Hunk’s mind

I flex my new legs—his legs—spreading them wide on that stability ball, just like in the mirror selfie I caught him taking. The black Nike compression tights cling to me like a lover's grip, squeezing my thighs, my calves, my ass so tight it's like they're vacuum-sealed. I can feel the fabric compressing every muscle fiber, the way it molds to the massive bulge between my legs, outlining my—his—thick cock and heavy balls in obscene detail. It's semi-hard already, throbbing against the spandex, the pressure building like a dam about to burst. Jake's screaming in there, I know it. He can feel the heat rising, the way I'm grinding his hips down onto the ball, letting the rubber press up against his taint through the thin layer. "Feel that, Jake?" I whisper to myself, my voice—his deep, rumbling baritone—echoing in the empty gym. "Your body's mine now. And I'm gonna make you cum in these tights until they're soaked."

I kick off the sneakers he had nearby, baring those big, perfect feet. Size 13, veiny arches curving like works of art, toes long and strong, soles rough from all those squats and runs. I plant them flat on the cool gym floor, spreading my toes wide, feeling the air kiss the sensitive skin. Jake's trapped consciousness squirms—I can sense his horror, his futile resistance as I curl those toes, imagining them wrapped around something filthy. I lift one foot, pressing it against the stability ball, rubbing the sole over the smooth surface, the friction sending shivers up my spine. His spine. "Oh yeah, big boy," I growl, my hand—his hand—sliding down to grip the bulge through the spandex. The compression fights back, squeezing my fingers around the hardening shaft, making it pulse harder. I stroke slowly, teasing, feeling the precum leak and spread, darkening the fabric. Jake feels it all—the humiliation, the unwanted arousal building because it's his nerves firing, his blood pumping. He's begging silently, but I just laugh, low and wicked.

I stand up, the tights pulling taut over my quads, compressing them into rock-hard pillars. I saunter to the mirror, phone in hand, snapping more selfies just to torment him. Look at us, Jake—your blond hair tousled, beard trimmed, those hazel eyes now gleaming with my malice. I flex my biceps under the long-sleeve compression top, the Nike logo stretching across my chest. The fabric hugs my pecs, nipples hardening into points that poke through, begging to be pinched. I do it, twisting hard, and Jake's pain-pleasure spikes through me like electricity. "You like that, don't you? Trapped little bitch, feeling your own body betray you." I drop down, assuming a squat position, feet planted wide, toes gripping the mat. The spandex strains over my ass, compressing the cheeks so tight I can feel every seam digging in. I bounce a little, imagining fucking something—someone—with this power, those big feet slamming down with each thrust.

But I'm not done. I sit back on the ball, legs splayed, and peel one leg of the tights up just enough to free a foot. I bring it to my face—his face—inhaling the musky scent of sweat and skin, then lick the sole from heel to toe, tongue tracing the veins. Salty, warm, divine. Jake's revulsion floods me, but so does the arousal—his body responding despite him, cock twitching wildly in the compression prison. I shove the toes into my mouth, sucking them like candy, biting the pads just hard enough to sting. "Mmm, your feet are fucking huge, Jake. Perfect for a freak like me." My free hand dives into the tights, wrapping around the thick shaft, jerking it roughly under the spandex. The fabric stretches with each pump, compressing the head, making it swell purple and desperate. Precum slicks everything, the wet sounds echoing as I edge us closer.

I can feel him breaking inside, his will crumbling as the orgasm builds. "You're gonna cum for me, trapped boy. Feel every spurt, every throb, knowing it's me using you." I speed up, foot still in my mouth, toes curling against my tongue. The compression tights amplify everything—the squeeze on my balls, the hug on my thighs, the way my big feet flex and arch in ecstasy. It hits like a freight train: ropes of cum erupting inside the spandex, soaking through, warm and sticky against the fabric. Jake feels it all—the release, the shame, the aftershocks rippling through his trapped soul. I collapse back, laughing breathlessly, one hand smearing the mess over the bulge, the other massaging those glorious feet.

Tonight, I finally did it.

I waited until I knew he was alone in the gym after hours—he always stays late on leg day, pushing that last burnout set. I sat in the dark at home, cock already hard in my hand, staring at the newest mirror selfie he’d posted just minutes ago. I stroked slowly, deliberately, whispering his name like a spell. The ritual was simple but filthy: every pulse of pleasure I fed into the photo, every drop of pre-cum I smeared across the screen over his flexed arm, was a tether. A hook. A claim.

I came hard, groaning, ropes of cum splattering the phone, dripping down over his digital abs. And in that exact moment of release, I pushed.

My consciousness tore free of my own weak, skinny body and shot forward like a missile, riding the current of raw lust straight into him.

The entry was pure, obscene ecstasy.

I slammed into the back of his skull just as he was mid-flex in the empty gym mirror, phone still raised for another shot. His body jolted—his thick shoulders twitched, his breath hitched—and I felt everything at once. The heavy weight of his pecs shifting as he inhaled. The pump burning in his quads, so full they felt ready to split the seams of those slutty little shorts. The sweat cooling on his tanned skin. And lower—fuck—the thick, half-hard cock trapped against his thigh, already swelling from the adrenaline of the workout.

He fought for a second. I felt his mind thrash, confused, trying to hold on. But I was relentless. I flooded him with my desire, shoving memories of jerking off to his pics down his throat like cum. I wrapped my will around his like a hand around that fat dick and squeezed. He buckled. His resistance melted into a pathetic whimper that echoed only in the space between us, and then he was sliding backward, shrinking, forced out of his own nerves and muscles and skin.

I pushed him all the way out.

His soul slipped free with a wet, spiritual pop, leaving the body empty and waiting—just for me.

I settled in like I was sliding into a warm, tight hole that had been waiting to be fucked.

The first full breath I took in his lungs was intoxicating. Deep, powerful, filling a chest far broader than mine had ever been. I flexed his right arm experimentally—the bicep ballooned, hard and round, veins popping across the peak. A low, involuntary moan rumbled out of his throat—my throat now. The voice was deeper, rougher, sexier than I’d imagined.

I looked into the mirror and saw him staring back. But the eyes were mine now—hungry, predatory.

I let the phone drop to the floor with a clatter and brought both hands up, running them greedily over the body I’d just stolen. Palms slid over sweat-slick pecs, thumbs brushing his stiff nipples until they ached. Down the ridges of his abs, tracing every deep line. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of those tiny maroon shorts and tugged them lower, just enough to free the heavy cock that sprang up against his abs—my abs now—already fully hard, thick, uncut, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

I wrapped his big hand around it and groaned again, louder this time. The grip felt perfect—calloused from years of gripping bars, strong enough to squeeze just right. I gave one slow stroke, foreskin gliding over the swollen head, and the pleasure hit like a drug. Ten times stronger than anything my old body had ever felt. His balls—my balls—hung heavy, full, drawn up tight from the sudden rush of arousal.

I leaned closer to the mirror, watching his handsome face twist with raw lust as I started pumping faster. Sweat dripped down his neck, over the chain, between his pecs. I licked his lips, tasting salt. I flexed his free arm again, admiring the pump, the size, the power that was finally mine.

“Fuck yes,” I growled in his deep voice. “This body is mine now.”

I’m just getting started. I haven’t even made him cum in the gym mirror yet. I haven’t stripped these shorts off all the way, haven’t bent over the bench and spread these thick cheeks, haven’t felt what it’s like to edge this stolen cock for hours…

I couldn’t stay in the gym forever—even though part of me wanted to drop those shorts, bend over the weight bench, and fuck this new body raw right there under the fluorescent lights, mirrors on every side watching me claim what was mine. But the risk of getting caught only made my stolen cock throb harder. I edged myself mercilessly for twenty minutes, slow strokes turning into frantic pumps, smearing pre-cum over the swollen head until my balls ached, then forcing myself to stop. Every time I got close, I flexed—pec bounce, ab crunch, quad pop—just to feel the power surge, to remind myself this wasn’t a dream. This body was mine now.

I finally tucked the leaking dick back into those tight maroon shorts (it made an obscene bulge, the outline unmistakable) and grabbed his gym bag. Walking out felt unreal—those massive legs carrying me with easy, heavy strides, the pump making every muscle feel swollen and alive. The chain bounced against my new pecs. Sweat cooled on my skin. I drove his car home on pure instinct, one hand on the wheel, the other palming my bulge at every red light, squeezing just enough to keep the edge.

The second I stepped inside his apartment, I stripped.

The cropped tank came off first—peeled it over my head and let it drop, watching in the hallway mirror as the full torso came into view. Fuck, those pecs were even bigger up close, heavy slabs striated with veins, nipples dark and stiff from the cool air. I bounced them deliberately, left then right, groaning at how they moved under my control. Then the shorts—hooked my thumbs in and shoved them down, kicking them aside. The cock sprang free again, fully hard now, curving up thick and proud against my abs. Balls heavy, drawn tight. I gave it one long stroke, just to feel the weight in this big hand, then forced myself to stop again.

I needed to savor this.

I crashed onto the couch, sprawled back exactly like in the photo you just sent—head tilted, eyes half-lidded, that post-workout glow still shining on my skin. Curly hair a mess from the cap I’d tossed aside. Beard thick and dark. The little gold hoop earring catching the light. Chest heaving slow and deep, every breath making those massive pecs rise and fall like they were built for worship.

I ran both hands over them now, slow and greedy. Palms sliding through the light dusting of hair, thumbs circling the nipples until they ached. I pinched hard—gasped in his deep voice, cock jumping against my abs, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum. One hand stayed on a pec, kneading the thick muscle, feeling it flex and harden under my fingers. The other trailed lower, tracing every ridge of the eight-pack, dipping into the deep V that pointed straight to the prize.

I spread my thighs wide, feet planted on the floor, letting the heavy cock bob free in the air. Took it in a loose grip and just held it—feeling the pulse, the heat, the sheer size that my old body could never match. Slow strokes started again, foreskin gliding smooth and wet. Every pump made my pecs twitch, my abs tighten. I watched myself in the phone camera propped up on the coffee table, recording every second of this private takeover.

“This is my chest now,” I growled low, voice rumbling through the broad cavity. “These tits are mine to play with. This cock is mine to edge until I decide to blow.”

