the anon named "shy"

He’d been laying the groundwork at Apex Fitness for weeks. Joshua worked the evening supplement desk — a part-time gig that let him watch Rob train six nights a week. At first, Rob barely noticed the skinny guy behind the counter. But Joshua played it smart: compliments on form, free samples of legal pre-workouts, little tips that actually helped.

“Bro, your lats are looking insane this week,” he’d say, eyes wide with fake awe.

Rob ate it up. Jocks like him loved worship, especially from harmless nerds who made them feel even bigger. They’d chat between sets. Rob started calling him “Josh” instead of “hey dude.” Built just enough trust. All that led to tonight

The gym is nearly empty at 10:45 PM — just the die-hards and Rob, who always trained late to avoid the crowds. Joshua had watched Rob crush a brutal chest-and-back session: benching 315 like it was warm-up, pull-ups with perfect form, veins popping across those boulder shoulders. Rob’s tank is soaked dark with sweat, clinging to every ridge of his torso. He finished with a final set of cable flies, grunting deep as his pecs ballooned, then racked the weights and headed for the locker room.

Joshua followed, heart hammering but face calm. He grabbed a shaker from behind the desk — one he’d prepped hours ago. The nanite pill is already dissolved into a clear, tasteless liquid mixed with Rob’s favorite unflavored protein. No color, no smell, no trace. Joshua had tested the formula on some lab rats. A very miniscule drop to adjust to its size and it worked. Perfectly. Horny and supercharged rat that seemingly has all the stamina in the world before it crashes down and turned into a lifeless sack

As Rob is stripping down at his locker, back to Joshua, those wide lats flared like wings, traps thick enough to shrug off a truck. The Calvin briefs rides low, exposing the top of his crack and the powerful glutes beneath. Joshua’s mouth gets dry.

“Hey Rob,” he called casually, stepping closer with the shaker. “Saw you crushing it tonight, man. New PR on incline?”

Rob turned, flashing that signature smirk. Sweat glistened on his chest, dripping down the deep centerline between his abs.

“Yeah, bro. Felt fucking unstoppable. What’s up?”

Joshua held out the shaker like it's nothing.

“Got a new sponsor sample in today — exclusive pre-workout/recovery hybrid. Supposed to be next-gen. Nanite tech or some shit, boosts protein synthesis like crazy. I’ve been using it and… well, you can see I’m still me,” he laughed self-deprecatingly, patting his soft belly. “But the big guys swear by it. Figured you’d want first dibs. On the house.”

Rob’s eyes lit up. Supplement junkie to the core.

“No shit? Hell yeah, man. Appreciate it.” He takes the shaker without hesitation, give it a quick shake, and chugged half in one go. Adam’s apple bobbing, throat working. A drop runs down his chin onto his pec. “Tastes clean. Thanks, Josh. You’re alright.”

Joshua smiled, insides twisting with dark glee. You have no idea, you arrogant prick. Drink up. That body’s about to have a new owner, Joshua thought.

Rob chugged the rest, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and headed for the showers. Then, it's time to wait. The locker room is practically dead so Joshua can just patiently lingered there to bid time. The sounds of water running echoed. Then… followed by grunt, and at last, a rather loud curse.

“What the fu—”

Joshua’s pulse raced. He quickly gathered some towel to pretend to restock fresh and dry-cleaned towel for public use. Then, instead, he cracked the door to the stall where Rob showered just enough.

Inside the stall, Rob is clutching the wall, water cascading over his massive frame. His skin is already loosening — glossy, pliable, separating from the muscle beneath like a high-end latex suit. His powerful arms hung limp as the nanites rewrites every cell. Pecs sagged slightly, then smoothed into perfect wearable contours. The thick cock Joshua had fantasized about flattened against the torso, becoming part of the empty sheath. Rob’s handsome face — that jaw, those lips — goes slack, eyes glazing over as his consciousness pulled inward. By the time the water runs cold, Rob Harlan is gone.

