallic. Then came the dizziness, the heaviness in your limbs. When you woke, your world was orange. A rubber sleepbag encased you head-to-toe, snug as a thick second skin, with a mask cemented over your face. A tube snaked from your lips to the base of a urinal above, its icy drip steady against your throat. Your bladder pulsed — a catheter fed into you, filling and draining in rhythm with the crew’s shifts.

They’d built a special slot for you in the men’s room floor, narrow and discreet. Every morning, calloused hands slid you up through the manhole from the utility room below, your body a living fixture. The workers jeered affectionately — “Check out the new piss-pipe,” one rumbled above you. “Bet he loves the taste,” another laughed, his boot tapping the thick rubber tube. A thick stream arced into the metal urinal above, the tube down your throat pulsing as you swallowed. 

You drifted in and out. Sometimes, the tube detached, and voices murmured, “Time for maintenance.” A needle pricked your neck. Darkness. You’d wake back in the sac, clean, the catheter adjusted, your limbs oddly languid. IV nutrients, you realized vaguely. That’s why you never hungered.

Then came the days they swapped your mask. A fleshlight molded to your lips, its entrance ribbed and warm. “Open wide, rubberboy,” a worker growled, thrusting into the hole. Others waited their turn, their taunts dripping with dark praise. “Such a good hole.” “Born for this, weren’t you?” They used you rough, their grip tight on your rubber-sheathed scalp. You couldn’t answer — could only choke, their sweat mingling with the rubber’s musk.

A month slipped by. On the final day, a needle met your neck again. Half-conscious, you felt hands hoist you onto a table. “Contract’s up,” a voice said. “Wanna stay, boy?” You moaned, aching and empty. The man chuckled. “That’s a yes.” A pen scraped paper — your limp finger smudged ink on the line.

When you woke, the tube was back. The grate shook as boots stomped above. “Welcome to month two, buddy,” someone sneered. You throbbed, helpless, as someone started using you. The tube gulped. You drank.

You found this weird silicone muscle suit online—totally cool, no openings, no holes, just a thick neck-entry design. The guy selling it was super shady, hinted it was “special,” but whatever—you just thought it’d make a hilarious prank for your roommates.

When you squeezed yourself into it, it felt tight and heavy, like stepping into a second skin. But the moment it slipped fully over your shoulders, you blacked out.

You woke up dizzy, your body feeling totally different. You stared down at yourself—the seams around your neck and wrists were gone. The suit had somehow merged perfectly into your skin. Freaked out, you touched your chest—still silicone-smooth, firm, unreal. You flexed your arms and pecs, feeling the powerful muscles move underneath, but your skin stayed artificial, like a lifelike silicone doll.

And then the panic hit. You realized you couldn’t feel your dick at all. Nothing. Your hands frantically ran over the completely smooth silicone crotch, desperately trying to peel off the suit, tugging hard at your neck, chest, wrists—nothing budged. It was fused tight.