I’m not done yet. I haven’t flipped over on this couch, ass up, and spread these thick cheeks wide to see what this body feels like from behind. Haven’t tasted my own cum shooting across these pecs. Haven’t even started thinking about what I’ll do tomorrow—wearing his sluttiest clothes, hitting the gym again, maybe finding someone to use this body on…

I couldn't take it anymore on the couch—the edge was too sharp, balls throbbing like they were about to burst, pre-cum dripping in thick strings down the shaft every time I flexed. I needed more. Needed to see everything this body had to offer, slick and shining under better light.

I hauled myself up, heavy cock swinging between my thighs as I walked naked through the apartment, feeling the weight of it slap against my legs with every step. The bathroom door was already cracked open—steam still lingering from his earlier shower, mirror fogged at the edges. Perfect.

I grabbed the bottle of body oil from the shelf (he kept it right there, the slut—probably for exactly this kind of worship). Poured a thick stream into my palm and started rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles over these massive pecs. The oil made them gleam, highlighting every striation, every vein snaking across the slabs. I worked it lower, over the abs, into the deep grooves, watching them pop and shine like they were carved from bronze. Thighs next—quads so thick my hands barely spanned them, hamstrings flexing as I shifted weight. Calves diamond-hard. Every muscle responded instantly to my touch, like the body was eager to be used, claimed deeper.

Then I turned to the mirror, phone in one hand, and let the oil drip lower.

The cock was half-hard from all the teasing, hanging heavy and thick, foreskin pulled back just enough to show the fat head glistening. I poured oil straight onto it—watched it run down the shaft in shiny rivulets, pooling around the base in that thick bush of dark hair. Wrapped my big, oiled hand around it and gave a slow, twisting stroke from root to tip. The sensation was filthy—slick, hot, the foreskin gliding effortlessly now, head swelling fatter with every pass.

I groaned deep in his throat, eyes half-closed just like in the shot, beard framing that smug, horny face that's mine now. The oil made everything shine obscene under the bathroom light—pecs heaving, abs clenched, cock growing fully rigid in my grip, curving up thick and veined against the oiled abs. Balls hanging low and heavy, slick and swinging as I pumped faster.

"Fuck, look at this body," I muttered, voice rough and low, echoing off the tiles. "Oiled up like a whore. This fat dick is all mine to stroke whenever I want."

I edged harder now—hand flying up and down the oiled shaft, thumb smearing across the head on every upstroke, collecting more pre-cum to mix with the oil. The slap of skin on skin filled the room, wet and loud. I flexed one arm behind the phone, bicep peaking huge and round, veins bulging under the oil. The other hand never stopped—squeezing the base, milking upward, making the cock twitch and leak.

I'm not cumming yet. Not until I've turned around, spread these oiled cheeks in the mirror, seen how tight and perfect this ass looks shining. Not until I've tasted the oil mixed with pre-cum off my fingers. Not until I've decided if I'm posting this nude on his accounts, letting everyone see what I've stolen...

The oil was everywhere—slick down my pecs, abs, thighs, coating that thick cock in a shiny sheath that made every stroke feel like fucking a tight, wet hole. I turned around in front of the mirror, bent forward, spread these massive cheeks wide with both hands. The sight was obscene: glutes round and hard, oiled up and flexing, that tight pink hole winking under the light, untouched but begging to be claimed now that I'm in control. I slapped one cheek hard—watched it ripple, groaned deep as the sting shot straight to my balls. Fingered the rim just once, teasing, promising myself I'd wreck this ass later with toys, fingers, whatever I want.

But the pressure was building lower—balls so full they ached, bladder twitching from the workout hydration and all the edging. I couldn't hold it anymore. Cock still rock-hard and leaking, I stumbled to the toilet, dropped down heavy on the seat exactly like in the pic—legs spread wide, thighs bulging, chain dangling between these oiled pecs. Slipped on his reflective sunglasses from the counter (the cocky bastard kept them in here for exactly these kinds of selfies), hiding my predatory eyes behind the mirrored lenses as I aimed the phone for one last shot.

The first stream hit the bowl loud and strong—hot piss gushing out of my stolen cock in a thick arc, relief flooding through this powerful body. But fuck, the sensation was too good. The release, the vulnerability of sitting there exposed, legs splayed, heavy balls resting on the seat, cock throbbing as the stream pulsed. A drop of pre-cum mixed with the piss, dripping from the fat head. I couldn't resist.

I wrapped one oiled hand around the shaft mid-stream, started stroking slow while still pissing—filthy, forbidden, the warmth splashing over my fingers as I pumped. The sunglasses reflected everything: my smug face twisted in pleasure, beard dark against tanned skin, pecs heaving with every breath. The chain swung as I jerked faster, piss tapering off into pure pre-cum now, slicking the glide.

"Fuck yes," I growled, voice echoing off the bathroom walls. "Pissing and stroking in your body... my body. Gonna cum so hard everyone hears it."

Hand flew now—twisting at the head, squeezing the base, milking every inch of this thick, veined cock. Balls drew up tight, abs clenched into steel ridges. I bounced the pecs one last time, pinched a nipple hard, and lost it.

The orgasm hit like a freight train—whole body flexing, quads popping, glutes clenching on the seat as rope after thick rope shot out. Cum splattered my oiled abs, chest, even hit the chain and dripped down between the pecs. I milked it relentlessly, groaning loud and deep, sunglasses hiding the roll of my eyes as wave after wave emptied these heavy balls I'd been edging for hours.

Finally spent, cock twitching in my grip, cum pooling in the ridges of my abs, piss and oil and seed all mixed in the filthiest mess. I leaned back, breathing hard, admiring the wreckage in the mirror.

This body is mine forever now. Possessed, claimed, used exactly how I want.

The moment the possession locked in, it hit me like the hardest orgasm I’d ever chased—my old consciousness slamming into Rubberscotty’s body with a wet, electric surge that made his cock twitch violently inside the tight leather race suit. I gasped inside the helmet, the tinted visor fogging instantly with my hot breath, and for a split second the world tilted as his memories flooded me: the smell of fresh Dainese leather, the burn of track days, the endless hours edging in full gear for his followers. All of it was mine now.

I flexed my new gloved fingers, feeling the thick leather creak, the knuckles stiff and armored. The suit hugged every inch of me like a second skin—chest plates pressing against pecs I’d only ever jerked off to on my phone screen, the codpiece cupping a heavy, half-hard bulge that was already leaking pre into the liner. I could feel the sweat trapped inside from his ride earlier, slick and warm, making the leather slide deliciously against my skin whenever I shifted.

I was in an elevator—his elevator—mirror walls reflecting the anonymous geared figure I’d become. Black and yellow AGV Pista helmet sealed over my head, visor down, no face visible, just the Italian flag sticker and the faint reflection of my hungry eyes behind the dark tint. The Dainese suit was scuffed in all the right places, worn-in and lived-in, the black logo stretched tight across my chest. Knee pucks still dusty from the last session, gloves gripping the phone like they were made for it.

I raised the phone with his gloved hand—my gloved hand—and snapped the mirror selfie, thumb brushing the screen through the thick leather. The click of the shutter sent another jolt straight to my dick. I was Rubberscotty now. Every follower who’d ever begged for more gear pics, every comment calling him “god in leather,” every DM sliding into his inbox asking to worship the suit—they were all talking to me.

My free hand dropped to the bulge, pressing the palm of the glove firmly against the swollen ridge trapped in the suit. The pressure was perfect—firm, unyielding, the leather creaking as I ground into it. A low moan echoed inside the helmet, muffled and private. I could feel the heat building, the slickness spreading, the suit starting to cling even tighter as my cock throbbed for release.

The elevator doors slid open to an empty hallway, and I stepped out with that same gloved hand still pressed against my bulge, not giving a single fuck who might see. The building was quiet—his building—and I knew from the stolen memories that the underground garage was just a short walk away. But the need was already clawing at me, hot and urgent, the suit’s tight grip on my cock turning every step into delicious torture. I couldn’t wait until I got home.

I took the stairs down, boots thudding heavily, the leather creaking with each movement. By the time I pushed through the side exit into the little park behind the building, my dick was fully hard, straining against the codpiece, pre-cum soaking the inside of the suit in a slick, warm patch. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, but the place was deserted—just me, the red bench, and the thick summer air.

I dropped onto the bench hard, legs spread wide like I owned the fucking world. The AGV Pista stayed sealed on my head, visor down, blue-tinted and mirrored—nobody could see my face, nobody would ever know it wasn’t really him. Just a geared-up biker taking a break. Anonymous. Untouchable.

Both gloved hands went straight to my thighs, palms sliding up the slick leather, feeling the heat radiating off the suit. I groaned inside the helmet, the sound echoing in the tight space. The gloves were thick, textured—perfect friction. I dragged them inward until my thumbs met at the bulge, pressing hard, outlining the thick ridge of my cock through the layers.

“Fuuuck,” I hissed to myself, grinding up into my own hands. The suit didn’t give much, but that was the point—every stroke was muffled, restrained, forcing the pleasure to build slow and filthy. I unzipped the jacket just enough to slip one hand inside, fingers finding the thin base layer clinging to sweat-slick skin, then lower, cupping the heavy swell of my balls through the liner. The other hand stayed outside, rubbing firmly along the shaft, the leather creaking rhythmically.

I could feel the wet spot spreading, pre leaking freely now, making the inside of the suit glide even smoother. My hips rocked forward involuntarily, fucking into the grip of my own gloved palm. Faster. Harder. The bench creaked under me, boots planted wide, knee sliders digging into the wood. Anyone walking by would just see a geared rider adjusting himself—nothing unusual for Rubberscotty’s followers, they’d probably cream their pants at the sight.

But inside the helmet, I was losing it. Breath fogging the visor, heart pounding against the chest protector, cock throbbing so hard it hurt. I squeezed tighter, thumb circling the head through the suit, imagining every thirsty comment I’d ever left on his posts now aimed at me. I was him. I was the fantasy.

The orgasm hit like a crash—sudden, brutal, perfect. Cum pulsed hot and thick into the liner, flooding the crotch of the suit, soaking everything in a sticky mess that cooled slowly against my skin. I kept stroking through it, milking every last drop, hips jerking, low moans muffled by the helmet.