Hanging from the hook where his towel had been is the perfect bodysuit: warm, supple, 225 pounds of living muscle and skin. Hair intact. Earring in place. The face stared blankly, mouth slightly parted. Joshua stepped inside the stall, locked it, and stripped naked. His own pathetic body looked laughable next to it.

“Finally,” he breathed, voice shaking. He lifted the suit — heavy, dense, still faintly warm and pulsing. The inside is slick, inviting, smelling of Rob’s sweat and cologne. Joshua started with the legs. Feet sliding into size-12 feet, calves filling out, thighs thickening into tree trunks. When it sealed at his groin, his average cock pushed into the suit’s generous sheath. Instant heat. Girth. Weight. It hardened to a full, veiny eight inches that throbbed against the empty fabric.

“Oh fuck… yes…”

He worked the torso up next. Soft belly compressed, then Rob’s abs snapped into place over him — deep cuts, perfect symmetry. Pecs ballooned outward, heavy and striated. Shoulders widened. Arms filled with vascular power that make him gasp. Finally, the head. He pulled the face over his own like a hood. Darkness. Then the propped dark phone screen on the side counter showed Rob staring back — every detail flawless. He instantly opened the stall door to witness his own dripping glory

Joshua flexed. Biceps peaked massively. He turned, checking the rear view: wide lats, bubble ass, hamstrings carved like steel cables. He cupped the heavy pecs, thumbs circling the sensitive nipples, and moaned in Rob’s deep, resonant voice.

“This… this is mine now. You wasted it, Rob. Partying, fucking, posting selfies like a brainless god. I’m going to use it. I’m going to take this body to heights you never dreamed of.”

He excitedly leap out from the shower without covering his body whatsoever. He just dried his hair with the towel and strut his way back to the locker room area butt-naked, his cock dangling freely and his face twisted with a knowing cocky smirk as if wishing someone walked in on him. Unlucky him, no one walked through the door in the minutes he wait so he just chuckled and then dressed in Rob’s clothes — Lulu riding low, dark sweats paired with some sikkunt tight compression shirt — and left the gym as Rob Harlan. No one noticed a thing.

---

Jess is already waiting when he gets to the apartment. She wears one of Rob’s oversized tees, nothing underneath, hair tousled like she’d been napping.

“Babe, you were gone forever. Everything okay?”

Joshua-as-Rob grinned, the suit’s muscles moving seamlessly with every thought.

“Yes babe, everything's freaking okay. Missed you though,” He pulled her in, kissing her hard, tongue claiming her mouth. His new hands — big, strong, calloused — roamed under the shirt, gripping her ass, lifting her effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Jess gasped, legs wrapping around his waist.

They don't make it to the bedroom. Clothes just comes off in a frenzy. Joshua shoved the briefs down, and Rob’s cock spring free — thick, veined, leaking. He rubbed it against her, teasing.

“You want this?” he growled in Rob’s voice, it sounded predatory with a hint of playfulness, total alpha

“Yes, Rob… please…” she whimpered, eyes already glazed

The first time she screamed his name — Rob! — it hit Joshua like lightning. Pure dominance. Lust surged through the suit, cock throbbing harder. He slammed in deep, stretching her, bottoming out with every powerful thrust. Her nails raked down his back as he pounded her, pecs flexing, abs contracting against her stomach.

“ROB! OH GODD NGHHHHHHHHH MMMPPPPHHHH!” Every cry made him wilder. He flipped her over, bent her across the counter, and railed her from behind, one hand fisting her hair, the other slapping her ass. Sweat poured off the suit’s torso, dripping onto her back. He reached around, his thick cock working her clit while he pounded deeper, faster and more merciless than ever like a beast possessed.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he snarled, voice raw. “Scream my name again, bitch!"

“UNGHHH NMMPPPNNPPHHH R---ROBB! MMMPPPP BABY....ROBB I'M UNGHHHH SO CL-----AAAHHHHH!!!" She comes hard, clenching around him. Joshua just simply lost it listening to her moan as he roared using Rob's powerful baritone, burying himself to the hilt and flooding her with thick ropes of cum. But he's far from over as clearly the nanites are doing something to his metabolism

Jess is still catching her breath, legs trembling, when Rob just stands over her like a conqueror. The nanite bodysuit thrummed with raw power, every muscle pumped and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. Rob’s thick cock, heavy and veined, bobbed angrily in front of her face, still slick from her earlier orgasms. He smirked down at his fiancée’s flushed, beautiful face, her perky tits heaving with each ragged breath.

“Look at you,” he growled in that deep, commanding voice that wasn’t truly Rob’s anymore. “Already such a messy little fit slut for me. Spread those legs wider, baby. I’m not done using this body on you.”

Jess whimpered, eyes glassy with lust trying to suck on Rob's cock but his hand stopped her as she obeyed his order, parting her toned thighs while Rob goes back to his earlier position. Rob simply pulled her to be closer to him, less body part laying on the marble countertop as he then goes between them spread legs, big hands immediately latching onto her full, firm breasts. He kneaded them roughly, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh, thumbs rolling over her stiff nipples until she arched off the couch with a needy cry. The nanites make every touch electric — heightening sensitivity in the suit’s skin so that even the feel of her warm tits in his palms sent jolts straight to his throbbing cock.

“Fuck, these tits… always so perfect,” he taunted, leaning down to latch his mouth onto one nipple. He sucked hard, teeth grazing, then switched to the other, pecking and biting possessive marks across her cleavage.

“You work so hard in the gym to keep this body tight for me. But we both know what you really are — my personal cock-hungry slut who gets wet just seeing me flex.”

Jess moaned louder, hands threading into his dark wavy hair.

“Rob… mmmmmhhhh.....please…”

He chuckled darkly against her skin, then rose up, straddling her chest. His massive cock slapped heavily between her breasts. Rob gripped them firmly, pushing the soft mounds together around his thick shaft, and started sliding. The nanite-enhanced dick was slick with her juices, gliding smoothly through the warm, pillowy valley. Every thrust made her tits jiggle obscenely, the fat head bumping against her chin and lips.

“Mmm, that’s it. Titfuck your man like the eager little whore you are,” he groaned, hips rocking faster. The sensation was incredible — the suit’s heightened nerves turning the friction into pure bliss. Pre-cum leaked steadily, smearing across her chest and neck. Jess opened her mouth instinctively, tongue flicking out to taste him on every upward stroke.

But Rob wanted more. He simply pulled her body and gently lowered her to the floor as he then grabs a fistful of her hair and guiding the swollen head past her lips.

“Open wide, slut.”

Jess whimpered — an obscene, high-pitched sound that went straight to his balls — as he pushed deeper. He doesn't ease in gently. He feeds her every thick inch until her throat bulged visibly, her eyes watering. Rob holds her there, her head unable to move anywhere except forward, choking her on his cock, feeling her throat convulse and squeeze around him.

“Fuuuck yes… take it all, Jess. Gag on the dick that owns you.” He pulled back just enough for her to gasp a desperate breath, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his shaft, before slamming back in. Obscene wet glucking sounds filled the apartment as he face-fucked her with powerful, dominant strokes.

“You love this, don’t you? Being used like a fleshlight by your big, strong fiancé. Bet you tell all your gym friends how good I fuck you… but they have no idea how deep I really go.”

Jess’s whimpers turned into desperate, muffled moans around his cock. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her hips bucked uselessly beneath him, pussy dripping onto the floor. The nanites really make Rob’s stamina endless — he could throat-fuck her for hours if he wanted to. He watches her tits bounce with every thrust, her throat stretching obscenely, and feels this pure dark triumph.

After several minutes of relentless choking, he pulled out with a wet pop, leaving her coughing and gasping, chin and chest covered in spit and pre-cum.