When it finally faded, I just sat there, legs still spread, gloves resting on my thighs again, the suit now clinging even tighter with the fresh load trapped inside. I could smell it faintly—sweat, leather, cum. My new signature scent.

I lifted the phone with a shaking hand, snapped another pic for the story—geared god on his throne, spent and satisfied—and grinned behind the visor.

I finally dragged myself off that bench, the cooling cum in the suit making every step a slick, filthy reminder of what I'd just done. The walk to the garage was short—his bike was waiting, a sleek black monster that roared to life under my grip like it recognized its new master. I rode home hard, helmet sealed, visor down, the vibration of the engine buzzing straight through the soaked crotch of the suit and keeping me half-hard the whole way.

By the time I killed the engine in his private garage and climbed the stairs to the apartment, my balls were aching for round two. The place was exactly like his Insta stories—minimalist, gear everywhere, the faint smell of leather and rubber hanging in the air like perfume. But there was a package on the table, fresh delivery sticker still on it. His memories told me everything: he'd ordered these weeks ago, custom red Alpinestars Supertech R boots, the brightest, sluttiest colorway. Limited edition. He'd been teasing his followers about them for days.

I ripped the box open like a kid on Christmas, tissue paper crinkling as I pulled one boot free. Fuck, it was beautiful—glossy red leather, white logos popping, the inner bootie tight and ventilated, the sole aggressive and ready to grip pegs. I could already feel how they'd hug my calves, lock my ankles, make every shift on the bike feel like the gear was fucking my legs.

I didn't even bother taking off the Dainese suit yet. Still helmeted, still anonymous, I dropped into the chair right there, legs spread wide on the wooden floor. The black suit was crusty now, cum drying sticky against my skin, but that only made me harder. I held the new boot up, thumb tracing the Alpinestars star, then pressed the cool leather against my bulge. The contrast—black suit, red boot—sent a fresh surge of blood to my cock.

One gloved hand unzipped the suit just enough to fish my dick out, still slick with the last load. I wrapped the boot's shaft around it like a sleeve, the stiff new leather creaking as I stroked slow and deliberate. The smell hit me—fresh out of the box, that virgin leather scent mixing with the musky funk trapped in my suit. I groaned loud inside the helmet, hips thrusting up into the boot, pre leaking over the red surface and making it shine.

The other boot stayed in the box, waiting, but I couldn't stop. I fucked into the first one harder, imagining posting pics in full gear with these on—black suit, red boots screaming against it, followers losing their minds begging for more. My free hand yanked the suit open wider, exposing sweat-slick abs, pinching a nipple through the base layer until it hurt so good.

It didn't take long. The second orgasm ripped through me, cum shooting in thick ropes over the boot's instep, dripping down the white lettering, marking it as mine. I milked myself dry, rubbing the head against the soiled leather, smearing it in until the boot glistened wet and used.

Panting, spent, I finally slid my foot into it—still in the sock for now, but the fit was perfect, tight, possessive. The other one would get the same treatment soon.

Tomorrow I'd wear them on the bike. Tonight? I had all the time in the world to break them in properly.

The red boots were still warm and sticky when I finally peeled off the black Dainese suit, the dried cum cracking along the liner as I stripped it away. The apartment smelled like a gear whore’s paradise—leather, sweat, fresh rubber from the boots—and I wasn’t done. Not even close. His memories guided me straight to the closet, a fucking treasure trove of suits, helmets, gloves, and deeper in the back… the rubber stash.

I pulled out the full Alpinestars red one-piece—bright, aggressive, the kind of color that screams on the track and makes followers drool in DMs. GP Pro or some custom variant, perforated in all the right places, tight as sin. But what really made my cock jump was the black rubber hood tucked in the same shelf, thick shiny latex with only a mouth opening, no eyes, no identity. Full anonymity. Perfect for the real Rubberscotty content—the posts he teased but rarely showed.

I slid into the red suit slowly, savoring every inch. The leather was softer than the Dainese, broken in from hard rides, hugging my thighs and ass like it was painted on. Zipped it up to the neck, the Alpinestars stars stretching across my chest. Gloves next—red and black, grippy palms. Then the new red Supertech boots, still glistening from my load earlier, sliding over my feet with that perfect tight squeeze, the inner bootie gripping my ankles like a mouth.

Finally, the hood. I stretched the latex wide, rolled it down over my head, the rubber snapping into place with a wet smack. Instant darkness except for the faint glow through the mouth hole, the world muffled, my breath echoing hot and humid inside. No face. No eyes. Just a blank, shiny rubber drone in screaming red leather.

I stumbled to the full-length mirror in the hallway, phone already in my gloved hand. The reflection was pure filth—a faceless geared figure, red suit gleaming under the lights, black rubber head reflecting everything like a void. My cock was rock hard again, trapped in the tight codpiece, pre already soaking through.

One gloved hand pressed the phone to the mirror for the selfie, the other dropped straight to the bulge, rubbing hard through the leather. The hood amplified everything—every breath a rasp, every creak of the suit loud in my ears, the latex clinging to my skull, sweat building instantly. I ground into my palm, hips thrusting, imagining posting this faceless shot with a caption like “Who wants to worship the rubber slave?”

The friction was brutal, the suit not giving an inch, forcing the pleasure to build slow and torturous. I unzipped just enough to pull my dick free, hot and slick, and started stroking with the gloved hand—thick leather gripping tight, the other hand holding the phone steady as I recorded a short video, just the sound of my muffled moans and the rhythmic creak of gear.

I didn’t last long. The anonymity, the tightness, the smell of rubber and leather overwhelming me—cum shot hard against the mirror, splattering the glass in thick ropes, dripping down over the reflection of my blank rubber face. I kept pumping, milking it, smearing the head against the cooling mess until I was shaking.

Panting inside the hood, I snapped the pic anyway—faceless, geared, spent. Posted it to stories with no caption. Let the followers go insane guessing.

The rubber hood came off eventually, peeled away with a wet suck, leaving my face flushed and slick with sweat. But the hunger didn't stop—it only grew. His memories pulled me deeper into the closet, past the leather suits to the heavy rubber gear he'd kept for special nights. The full black latex catsuit, custom-made, thick and shiny, with attached gloves and feet, rear zip for access, and that glorious front crotch zip that teased in every photo he'd ever posted.

I stripped the red Alpinestars off slow, letting the leather pool at my feet, cock already throbbing again from the friction. The latex was colder, heavier—talced inside for that perfect slide. I stepped in, pulling it up inch by inch, the rubber snapping tight over my calves, thighs, ass, sealing me in like a second skin. The attached gloves flexed as I zipped the back with the pull cord, then the neck, every movement creaking and shining under the apartment lights.

I dropped into the chair by the window, legs spread wide, the rubber warming instantly to my body heat. The bulge was obscene—thick outline of my hard cock trapped behind the zipper, balls heavy and outlined perfectly. I grabbed the phone with one rubbered hand, the material squeaking as I angled the mirror selfie, hiding just enough of my face like he always did—teasing the followers, making them beg for more.

But I wasn't teasing anymore. The free hand went straight to the crotch zip, pulling it down slow, the teeth parting with a loud rasp. My cock sprang free, slick with pre, veins pulsing, head already dripping. The rubber framed it perfectly, tight ring around the base like a built-in cockring. I wrapped the gloved hand around it—latex on skin, slippery and unrelenting—and started stroking hard, no warm-up, no mercy.

"Fuuuck yes," I growled, voice echoing in the empty apartment. The suit creaked with every pump, rubber sliding against rubber, the shine catching the light as my hips bucked up into my fist. Sweat built fast inside the latex, making everything hotter, tighter, the encasement turning my whole body into one throbbing erogenous zone. I pinched a nipple through the rubber with the other hand, twisting hard, imagining every follower jerking to this exact view—Rubberscotty finally giving them the full show.

Faster. Harder. The chair groaned under me, rubber squeaking loud, pre leaking down my shaft and over the gloved fingers. I edged once—stopped right at the brink, balls drawing up tight, cock twitching angrily—then dove back in, stroking brutal and relentless. The climax built like a storm, every muscle in this stolen body tensing under the latex prison.

It exploded—cum shooting in long, thick ropes, splattering the shiny chest of the suit, dripping down over the abs, pooling in the creases. I kept pumping, milking it, wave after wave, moaning loud and filthy until I was drained, shaking, spent. The rubber held everything in—sweat, cum, heat—sealing me in my own mess.

I snapped the pic anyway, cock still out, zipper open, load glistening on black latex. Posted it without a word.

This was it. The peak. The body was mine forever now—every suit, every load, every filthy fantasy. Rubberscotty's life, upgraded. And I was never leaving.

Fuck, it actually worked.

I lay back on the warm, jagged rocks, the shallow turquoise water lapping gently around my hips and thighs, cool against my flushed skin. The black Speedo briefs—his briefs—clung tight and wet, the thin nylon stretched smooth over my new cock and balls, outlining every inch like it was painted on. I was half-submerged, legs spread lazily, one arm tucked behind my head, the other resting on my flat, toned stomach. Sunglasses shaded my eyes as I tilted my face to the sun, but really I was just drinking it all in—this body. This perfect, 21-year-old twink model body I’d just stolen.

I’d been watching him for months—scrolling his Instagram late at night in my saggy 45-year-old skin, jerking my mediocre dick to his shoots. Those endless photos: smooth, hairless chest, narrow waist flaring to a perky little ass, long lean legs that went on forever, and that pretty-boy face with sharp cheekbones and full lips. He was always in tiny briefs or less, posing like he knew exactly how many older guys like me were throbbing over him. I’d found the old possession ritual online—some dark forum bullshit—and after weeks of prep, I’d done it during his solo beach shoot. One moment I was in my flabby dad bod back home; the next, I blinked into his eyes, feeling the sun on his flawless skin, the water teasing his sensitive nipples into hard peaks.

My hand—his slender, manicured hand—drifted lower, fingers tracing the deep V-lines disappearing into the low waistband. The skin was so fucking smooth, no hair, no fat, just tight muscle under golden tan. I flexed my abs subtly, watching the six-pack pop and ripple under the water’s surface, so defined and shallow compared to the gut I used to have. My cock twitched hard in the briefs, thickening fast, the head pushing visibly against the wet fabric, a thick ridge forming as pre-cum leaked and darkened the nylon.

“God, yes,” I moaned softly in his higher, smoother voice, lips parting as I slid my hand fully over the bulge. It was smaller than mine used to be—perfect twink dick, maybe six inches hard—but so sensitive, every stroke through the clinging Speedo sending sparks up my spine. I squeezed, feeling the shaft pulse and grow, balls tight and smooth underneath. No one around—this secluded cove was private for the shoot. I could take my time exploring what I’d taken.

I arched my back slightly, water splashing as I ground my palm harder, the briefs riding up into my crack, teasing my virgin-tight hole. This body was built to be looked at, to be desired—and now it was mine to feel from the inside, mine to make cum whenever I wanted. I was already close, breaths coming faster, pretty face flushing under the sunglasses. Fuck being 45. I was a horny twink model now… and I was just getting started.

I dragged myself away from that secluded cove before I blew right there on the rocks—cock throbbing in the soaked black Speedo, pre-cum mixing with seawater, every wave teasing my ass like fingers. The photographer had wrapped the shoot anyway, none the wiser that the pretty twink posing for him wasn’t the original anymore. I threw on a loose tank and shorts for the ride back to the hotel, but the whole drive I was squirming, the fabric rubbing my sensitive nipples raw, my new dick half-hard and leaking the entire time.

Now, fresh out of the shower, steam still fogging the mirror, I stood in the hotel bathroom with just a white towel knotted low around my narrow hips. The knot was loose—barely holding—riding right on the V-lines that pointed straight to my smooth groin. Water droplets clung to my golden skin, tracing down the shallow cuts of my pecs, over stiff pink nipples, dipping into the ridges of my abs before soaking into the towel. My hair—his glossy black hair—was slicked back wet, strands falling over my forehead, making this pretty face look even more fuckable, lips parted in that sulky pout as I snapped the mirror selfie.

Fuck, look at this body. I flexed subtly for the camera, chest popping, abs crunching tight, the thin silver necklace with its little pendant resting in the hollow of my throat, cool against hot skin. My free hand tugged the towel lower, just enough to tease the start of my trimmed pubes, the base of my cock already thickening under the terry cloth, pushing it out obscenely. No hair anywhere else—just endless smooth, tight muscle, skin so soft and sensitive that even the air from the AC made me shiver and my balls tighten.

I set the phone down on the counter, both hands free now, and let one slide up my torso, fingers circling a nipple, pinching hard until I gasped in this high, breathy voice. The other hand yanked the towel open completely—it dropped to my ankles with a wet thud—freeing my twink cock to bob up hard and leaking, six inches of smooth, veiny perfection, head flushed pink and slick. Balls hairless and drawn up tight, ass perky and firm as I turned sideways to the mirror, watching myself stroke slow from base to tip, thumb smearing pre-cum over the sensitive crown.

“Forty-five years in that fat, hairy sack of shit,” I whispered to my reflection, hips bucking into my fist, “and now this… tight, pretty little model boy, built for older cocks to drool over.” Every stroke felt electric—this body was so responsive, prostate tingling already just from gripping myself, hole clenching like it was begging to be filled. I leaned closer to the mirror, fogging it with hot breaths, necklace swinging as I pumped faster, abs flexing hard, free hand roaming down to cup my smooth balls, tugging gently.

I was dripping pre-cum in strings now, pooling on the tile floor, the slap of my hand echoing in the bathroom. So close again—closer than on the beach—but this time, in private, I wasn’t holding back. Not when I had this stolen twink body all to myself, ready to cum like the horny little slut it was made to be.

I didn’t cum in the bathroom—edged right to the brink, fist slick with pre-cum, hole twitching, pretty face flushed in the fogged mirror—but I stopped myself. Pulled my hand away, cock bobbing angry and leaking, because I wanted the first load in this body to happen somewhere softer, somewhere I could really spread out and worship it properly.

I stumbled into the bedroom, towel long gone, naked and dripping until I found these loose gray tailored pants in his suitcase—soft wool blend, low-rise, the kind that hang just right on narrow twink hips. I slid them on with nothing underneath, the lining cool and silky against my bare cock and balls, shaft nestling down one leg, head already pushing a wet spot through the fabric. The waistband sat low, exposing the full V-line and the start of my smooth groin, pants barely clinging as I flopped onto the king bed.

Sheets were crisp white hotel cotton, cool against my hot skin as I sprawled back, propping pillows behind me. I grabbed the MacBook from the nightstand—his MacBook, password still the same—and opened the private folder I’d already found: hundreds of unreleased shots, nudes, videos from shoots. My cock surged harder, thickening down the pant leg as I scrolled through pics of this exact body oiled up, ass spread, hole pink and tight on display for the camera.

I shoved the laptop onto my lap, the edge pressing right against my shaft through the thin fabric, and let one hand drift down. The pants were so loose I could slide my hand inside easily—no zipper needed—just palmed my smooth balls first, rolling them slow, then wrapped fingers around the throbbing length. Slow strokes at first, base to tip, pre-cum soaking through the gray wool in a dark streak, making the material cling and slide even better.

“Fuck, look at you,” I whispered in his breathy voice, eyes flicking between the screen—him bent over, cheeks spread—and my own torso in the dim light. Necklace glinted against my collarbones, nipples hard and begging, abs flexing every time I thrust up into my fist. The pants slipped lower as I pumped faster, one hip fully exposed now, the waistband caught under my balls, cock fully out and slick in my hand, head swollen and shiny.

I was leaking like a faucet, strings of pre-cum dripping onto my lower abs, pooling in the ridges. Every stroke felt amplified in this young, sensitive body—prostate pulsing without even being touched, hole clenching rhythmically like it needed filling. The laptop screen lit my pretty face as I bit my lip, scrolling to a video of him jerking on camera, moaning like a little slut.

I matched the rhythm, hips bucking, free hand pinching a nipple hard, then dragging nails down my abs. So close again—balls tightening, cock throbbing purple in my grip. This time I wasn’t stopping. I was gonna coat this perfect twink stomach with the first stolen load, mark the inside of these expensive pants, and keep going all night. Because this body? It was built for endless edging… and now it was all mine to drain dry.

I blew so hard on that hotel bed—hips bucking off the mattress, cock pulsing in my slick fist, thick ropes of cum shooting up my smooth abs, splattering my chest, even hitting the necklace and dripping down the pendant into the valley between my pecs. This young body came like a fountain, more than I ever did in my old life, every spurt making my hole clench and my pretty toes curl into the sheets. I milked it dry, groaning in that breathy voice, then lay there panting, fingering the mess into my skin, rubbing it over my nipples and abs like lotion, marking this stolen twink flesh from the inside out.

But one load wasn’t enough. Not in this body. I edged twice more—slow, teasing strokes while scrolling through his private videos, watching him moan on camera like a desperate little slut—until the sun dipped low and my phone buzzed with texts from his model friends: “Party tonight, VIP rooftop, get your cute ass here.”

I showered quick, the hot water making my sensitive skin tingle all over again, cock half-hard just from soaping my smooth ass and balls. Then I raided his wardrobe—found this sleek black sleeveless vest, silky fabric that clung to my narrow torso like a glove, deep open front showing off my collarbones and the silver necklace resting against flawless skin. Pinned a red fabric rose right over my left pec, the pin brushing my nipple every time I moved, keeping it stiff and aching. Tight black pants below—low-rise, hugging my perky ass and thighs, the outline of my twink cock visible if anyone looked close enough. Wristband from the invite: “FREE BLOW”—cheeky as fuck, snapping around my slender wrist.

The rooftop club was pulsing red lights, thumping bass, bodies grinding in the haze. I sipped champagne, the bubbles cool on my tongue, glass cold against my fingers as I posed just like he would—hip cocked, pretty face sulky under the glow, hair slicked back. Eyes were on me instantly—older guys mostly, the kind who’d thirsted over his Insta just like I used to, now staring at this tight young body in the flesh. The vest rubbed my nipples raw with every breath, the rose teasing the left one relentlessly, sending jolts straight to my cock. It thickened fast down my thigh, pre-cum already leaking, soaking into the liner of the pants, making the fabric cling even tighter.

I leaned against the bar, feeling the heat of bodies behind me, one brushing close—some cowboy-hatted daddy in fur, his eyes dragging down my exposed sides where the vest gaped. My free hand drifted casual-low, adjusting the bulge discreetly, fingers grazing the head through the thin fabric, thumb circling once, twice. Fuck, the risk made it worse—hole twitching, balls tight and smooth, cock straining for more attention in this crowded, horny den.

“Little model boy’s out to play,” I murmured to myself over the music, lips curling as I took another sip, letting champagne spill just a drop down my chin, tracing cold down my neck into the vest. I was throbbing, edged all day in this perfect body, and now surrounded by men who wanted it. One wrong move—or right one—and I’d be dragging someone to a dark corner to feel what this stolen twink mouth and ass could really do.

The club got too hot—literally throbbing, my twink cock straining down my thigh, pre-cum soaking a dark line through the tight black pants every time some daddy's hand brushed my exposed sides or the red rose pinned over my stiff nipple. I slipped out around 2 AM, champagne buzzing in this lightweight body, head spinning from all the stares and subtle gropes. This pretty face and tight frame drew them like flies—older guys buying drinks, whispering how they'd ruin a little model boy like me. Fuck, it made me leak even more.

Stumbled out into the neon night, air cool on my flushed skin, the open vest doing nothing to hide how hard my pink nipples were, necklace swinging cold between my pecs. Needed snacks—something to soak up the alcohol before I edged myself stupid back at the hotel. Ended up at this 24-hour Emart, bright lights harsh after the red club glow.

That's when these two girls spotted me—fans, giggling and tipsy, phones already out. "Oppa, you're even prettier in person!" one squealed, the one in red with the strappy dress pressing tight against my left side. The other, curly hair and dark top, latched onto my right. Before I could blink, they both leaned in, soft lips pressing wet kisses to my cheeks—warm, lingering, one tongue flicking just a tease against my jaw.