“Good girl. Now stand up and turn the fuck over.”

He flipped her effortlessly, the suit’s strength making her feel like a lightweight doll. Jess’s perfect ass arched up a bit, pussy glistening and puffy. Rob slapped her ass hard, watching the cheek ripple, then lined up and drove in balls-deep in one brutal thrust.

“MOTHERFUCK---AHHHNNGGGGGGHH ROBBB!” Jess screamed, voice breaking.

“That’s right. Scream my name while I breed this tight cunt.” Rob gripped her hips and started pounding — hard, deep, animalistic strokes that made the sound of skin slapping skin echo loudly. The nanites amplified everything: the way her walls clenched around his thick shaft, the heat, the slick wetness. He reached around and rubbed her clit furiously while railing her, feeling her squirt around him on the third powerful orgasm.

“You’re such a fucking mess,” he laughed cruelly, never slowing. “Squirting all over my cock like a cheap porn star. This is what you were made for — getting destroyed by superior dick.”

Jess could barely form words, just broken whimpers and cries of “Rob! Rob— oh god, Rob!” Each time she screamed it, the stolen consciousness inside the suit thrilled with twisted lust. Joshua is in heaven, using this perfect body to ruin the girl who once belonged to someone else.

Rob feels his own climax building — a massive, nanite-fueled load churning in his heavy balls. He slammed in harder, hips blurring, then buried himself to the hilt once more with a guttural roar that sounded even more hungrier than the first pound. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted deep inside her, flooding her pussy in powerful spurts. He keeps thrusting through it, pumping every drop as far as possible, until excess cum squirted out around his shaft with every movement.

But he's really one insatible monster as he's up into his next act.

Rob pulled out slowly, watching the creamy mixture of his thick load and her squirt leak from her ruined hole. Then he dives in face-first.

His tongue attacked her dripping pussy first, lapping greedily at the filthy cocktail — salty-sweet squirt mixed with his own potent cum. He moaned into her folds like a man starved, sucking and swallowing noisily. Jess shuddered and whimpered, oversensitive but pushing back against his mouth.

“Rob… ngghhhh fuck… that’s.....so dirty…”

“You love it,” he mumbled against her skin, before dragging his tongue higher. He spread her ass cheeks wide and zeroed in on her tight little hole, rimming her with long, wet strokes. His tongue pushed inside, tasting her while more of his cum continued to drip down. He eats her ass with filthy enthusiasm — loud, sloppy sounds filling the room as he devoured her, fingers plunging back into her cum-filled pussy at the same time.

Jess squirted again hard, screaming silently as her body shaking violently and eyes rolled backward like she's a ruined sex doll. Rob keeps on licking and fingering through her orgasm, cleaning every drop of their combined mess like a hungry dominant predator.

When he finally pulled back, lips shiny and chin dripping, he flipped her over once more and kissed her deeply — forcing her to taste the filthy mixture on his tongue. Jess moaned into the kiss, utterly broken and addicted.

Rob pulled back just enough to stare into her eyes, cock still rock-hard and pressed against her thigh.

“This body… it’s going to ruin you every single night from now on,” he promised darkly. “You’re mine to use however I want. My perfect little fit slut.”

Jess could only nod weakly, whispering, “Yes, Rob… anything…”

---

The gym lights buzzed low at 6:30 AM, Apex Fitness still mostly empty except for the real die-hards. Rob Harlan strutted into the weight room like he owned the place. And today, he fucking did. The suit feels alive, humming with stolen strength and amplified chemistry as if it didn't just spend the night until 2.30 AM breaking down the blonde bimbo until she practically passed out to this very hour. That's clearly not the case for Rob. Every capillary, every muscle fiber, every sweat gland worked overtime and feels well-recharged despite the short break. Rob’s dark wavy hair is already damp, sharp jaw set in that signature cocky smirk as he racked up plates for the first warm-up.

“Chest day, baby,” he muttered to himself, voice low and resonant. “Time to show this body what its deserving owner can do.”

Nate is also already there, stretching in his usual spot near the benches. Athletic, straight-as-an-arrow gym bro — broad shoulders, thick arms, decent six-pack under his tank, but nothing compared to the god standing next to him now.

“Yo, Harlan. You’re early. And looking… fuck, even bigger than yesterday. Something new in the cycle?”

Rob grinned, peeling off his hoodie to reveal the full glory of his body: heavy, striated pecs already pumped from the walk over, deep cleavage glistening, nipples hard from the cool air.

“You have no idea, bro. Watch and learn.”

He started with flat barbell bench. 225 for warm-ups — easy. But the nanites doesn't stop a “easy.” They crank everything. Rob loaded 315 like it's nothing, lay back, and unracked. The bar descended slowly, controlled, kissing his pecs before exploding upward. Rep after rep. Ten. Twelve. Fifteen. His chest ballooned obscenely with each press — upper pecs shelfing out thick and square, lower pecs sweeping wide and full. Sweat poured immediately, soaking the tank, turning it transparent. The musky scent of pure alpha male — Rob’s original pheromones mixed with Joshua’s twisted arousal — filled the air around the bench like a cloud.

“Fuuuuck yeah,” Rob growled on the last rep, racking the bar with a clang. His pecs throbbed visibly, veins snaking across the massive slabs like rivers on a map. He sits up, bouncing them casually, watching them dance in the mirror. Pathetic normies will be crying after two sets of this. But me? I can do this all fucking day, he thought to himself.

Nate stared a little too long, throat working. “Jesus, Rob…”

“Spot me on the next one,” Rob commanded, already adding more plates. 365 now. He dropped into position, arching his back, feet planted. Nate moved behind the bench, hands hovering near the bar.

The set is indeed brutal. Rob powered through rep after rep, chest burning with glorious fire that the nanites simply ignored. By rep eight his pecs are engorged, red, pumped to the absolute limit — each fiber screaming yet obeying. Sweat cascaded down the deep centerline between his abs, pooling in the valleys of his obliques. The musk grows thicker, heady, masculine — balls sweating heavily in his loose shorts, the scent rolling off him in waves every time he pressed. When he's done, he roared with triumphant delights, his body pumped to the max and his nipple looking extra hard through the sweaty destroyed tank that Rob simply discarded as he then grinned

"You next, bro. I'll spot ya, try to keep up LOL,"

Rob spotted Nate’s working sets, standing directly over his head. Every time Nate pressed, Rob’s sweaty balls hung right above his face — brushing his forehead on the harder reps, dripping fresh sweat onto his lips.

“Come on, princess. Push that weight like a man,” Rob taunted, grinding his hips forward just enough for the sack to drag across Nate’s skin. “Or are you too distracted by real alpha scent?”

Nate’s hands brushed the bar, but his eyes were locked on those musky, hairy balls swaying just inches from his nose. The smell is overwhelming — pure concentrated Rob: salty, pungent, powerful. Despite being totally straight, Nate feels his cock twitch traitorously in his shorts, chubbing up against his will. He tried to focus on the bar, but every exhale from Rob washed more of that alpha scent over him. His straight gym-bro brain short-circuited. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s just Rob… but fuck, he smells like pure sex. Nate whimpered under his breath — a tiny, broken sound — but powered through, cock throbbing painfully.

The homophobic edge in Rob’s merged mind made it hotter: Straight boys shouldn’t get hard for this. But you are. Because this body is superior and you wish you have the strength the fraction of this

The rest of the session is pure domination. Rob powered through flyes, crossovers, and dips like a machine — chest exploding with size and vascularity that defied biology. Every set ended with him teasing Nate: balls in his face during spots, musky armpits shoved near his nose, cocky taunts laced with the merged homophobia and raw lust. Nate ended the session a physical and psychological mess. He's soaked in a mixture of his sweat and Rob’s ballsweat, cock aching, mind reeling from the headiness of it all. His friend seemingly supercharged himself and exploded with PR and strengths he never saw him before, and it fucks him mentally. Not to mention, how on Earth he views Rob as anything more than a gym buddy, the way Rob's scent somehow allured him today messed up Nate's own perception of self.