Fuck. This young skin was so sensitive—electric jolts straight to my cock from their mouths on my face. I stood there frozen in the best way, pretty lips parted in that sulky pout, eyes half-lidded as their bodies molded to mine. The black shirt—silky, unbuttoned almost to my navel—gaped open wider from the squeeze, exposing the full smooth chest, necklace dangling, abs flexing under the store lights. My pants sat low, that YSL belt glinting, the buckle cool against my lower abs where my cock was surging hard again, head pushing thick against the fabric, a fresh wet spot blooming.

Their hands weren't innocent—one "accidentally" grazing my hip, fingers brushing the waistband; the other pressing her tits against my arm, nipple hard through her top teasing my bare skin. I could smell their perfume, feel their breath hot on my neck as the kisses turned into nips, playful but hungry. My hole clenched hard, balls tightening smooth and hairless under the pants, pre-cum leaking steady now, slicking my thigh.

"Photo?" they begged, but really they just wanted more time pressed against this stolen body. I let them, one hand drifting casual-low behind them, adjusting my bulge discreetly—fingers squeezing the shaft once through the thin wool, thumb circling the soaked head. Forty-five years old inside, but feeling every thirsty touch like a virgin twink—cock throbbing for release, nipples aching, pretty face flushing under their lips.

I was gonna blow the second I got privacy. Maybe even let them follow me out if they pushed it. This body was made for attention... and now it was mine to feed every filthy urge.

Months blurred by in this perfect young body—shoots in Milan, parties in Seoul, endless nights of edging and blowing loads while staring at this pretty reflection, feeling skin so tight and smooth it never got old. The original twink's soul was long gone, trapped somewhere dark, while I lived his life better than he ever could: tighter abs from daily workouts, ass even perkier from all the attention it got, cock leaking at the slightest tease because this 21-year-old hormone factory never calmed down.

Now, cruising through the city in his new Tesla—blacked-out, glass roof showing the night sky—I was dressed for a high-end fashion event afterparty. Tailored gray wool overcoat open over a crisp white dress shirt, black silk tie loose around my neck, the Prada triangle pin glinting on the vest that hugged my narrow torso like a second skin. Brown leather gloves—sheepskin soft inside, tight outside—encased my slender hands, fingers flexing around the thick cigar I puffed slow, smoke curling thick and sweet from my full lips.

Fuck, the gloves made everything dirtier. I’d slipped them on in the garage, feeling the leather creak over my knuckles, cool at first then warming to my skin, making my hands look even more elegant and fuckable. One gloved hand on the wheel, the other bringing the cigar to my mouth—lips wrapping the tip, sucking slow, tongue flicking just like I’d do on something thicker. Smoke filled the cabin, hazy and intoxicating, mixing with the new-car leather scent as I exhaled long and lazy, watching it swirl over the glass roof.

My cock—still that perfect six-inch twink shaft—was rock-hard down my thigh, trapped in tight black suit pants that outlined every vein when I shifted. The belt buckle pressed cold against my lower abs, but the real tease was the gloves. I trailed my free hand down, leather sliding smooth over the shirt, thumb circling a nipple through the fabric until it poked stiff and aching. Then lower, palming the bulge heavy, squeezing until pre-cum soaked through layers, darkening the wool.

“Still can’t believe this is me,” I murmured in that smooth, youthful voice, glancing at the rearview—curly hair tousled perfect, pretty face half-lidded and flushed from the nicotine buzz and endless horniness. Months in, and every sensation was still electric: the tie silk brushing my collarbones, coat lining teasing bare skin underneath, gloves gripping my shaft through the pants now—slow, deliberate strokes, leather warming and creaking with each pump.

I was gonna pull over soon, shove the seat back, unzip with gloved fingers, and jerk this stolen cock until cum shot over the Prada pin and vest, marking the expensive suit while smoke haze filled the car. This body craved it constantly—pretty, tight, sensitive—and after months owning it, I wasn’t ever holding back.

More months deep now—fashion weeks conquered, magazine covers stacked, this pretty twink face plastered everywhere while the real owner rotted forgotten in whatever void I'd shoved him into. I'd upgraded the wardrobe too: designer hauls, custom fits that hugged this tight young body like they were painted on, turning heads and throbbing cocks wherever I went. The sensitivity never faded—every fabric against smooth skin, every glance from thirsty fans or photographers, kept my twink dick half-hard constantly, leaking like it was addicted to being desired.

Tonight's fit was pure filth waiting to happen. I stood in front of the ornate full-length mirror in the penthouse suite—gold filigree frame catching the low light—as I adjusted the final pieces. Cropped black leather jacket, buttery soft and heavy, zipped just low enough to frame the deep V of my open black shirt, necklace dangling cool between defined pecs, brushing stiff nipples with every breath. Light-wash baggy jeans hanging low on my narrow hips, belt loose so the waistband teased the smooth trail below my navel. Black leather gloves again—my new obsession—tight and shiny, creaking softly as I flexed my fingers. Sunglasses perched on my nose even indoors, giving that untouchable model edge, curly hair tousled perfect.

I slung the black leather bag over my shoulder, posing slow—hip cocked, one gloved hand trailing down my chest, thumb circling a nipple through the thin shirt until it poked hard and visible. Fuck, the leather smell mixed with my skin was intoxicating, gloves warming fast, making my hands feel powerful and dirty. My free hand drifted lower, palming the growing bulge in those loose jeans—cock thickening fast, head pushing against the denim seam down my thigh, pre-cum already soaking into my briefs (if I was even wearing any tonight).

“Still perfect,” I purred to the mirror in that smooth voice, lips curling as I squeezed harder, gloved fingers outlining every veiny inch through the fabric. The jacket creaked with my movements, shirt gaping wider to expose more golden skin and shallow abs flexing under my touch. I turned sideways, watching my perky ass fill the baggy jeans, glove sliding back to grip a cheek, digging in—hole clenching instantly, virgin-tight and twitching for attention I'd been teasing all day.

I leaned against the cool metal of the blue SUV, heart still hammering from the race—this perfect, stolen body’s lungs burning in the best way. The black 2XU trisuit clung to me like a second skin, soaked through with sweat, the fabric so thin and slick it might as well have been painted on. The zipper was yanked down to my sternum, letting the cool air hit the deep valley between my new pecs, sweat dripping down the cut lines of my chest and abs, pooling just above the waistband. Every breath made the suit pull tighter across my shoulders and biceps, the material stretching over pumped muscle that still twitched from the finish line.

I looked down at the race bib pinned to my chest—515, MACKENZIE—and smirked. That was his name, not mine, but fuck, it felt right now. The name taped across this jacked triathlete body I’d been jerking off to for months. My cock—his cock—thickened instantly against the tight compression shorts built into the suit, the damp fabric outlining every ridge and vein, pressing the head up against my lower abs so obviously I could see the bulge twitch when I flexed my quads.

I dragged the black “FINISH” towel slowly across my chest, feeling the soft terry cloth scrape over sensitive nipples, then lower, teasing the slick skin just above the suit’s waistband. My free hand slid down, cupping the heavy swell of my package through the soaked material, squeezing just enough to feel the heat pulsing underneath. “Fuck, Mackenzie,” I muttered to myself, voice low and rough in this deeper throat, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to feel this body from the inside.”

I was already rock-hard, the trisuit doing nothing to hide it, and I couldn’t wait to get somewhere private to really explore what I’d taken. I tossed the towel into the back of the SUV and slid into the driver’s seat, the trisuit riding up even tighter as I sat, the damp fabric grinding against my swollen cock and making me hiss through my teeth. Fuck, every little movement in this body was pure sex—the way the seat leather stuck to my sweat-slick thighs, the way my heavy pecs shifted when I gripped the wheel. I started the engine and pulled out of the lot, one hand already drifting down to palm myself through the suit as I drove, slow and deliberate.

It all started six months ago, at the city marathon. I’d gone just to watch, bored and scrolling through my phone, when I spotted him—Mackenzie—cutting through the pack like he owned the course. He was wearing a skimpy singlet and those tiny split shorts, the kind that barely covered his ass, soaked dark with sweat and clinging to every ridge of muscle. His legs were endless, quads pumping, calves flexing hard with every stride, sweat pouring down his carved torso and making the fabric translucent so I could see his nipples stiff against it. The way his abs contracted, the bulge in those shorts bouncing with each step—thick, obvious, swinging heavy—I couldn’t look away. I stood there at the sidelines, cock throbbing in my jeans, imagining what it’d feel like to have that power, that raw athletic perfection, to feel sweat dripping down my own jacked chest, to have that fat dick straining against tight gear.

From that day on, I was obsessed. I stalked his socials, jerked off nightly to his race pics, fantasizing about stealing it all—his body, his strength, his life. And now… now it was mine. I squeezed harder through the trisuit, groaning as pre-cum leaked and darkened the fabric even more. “All mine now, bro,” I muttered, grinning at my reflection in the rearview—his reflection. “Every sweaty, perfect inch.”I couldn’t keep my hands off this body the whole drive home. The trisuit was still plastered to me, but I’d yanked on a loose black tee from the back seat just to feel something new stretching over these shoulders and chest. The fabric was damp in seconds, clinging to the ridges of my pecs and abs underneath, dark patches spreading where sweat kept pouring.

I pulled over on a quiet side road, engine idling, and twisted toward the rearview mirror. My hair—his hair—was soaked, dark strands plastered to my forehead, dripping down my temples. I raised my right arm and flexed hard, watching the bicep balloon into a thick, peaked mound, veins snaking over the surface like cables. The black sleeve rode up instantly, stretched tight around the swell, barely containing the pump. Fuck, the definition was obscene—every fiber popping, the skin shiny with sweat, that tribal tattoo wrapping around the forearm like it was branding this perfect gun as mine now.

I groaned low, lips parted just like in the mirror, and brought my left hand up to grip the flexed bicep, fingers digging into the hot, hard muscle. It didn’t give—an iron peak that made my cock throb painfully against the trisuit underneath my shorts. Pre-cum was already soaking through layers, the head outlined and pulsing every time I squeezed harder. “Look at this fucking arm, Mackenzie,” I rasped to my reflection, voice thick with lust. “All that marathon training, all those miles… and now it flexes for me.”