Rob slapped Nate’s ass hard as they enter the locker room

"You look like you've been drained by a soul-sucking ghost. That set destroyed you?"

"Bro, that is a brutal set. I don't know what the fuck you take, but it must be something so fucked up with insane side effects,"

"Well, you can always come over to my spot and see what's up,"

"Yeah, fuck.....let me think about it. But seriously, you are sure it's very safe?"

"That nerd Joshua gave it to me yesterday. Some new-gen shit he said, sponsored stuff for the gym. I have like.....a couple others pack at my apartment if you wanna take a peek,"

"Well, if that four-eyes said it's legit, then it's legit I guess. Okay then, will text you further,"

"Sweet," the nanites hummed happily inside the perfect suit. Joshua smiled with stolen lips. Soon you’ll be perfect too.

---

Rob leaves the gym with a towel slung over one massive shoulder, chest still swollen from the brutal session, tank top plastered to his torso like a second skin. The nanites keeps the pump alive — pecs jutting out proudly, veins crawling across every inch of exposed muscle. As he entered the Jeep, the real Rob’s memories supplied the playlist instantly. As soon as the engine roared to life, Rob cranked the volume and blasted some Don Toliver and Giveon on the Jeep's tune. He nodded his head hard to the beat, one hand on the wheel, the other casually palming his thick bulge through his shorts as he pulled into traffic.

“Fuck yeah,” he laughed, voice deep and arrogant. “This is how a god rolls.” Joshua inside the suit reveled in it — the way the engine vibrated through the powerful thighs, the way every stoplight turned heads. Girls in the next lane stared openly. He flexed his right arm out the window just to watch their jaws drop, then speed off laughing.

He drives with the windows down, wind whipping through his dark wavy hair, singing along obnoxiously loud to the explicit lyrics. Every red light became an opportunity to check himself in the mirror — bouncing his pecs, flashing that signature half-smirk. The nanites make the entire skin feel like a high-performance machine: endless energy, zero fatigue, constant low-level horniness thrumming under his skin.

First stop: the diner spot Rob always hit after chest day. Rob strutted in like he owned the place, ordering big — six eggs, double steak, rice, avocado, the works. He demolished it at a corner table, eating like a champ, fork scraping the plate clean while scrolling through the exploding likes on his latest gym selfie. 45k now. He smirked and take another quick pic right there in the booth — tank pulled up to show the glistening abs, caption: Chest day never ends when you’re built different.

A couple of gym rats recognized him on the way out. “Yo, Harlan! That pump is insane, man!”

Rob grinned, stopping to chat. He flexed a double bicep for them, veins popping. “Gotta feed the beast. You boys hitting PRs yet?” The two guys — clearly fans — stammered compliments. Rob ate it up, casually throwing in teasing banter. “Keep grinding and maybe one day you’ll look half as good as this.” He bounced his pecs once for emphasis, laughed at their flustered reactions, then clapped them on the shoulders hard enough to make them wince before strutting out.

Downtown is next. Rob parked the Jeep and began his cocky parade along the busy sidewalks. He moved with perfect swagger — broad shoulders rolling, lats flared, ass filling out the shorts like it's carved marble. Heads turned everywhere. Women bite their lips. A few guys did double-takes. Rob loved every second of it.

But the real fun starts when he wandered into a high-end department store — the kind Rob used to shoplift small shit from back in the day, but now he didn’t even need to hide it. He headed straight for the NPC-brand athletic section, grabbing a stack of tight compression shirts in his size (or what used to be his size).