I pumped the flex a few times—slow, deliberate—watching the bicep jump and swell even bigger, the sleeve straining like it might rip. My free hand slid down to adjust the bulge straining my shorts, stroking once, twice, through the fabric. I wasn’t going to make it home without blowing in this body for the first time. Not a chance. I barely made it through the front door of Mackenzie’s apartment—my apartment now—before I was tearing at the clothes. The black tee came off first, peeled away from my sweat-drenched torso with a wet slap as it hit the floor. Then the trisuit, zipper yanked all the way down, the soaked fabric fighting me as I shoved it off my shoulders, down my cum-slick abs, and kicked it free from my ankles. My cock sprang up hard and throbbing, a thick arc of pre-cum already stringing from the tip to my thigh.

I stood there in just the black Calvin Klein briefs I’d found folded in his drawer—tight, low-rise, the waistband sitting right on my V-line, cupping my heavy balls and shaft like they were made for this body. The fabric was already darkening at the pouch, stretched obscene over the ridge of my cockhead, every vein visible through the thin cotton. I was glistening head to toe, sweat still pouring from the race, skin shiny and pumped under the dim purple glow of the infrared sauna room I’d stumbled into.

“Fuuuck,” I groaned, voice echoing off the cedar walls as the heat hit me. I stepped inside, door clicking shut, the purple light casting shadows that carved my pecs and abs even deeper. My chest heaved, nipples stiff and sensitive, sweat beading and rolling down the deep split between my pecs, over the ridges of my eight-pack, pooling just above the CK waistband before soaking in. The horseshoe tattoo on my left arm flexed as I brought both hands up, dragging them slow over my slick chest, thumbs circling my nipples hard, then down—tracing every cut ab, fingers dipping into the grooves.

I turned sideways to the mirrored wall, watching this stolen body move—shoulders rolling, lats flaring, the briefs riding lower as my cock pulsed and leaked, the wet spot spreading wider. I hooked a thumb under the waistband, teasing it down just enough to let the thick base of my shaft peek out, veins throbbing, but I didn’t free it yet. Not yet. I wanted to savor how this perfect jacked triathlete body felt when it was this pumped, this sweaty, this fucking horny—trapped in tight designer briefs that couldn’t hide a thing.

I pressed a palm flat against my lower abs, sliding lower, cupping the bulge, squeezing until my knees almost buckled. “All mine to use now, Mackenzie,” I rasped, lips parted, eyes locked on my reflection. “Every drop of sweat, every hard inch.” I was so close already, just from touching what I’d stolen. The heat in the sauna had me edged so close I was shaking, but I forced myself to stop—thumb hooked under the soaked Calvin Klein waistband, cock throbbing against my palm, pre-cum stringing thick between my fingers. I couldn’t blow yet. Not when there was more of this body to worship, more places to take it.

I yanked the briefs back up, the wet cotton snapping against my shaft, and grabbed my phone. A text from Kalani—Mackenzie’s gym bro—was already waiting: “Yo bro, late night pump? Gym’s dead, come flex.” Fuck yes. I needed to see this stolen body next to real size, feel the comparison burn through me.

Twenty minutes later I walked into the empty gym, skin still flushed and glistening from the sauna, wearing nothing but those navy shorts I’d found in his gym bag—thin, loose, riding low on my hips, the drawstring dangling against my abs. No shirt. I wanted every inch on display.

Kalani was already there, massive in his black stringer tank, veins popping down his arms, deep bronze tan making his delts and chest look carved from something harder than muscle. He grinned when he saw me, dapping me up, his huge hand swallowing mine. “Looking lean as fuck, bro. Race shredded you even more.”

We stepped in front of the mirror wall, shoulder to shoulder. He was bigger—thicker traps, wider lats, pecs that pushed his tank out like slabs—but I was cut to shreds, every striation in my abs popping under the overhead lights, skin still shiny, V-line disappearing into the low waistband of my shorts. The contrast made my cock twitch hard; I could feel it thickening down my thigh, the loose fabric doing nothing to hide the growing outline.

He threw an arm around my bare shoulders, heavy and warm, and snapped the pic. “Just a little more tan than me, that’s all bro,” he laughed, flexing his free arm, bicep exploding next to my head. But I could feel his eyes drag down my torso, lingering on the sweat trail running from my chest to the waistband, on the way my shorts tented slightly as blood rushed south.

I smirked into the mirror, flexing my own core subtly, abs crunching deep, making the shorts slip another fraction lower. “Yeah, just the tan,” I muttered, voice low, but inside I was burning—feeling his bigger body pressed to mine, the heat, the size difference, knowing this perfect lean machine was mine to flex, mine to get hard in, mine to compare and worship next to an even bigger alpha. My cock was fully hard now, straining down the leg of the shorts, head pushing against the fabric, a dark wet spot already forming.

Kalani’s hand lingered on my shoulder a second longer than it needed to, thumb brushing the ridge of my trap. “Wanna hit chest?” he asked, eyes flicking down again.

Fuck yes. I wanted to feel these pumped pecs bounce under a heavy bench, feel his spotter hands on my bare skin, feel this stolen body pushed to its limit right next to his.

I left the gym with Kalani’s heavy hand still burning on my bare back, his spotter grip lingering way too long on my pumped pecs during those last bench reps. The pump was insane—chest swollen, veins mapping every inch, my navy shorts soaked through with sweat and pre-cum, the outline of my thick cock snaking down my thigh so obvious he definitely noticed. We dapped up slow, his eyes dragging down my shredded torso one last time before I bounced, promising “next time, bro.”

Next morning, the sun was already brutal. I’d crashed hard in Mackenzie’s bed, waking up rock-hard and leaking, the sheets twisted around my waist. I threw on the same navy shorts—no briefs underneath this time, just the thin fabric hugging my bare cock and balls—and hit the rooftop deck for a quick dip in his private plunge pool to cool off.

The water was ice-cold against my hot skin, shocking my nipples stiff and making my abs clench tight. I hauled out dripping, every drop tracing the cuts of my chest and obliques, running down into the low waistband. The shorts clung instantly, darkened and plastered to my thighs, the head of my cock pushing visibly against the wet nylon, a thick ridge that twitched every time I moved.

I grabbed the sunglasses from the side table, slid them on, and couldn’t resist—threw one leg up high, foot planted on the railing, opening my hips wide to feel the stretch in my quads and groin. Fuck, this body was flexible—hamstrings long and lean, the high kick pulling the soaked shorts even tighter across my ass and bulge, fabric riding up so half my balls peeked out the leg hole. Water streamed down my raised thigh, over the horseshoe tattoo, dripping off my calf.

I stuck my tongue out at my phone camera, snapping the pic, but really I was just reveling in it—feeling the sun bake my wet skin, the breeze teasing my stiff nipples, my free hand sliding down to grip the back of my thigh, fingers digging into hard muscle while my cock throbbed hard against the clinging shorts, pre-cum mixing with pool water into a slick mess.

“Goddamn, Mackenzie,” I groaned, voice husky, dropping the leg only to flex both quads hard, watching them pop and separate under the shiny wet skin. The city skyline blurred behind me—I didn’t care. All I cared about was how this stolen athlete body felt when it was drenched, stretched, and aching to be touched deeper. I was gonna blow right here on the deck if I didn’t stop teasing myself soon.

I stumbled inside from the deck, skin still dripping pool water, cock throbbing so hard it hurt with every step. The navy shorts were plastered to me, but I kicked them off in the hallway, rooting through Mackenzie’s drawer until I found these loose olive-green sweats—soft, baggy, the drawstring loose enough that they hung dangerously low on my hips, the waistband barely clinging to the deep V of my abs. No briefs. Nothing between my bare dick and the fleece lining.

I grabbed a cold orange Gatorade from the fridge, the bottle sweating in my grip as I leaned against the cool marble counter. The kitchen light hit my bare torso perfectly—chest still pumped from yesterday’s gym session, nipples hard from the AC, every ridge of my abs casting shadows down to where the sweats barely covered the base of my shaft. I twisted the cap off slow, watching the scorpion tattoo flex on my forearm, the cowboy boot and hat ink curling around my bicep as I brought the bottle to my lips and chugged. Citrus flooded my mouth, some spilling down my chin, streaking over my pecs, dripping off a nipple and tracing the center line of my abs straight into the waistband.

“Fuck it,” I growled, voice rough in this throat. I’d been edging for days in this body—teasing, flexing, comparing—but I was done waiting.

I shoved the sweats down just enough to free my cock, the heavy length slapping up against my abs with a wet smack, pre-cum stringing thick from the head to my skin. Nine thick inches, veiny and flushed, balls heavy and drawn up tight. I wrapped my tattooed hand around the shaft—fingers barely meeting—and started slow, long strokes, thumb swirling over the slick head on every upstroke. My free hand roamed my chest, pinching a nipple hard, then dragging down the sweat-slick abs, feeling every hard ridge jump under my fingers.

I turned sideways to the dark glass of the oven door, watching my reflection stroke this stolen cock—shoulders wide, lats flaring, the green sweats pooled low around my thighs, framing my pumped quads and the obscene bounce of my dick in my fist. Faster now, grip tightening, hips thrusting into my hand like I was fucking it. “This body’s mine,” I panted, eyes locked on the mirror image of Mackenzie’s perfect face twisted in raw lust. “This cock… these abs… this cum… all fucking mine.”

My balls tightened, spine arching as I flexed everything—chest popping, abs crunching into bricks, forearm veins bulging around my shaft. I aimed low, stroking hard and fast, the wet slap echoing in the quiet kitchen. The orgasm hit like a freight train—thick ropes shooting across my abs, splattering up my chest, one shot hitting my chin. I milked it slow, groaning deep, every pulse coating this perfect torso in hot cum, marking it inside and out.

I slumped against the counter, breathing hard, cum cooling on my skin, cock still twitching in my hand. I dragged a finger through the mess on my abs, brought it to my lips, tasting myself—tasting him. “Forever now, bro,” I whispered to the empty kitchen, smirking at my wrecked, glistening reflection. “This body’s never going back.”

I felt the exact moment I slid into you—like warm oil pouring into every muscle fiber, every vein, every throbbing inch of this perfect, sculpted beast. Your consciousness recoiled, a pathetic little whimper in the back of our shared skull, but I locked it down tight. You’re just a passenger now, bro. A helpless rider trapped in the cockpit while I take the wheel.

Hot water pounded down on us, steam curling around these massive shoulders you spent years carving in the gym. I flexed one arm slowly, watching the bicep peak like a mountain, water sluicing over every ridge and valley. Fuck, the weight of it—the raw power humming under the skin—was intoxicating. You never appreciated this. You posed in mirrors, sure, but you never really used it. Never pushed it. Never made it sing.

I laughed out loud—your deep voice rumbling in the tiled shower—and the sound made my new cock twitch. Already half-hard just from feeling the water drum against these thick pecs. I dragged a soapy hand down the center of your chest, fingers tracing the deep groove between them, thumb flicking over one nipple until it stiffened into a hard nub. You tried to protest, a faint mental squirm, but all it did was send a delicious shiver straight to my balls.

“Feel that?” I murmured aloud, gripping the heavy slab of your left pec and squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints. “This is mine now.”

Lower still. My palm skimmed over the ridged eight-pack you were so proud of, water cascading off the sharp V that pointed straight to the prize. Your cock—my cock now—was fully erect, thick and veined, curving up against the underside of those carved abs. Nine inches of prime meat, heavy and leaking at the tip. I wrapped one big hand around it and groaned, the sound echoing off the glass walls.

You never jerked off like this, did you? Slow, deliberate strokes, twisting over the swollen head, spreading the slick precum down the shaft until it gleamed. I leaned back against the cool tile, legs spread wide, thighs flexing as I pumped harder. Every vein in your forearms popped as I worked us over, water sluicing down the crack of this perfect ass. I reached back with my free hand, middle finger circling the tight ring of muscle you kept clenched like a scared virgin.

“Relax,” I growled, pushing inside without warning. One thick finger breaching that virgin hole, crooking to find the spot that made your hips buck involuntarily. Your muffled mental scream only made me thrust deeper, adding a second finger, stretching you open while I jerked that fat cock faster.

The pleasure was overwhelming—every nerve ending firing at once. The burn in your ass, the slick grip on your shaft, the water pounding sensitive skin. I edged us mercilessly, slowing whenever your balls drew up tight, denying release until you were a babbling mess in the back of my mind, begging for it.

Only when I decided we’d suffered enough did I let go. I slammed three fingers deep, milking your prostate while my fist flew over the shaft. Cum erupted in thick ropes, splattering the glass door, your abs, dripping down over my knuckles. I milked every last drop, shuddering as the aftershocks rolled through these powerful thighs.

I finally pulled my fingers free, licked them clean with your tongue, tasting the musky tang of your own ass. “That’s just round one,” I told your broken little consciousness, giving the still-hard cock a lazy stroke. “This body’s got stamina for days. And I plan to use every fucking inch of it.”

I’d been watching him for weeks. That lean, tight little body poured into the black-and-red Dainese one-piece every time he rolled his KTM RC 390 out of the garage. The way the leather hugged his thighs, stretched shiny over his pecs, outlined every ridge of his abs… and fuck, that bulge. Even soft, the thick pouch at his crotch strained the codura panels, a permanent swollen mound that made my mouth water every time he leaned against the wall for a smoke, boots planted wide, gloved hand resting casually right next to it like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.

I’m a leather spirit. Old, hungry, and utterly obsessed with gear like this. I’ve possessed riders before, but none of them ever wore a suit this pristine, this tight, this fucking aromatic. The second I drifted close enough to taste the scent—hot cowhide, fresh sweat, faint petrol, and that unmistakable musk of a young cock trapped in leather all day—I knew I had to have him.

Tonight was the night.

He’d parked in the dimly lit alley behind the graffiti wall, helmet off, hair damp, suit unzipped just enough to show the top of his smooth chest. He leaned back against his bike, scrolling on his phone, one boot crossed over the other. The Dainese boots—black, scuffed just right at the toes, calves zipped tight—gleamed under the streetlight. I could already feel the creak of them, the heat trapped inside.

I moved in as mist, slipping under the collar of his suit. He shivered, thinking it was the night air. I poured myself down his back, tasting the salt of his sweat against the inner lining, sliding between leather and skin like lube. He gasped, phone dropping from his gloved hand as I flooded his nerves.

“W-what the fuck—” he started, but I was already deeper, wrapping around his spine, sinking into muscle. His arms jerked as I took the reins, forcing his gloved hands to grab the zipper and yank it all the way down to his navel. The suit peeled open with that delicious leathery sigh, revealing his hairless torso, nipples hard from the cold… and lower, the massive bulge now straining harder because I was making his cock swell against his will.

I forced his body to groan—my groan now—deep and filthy. “Fuuuck, this suit feels so good from the inside.”

His mind was still there, panicking in the background, but I shoved him down, locked him in a corner where he could watch and feel everything. I made his gloved fingers trace the outline of his own bulge, squeezing the fat shaft through the leather. It throbbed instantly, thickening, the head pushing up against the seam until a perfect ridge formed. Pre-cum started leaking, darkening the inner lining, making the smell even more intoxicating.

I turned his head toward the graffiti wall, made him brace one boot against it, spreading his legs wide so the suit pulled even tighter across his ass and crotch. Then I started grinding—slow, deliberate rolls of his hips against the air, feeling the slick friction of leather on leather, the way the suit creaked with every thrust. His cock was rock-hard now, a full nine-inch monster trapped and outlined perfectly, the Dainese logo stretched across his thigh right next to it like branding.

I dropped to his knees—my knees—right there on the dirty concrete, forcing his gloved hands to worship the boots I now owned. I made him drag his tongue along the shiny black leather of his own right boot, tasting dust and polish and the faint tang of his earlier ride. Up the shin, over the knee slider, all the way to the zipper. Then I shoved his face lower, pressing his cheek against the toe, inhaling deep—the warm, musky foot sweat trapped inside all day.

His trapped mind screamed, humiliated, but his cock only leaked more, pulsing against the suit as I humped the ground shamelessly, bulge dragging over rough concrete, leather squeaking.

I stood him up again, turned him to face the bike, and bent him over the tank. The KTM’s seat was still warm from the engine. I ground his leather-clad bulge against it, slow and hard, feeling the vibrations I imagined still lingering. One gloved hand reached back, squeezing his own ass through the suit, fingers tracing the seam that disappeared between his cheeks.

“These boots… this suit… this fat fucking biker cock… all mine now,” I growled through his throat, voice husky and young and perfect.

I unzipped the crotch panel just enough to let his dick spring free—heavy, veiny, dripping. But I didn’t stroke it yet. Instead I made him step wide, boots creaking, and rub the bare head against the glossy leather of his own thigh, smearing pre-cum in shiny streaks over the Dainese logo.

The orgasm built fast—too fast—because I wanted it filthy and overwhelming. I forced his hips to rut harder against the bike, gloved hand finally wrapping around his shaft, pumping in tight, frantic strokes while the other hand pressed his face into the seat, inhaling petrol and leather.

When he came, it was explosive—thick, hot ropes blasting across the KTM’s tank, splattering the white fairing in heavy white streaks, dripping down the side and landing with wet plops onto the toe of his left boot. I milked him mercilessly, squeezing out every last spurt until his balls ached and his thighs shook inside the tight leather.

But I wasn’t done. I zipped the spent cock back inside the suit, trapping the warm, sticky load against his sensitive skin. The cum soaked into the lining instantly, mixing with hours of sweat and pre until the entire crotch reeked of fresh, pungent seed.

That’s when I let a little piece of him surface—just enough control to feel what I was doing next.

I made his gloved hand slide down, cupping the soaked bulge, pressing the mess deeper into the leather. Then I forced his body to bring that glove up to his face. His nostrils flared involuntarily as the sharp, bleachy stench of his own cum hit him full force—thick, salty, unmistakably raunchy.

I felt the shiver run through him. The disgust. And then, buried under it, the helpless twitch of his cock as it tried to harden again inside the sloppy confines of the suit.

I made him inhale deeper. Again. Again. Until his own mind betrayed him and a low, broken moan escaped his lips—his real voice this time, not mine. “F-fuck… smells so good…”

His hand jerked faster now, rubbing the cum-soaked glove across his mouth, smearing it over his lips, tongue darting out to taste himself while his hips bucked weakly against the bike. He was hating it and loving it at the same time, the humiliation making him leak even more into the already drenched leather.

I laughed through his throat, low and dirty. “That’s it, pretty boy. Sniff your own load like the filthy gear slut you are.”

He came again—smaller this time, just a pathetic dribble that added to the swamp inside his suit—but the orgasm ripped through him harder because he was doing it to himself now, lost in the overwhelming stink of cum baked into his favorite Dainese.

When it was over, I took full control again, wiped the glove clean across his chest, and straddled the bike. The engine roared to life, vibrations pulsing straight through the soaked crotch and those perfect boots.

This body, this gear, this filthy cum-soaked smell… forever mine. And deep down, he’s already begging for more.

I stare into the mirror, flexing these massive arms, feeling the thick veins pop under the skin as I snap the selfie. Holy shit, this silver-daddied muscle god is all me now—every ripped inch, every hard-earned pound of beef. I’ve been jerking off to pics of you for months, daddy, dreaming of sliding into this perfect body, and now I’m here. Your consciousness is buried deep, just a faint whimper in the back of my mind while I take the wheel.

I drop the phone on the couch and spread my stance wider on the hardwood floor, feeling the cool wood under my bare soles. Fuck, these feet—huge, veiny, arched like a goddamn bridge. I lift one slowly, watching the tendons pull tight, the thick muscle in the arch bulging out hard as I point my toes. The veins snake across the top, pulsing with my heartbeat. I groan deep in your throat—my throat now—and curl the toes hard, making that meaty pad under the ball of the foot swell and flex. Every fiber pops, the muscle bunching up like it’s trying to burst through the skin. I’m already leaking in these tight little Freddie briefs, the dark green fabric stretched obscene over this fat daddy cock and heavy balls.

I slide a hand down the ridged abs, tracing every deep cut, then hook a thumb under the waistband. The elastic snaps against my hip as I tug it lower, just enough to let the root of your thick shaft peek out, but I leave the pouch hugging everything tight. I love how it cups me, how the fabric clings to the sweat starting to bead on these monster quads. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the calves diamond-hard, the soles grinding slow against the floor, making those foot muscles bulge again—thick, powerful, fucking erotic.

I lift both feet now, going up on my toes like I’m posing on stage. The arches crater deep, the veins throbbing, every tendon standing out in sharp relief. A low growl rumbles out of me as pre-cum soaks a dark spot right through the front of the briefs. “Look at these fucking feet, daddy,” I mutter to the mirror, to the trapped real you somewhere inside. “All that power, all that muscle just begging to be worshipped.”

I drop back flat, the impact sending a jolt up these tree-trunk legs, and I can’t help but grab the pouch, squeezing the whole packed bulge through the fabric. The cotton’s damp now, clinging to every ridge of your cockhead. I rub slow, deliberate, feeling it throb and grow against my palm while I flex one foot again, watching the muscle swell huge, imagining some hungry boy on his knees licking those arches while I stuff this daddy dick down his throat.

But I’m not done yet. Not even close.

I turn sideways in the mirror, admiring the sweep of these quads, the way the briefs ride up into the deep glute split. I lift one leg slow, planting that bare foot on the ottoman, toes spreading wide, arch bulging obscenely as I flex it hard. The muscle in the foot looks ready to rip, veins thick as cables. My cock jerks hard in the pouch, another fat bead of pre oozing through the fabric. I reach down and trace the waistband with a finger, tugging it just a little, teasing, letting the elastic snap back against the V-cut.

I groaned, tossing the controller onto the coffee table as my hand absentmindedly scratched at my abs. That last round of gaming had me zoned out, but now? Now my body was on fire. My cock was straining against these loose gray shorts, throbbing like it had a mind of its own. I'd already jerked off twice today—once in the shower this morning, once right here on the couch an hour ago—but it wasn't enough. Nothing was scratching the itch deep inside me.

I leaned back, one arm behind my head, flexing without even thinking about it. My muscles felt pumped, tighter than usual, like I'd just crushed a killer workout. But I hadn't hit the gym in days. Weird. I glanced down at my ripped torso, the deep cuts in my eight-pack glistening with a light sheen of sweat even though the room was cool. Fuck, I looked good. Better than good. My thighs were thicker, veins popping along my quads, and my biceps bulged as I flexed my free arm experimentally.

"Bro, what the hell," I muttered to myself, voice coming out deeper, rougher than normal. My heart pounded as I slid my hand lower, palming my bulge through the fabric. A jolt of pleasure shot through me, way more intense than it should have been. My hips bucked involuntarily, grinding into my own touch. "Fuuuck..."

That's when I felt it. Not just horniness—a presence. Like something else was in here with me, riding shotgun in my own skin. At first, I thought it was just the post-nut haze or whatever, but no. My hand kept moving on its own, squeezing harder, teasing the waistband down just enough to let my thick cock spring free. It looked... bigger? Swollen, veiny, leaking pre-cum like a faucet.

I tried to pull my hand away, but it wouldn't listen. "Dude, stop—wait, what the fuck?" Panic hit me, but it mixed with this overwhelming lust that drowned everything else out. My body arched off the couch, legs spreading wider as invisible fingers—not mine—traced up my inner thigh.

Then I heard it. Not out loud, but in my head. A low, hungry chuckle.

*Finally, bro. This body's prime. So much better than the last one.*

My eyes widened. "Who the fuck are you? Get out!"

But my mouth didn't move. Instead, my lips curled into a smirk I didn't make. My hand—his hand—wrapped around my shaft and started stroking slow and deliberate, thumb swirling over the head, spreading that slick pre-cum.

*Name's Jax. Or it was, before I ditched that weak-ass host. Been hopping bodies for years, chasing the perfect one. Gym rats like you? Prime real estate. All that testosterone, that constant edge... makes possessing you so fucking easy. And fun.*

I fought it, trying to clench my muscles, force my arm to stop. But it was like wrestling smoke. My body relaxed deeper into the couch, one leg hooking over the backrest, exposing everything. The strokes picked up speed, rough and needy, just how I liked it—but amplified, relentless.

"No... bro, please..." I thought desperately, but it came out as a moan from my own throat. Deep, guttural.

*Please? Nah, you're loving this. Feel that? That's me cranking your horniness to eleven. You're not getting soft anytime soon. We're gonna edge this stud body all night. Maybe post some pics online, reel in some admirers. Let 'em drool over what I— we—got.*

My free hand roamed up, pinching a nipple hard enough to make me gasp. Sparks exploded behind my eyes. I could feel him settling in deeper, like roots spreading through my nerves, claiming every inch. My cock twitched in his grip, balls drawing up tight, but he held back the release. Teasing. Controlling.

*You're mine now, dude. That horny gym bro life? Amplified. Permanent wood. Endless loads. And the best part? Deep down, you're gonna beg for more.*

I tried one last push, screaming inside my head to fight back. But the pleasure crashed over me like a wave, drowning resistance. My hips thrust up into the fist pumping me, chasing that edge he'd never let me cross too soon.

"Fuuuuck yesss," my voice growled, not entirely mine anymore.

And just like that, I surrendered. Or he made me. Didn't matter. The horniness won. He won.

I landed in a perfect, rock-solid squat. I blinked, looking down, and realized I wasn't just in the picture—I was the picture. I was hovering inches off the pavement, balanced effortlessly on the balls of massive feet. This wasn't some weak, shaky crouch; this was raw power. I could feel my new thighs bulging against the thick black leather, these massive quads practically screaming to be unleashed. The Dainese suit was stretched taut across my knees and back, the leather creaking loudly with every tiny shift in weight. It felt tight, restrictive, and absolutely dominant. Being down this low, I got a front-row seat to my new footwear. God, these boots are enormous.

They looked like tanks attached to my ankles. From this angle, crouched down, I could see every scuff on the toe sliders, visual proof of how hard this body rides. And the smell… wow. Being bunched up like this concentrated everything. A wave of heat wafted up from the open collar of the suit and the tops of my boots—this heavy, intoxicating mix of high-octane fuel, worn leather, and pure, musky man-sweat. It was dizzying in the best way possible. I stayed there for a minute, just flexing, feeling how the leather gripped my skin, loving how heavy and grounded I felt.

Then, I decided to test the hydraulics. I pushed through my heels, and the power was explosive. I shot up to full height without even needing to use my hands for balance. Suddenly, the ground was miles away. I’m huge. I’m tall. I’m covered in armor. I checked the mirror, saw the scruffy face staring back, and stuck my tongue out. Yeah, I’m keeping this.

Immediately, the entity zeroed in on the sensory inputs, resuming the interrupted action. It lifted Dimitris's hand—its hand—to grasp the slab of walnut cake, fingers sinking into the sticky, syrup-soaked layers. Crumbs scattered across the hairy chest as it brought the piece to the bearded mouth, parting lips wide and biting down. Dimitris's deep timbre. "Input... exquisite," it processed, chewing slowly, letting the texture grind between teeth while subtly shifting the hips, feeling the cock stir and harden against the blanket's soft ridges.

One hand stayed aloft with the cake, mouth agape in mid-devour as captured in the image—eyes half-lidded in bliss, purple curtains framing the scene, slippers kicked aside on the shag rug, coffee mug and candle ignored on the table. The other hand slipped beneath the blanket, gripping the swelling shaft, stroking in erratic, buffering rhythms synced to each chew. Pre-cum slicked the foreskin, the entity amplifying signals for maximum feedback, pumping harder as cake crumbs mingled with sweat on the torso. Climax glitched through the body in hot, looping spurts, soaking the fabric while it swallowed the last bite, the possessed hunk frozen in that lounged pose, reveling in the dual highs of flesh and indulgence.

From there, the entity looped the fun: edging the dick for hours in mirrors, hijacking hookups with augmented endurance, turning Dimitris's form into a perpetual explicit sim.

God, these boots, though. Alpinestars, sleek red and black, hugging my calves like a second skin, the leather creaking every time I shift. I've always had this foot fetish, you know? Feet, boots, the whole deal—it's like they ground me, but amp me up at the same time. Back in my old body, I'd obsess over sneakers or whatever, but now? These heavy-duty racing boots make me rock hard every damn time. The way they grip the pavement, the metallic toe sliders scraping just right, the zipper pulling tight against my ankle—fuck, it's intoxicating. I can't even walk without feeling that throb, that urge building up.

And since I took over this guy, I've turned him into a total freak. He was probably all straight-laced before, just revving engines and talking shop. But me? I've got him jerking off in his leather kombi every chance I get—zipped down just enough, hand slipping inside while the suit clings to every muscle, the sweat mixing with the leather scent. It's ritual now, after every ride, in some abandoned lot or even right here among the crew if I can sneak it. The risk, the feel of the material against my skin... it's addictive. Made him—me—a pervert in the best way.

It all went down at the gym last night. I was lurking in the shadows, my old scrawny ass body feeling like a joke compared to the beasts pumping iron around me. Then I spotted him-this towering Black stud, sweat glistening on his sculpted chest, veins popping like ropes on his arms as he cranked out reps on the bench press. His abs were a fucking washboard, tight and defined, leading down to those thick thighs that screamed power. But what really got me hard was imagining what was packing in those shorts. I knew right then: that body was mine.

I waited till he hit the locker room, all alone, stripping down after his workout. The dude was straight as an arrow, from what I could tell- probably chasing pussy left and right with that alpha energy. Not anymore. I had this serum I'd cooked up, some black-market shit that swaps souls and rewires the brain. Slipped up behind him like a shadow, jabbed that needle right into his thick neck before he could even grunt. He froze, eyes wide, body convulsing as the swap kicked in. Felt like electricity ripping through me-my essence pouring into his veins, shoving his weak- ass mind out and claiming every inch.

Next thing I know, I'm staring down at this massive, rock-hard cock swinging between my new legs. Fuck, it's a monster-thick as a beer can, veiny and uncut, the kind that makes bottoms beg and tops question their life choices. I grabbed it right there in the mirror, stroking that beast slow, feeling it throb in my grip. His old self? Dumped into my shitty original body, probably waking up confused as hell, but I added a twist to the serum-flipped his switch to full-on gay mode. Now that loser's gonna crave dick like I do, chasing after what he used to own. Serves him right for being born with all this perfection and wasting it on straight bullshit.

I flexed, watching those pecs bounce, abs rippling like waves. This skin? Smooth, dark, flawless. Muscles built from years of grinding, not some gym rat newbie shit. I'm the king now, alpha as fuck, ready to dominate.