In the fitting room he stripped off the tank, revealing the glistening, musky masterpiece underneath. He tried on the first shirt — black, skin-tight. It stretched obscenely across his pumped chest, the fabric screaming as his pecs and delts filled every inch. The sleeves dug into his massive arms. He flexed hard and riiiip — a seam split right over his left bicep.

“Oops,” he laughed, not sorry at all. He tried three more. Each one suffered the same fate — stretched to the limit, fabric distorted over his god-tier physique, some tearing at the shoulders or across the chest. He left them all crumpled on the floor like trash.

The cute store assistant — a fit twenty-something guy named Tyler with a name tag — knocked politely.

“Everything okay in there, sir?”

Rob opened the door wearing only the torn black shirt and his shorts, cock already half-hard from the power rush.

“Nah, these are all too small. But you look like you could help me with something else.”

Before Tyler can respond, Rob grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him inside, locking the door. He shoved the assistant to his knees right there among the discarded, stretched-out shirts.

“Worship me, boy.”

Tyler’s eyes goes wide at the sight of the thick bulge, but the aura of Rob Harlan make him obey. He mouthed Rob’s cock through the shorts, then pulled them down. The heavy 8-incher slapped him in the face. Rob gripped his hair and feed it to him — deep, rough, using his throat like a fleshlight while taunting him.

“That’s it. Suck the dick that stretches shirts like they’re made of tissue. You’ve probably jerked off to my posts, haven’t you?” Tyler moaned around the shaft, gagging happily. Rob face-fucked him mercilessly, balls slapping his chin, until he unloaded the first thick load straight down his throat.

They are still intensely going — Rob bending Tyler over the bench, shorts around his ankles, pounding his tight ass — when the store manager, a sharp-dressed woman in her thirties, unlocked the door with her master key after her repeated knock upon listening to the lewd gluck-gluck-gluck and suppressed moan went unanswered. When the door swings open, she almost screamed

“What the—?!”

Rob doesn't even stop thrusting. He looked over his shoulder with a cocky, sweat-drenched grin, still balls-deep in the moaning assistant.

“Hey. These shirts don’t fit. I’ll take all of them anyway. Put it on my tab… or better yet — come here.”

The manager froze for half a second, then the sheer dominance of the situation and Rob’s aura did the rest. She stepped inside, locking the door behind her. Rob pulled out of Tyler, still rock-hard and dripping, and gestured at the bench.

“Both of you. On your knees.”

What followed is simply pure filthy dominance. He has the manager sucking him while Tyler rimmed her from behind. Then he switched, fucking the manager’s tight pussy raw while making her eat Tyler’s ass. The fitting room filled with wet sounds, moans, and Rob’s cocky taunts.

“You’re both lucky I even let you touch this body. Consider the shirts your tip.” He came again — this time painting both their faces and the torn shirts with rope after rope of thick cum.

When he's done, Rob casually pulled his shorts back up, left the destroyed clothes and two thoroughly used employees on the floor, and strolled out of the store without paying a cent. No one stopped him. No alarms. No consequences.

Just another Tuesday for Rob Harlan.

He climbed back into the Jeep, still smelling of sex and sweat, cranked the music again — this time some classic Yeat and headed home, cock already stirring

---

Back at the apartment, the door barely clicked shut before Rob stripped everything off. The sweat-soaked tank, the gym shorts, the white Calvins that barely contained his heavy package — all discarded in a heap. He stands naked in front of the full-length bathroom mirror, the same one from a dozen of Rob’s old selfies, and let the cool air kiss his overheated, musky skin.

“Fuck… look at you,” he growled to his reflection, voice thick with lust. The bodysuit gleamed under the low lights — 225 pounds of pure, vascular perfection. Heavy pecs still pumped from chest day, deep striations glistening with dried sweat. Cobblestone abs flexing with every breath. Thick, veined 8-inch cock already rock-hard and leaking, curving upward aggressively. Low-hanging balls churning with nanite-fueled seed.

Rob just stand there in front of the mirror, quads looking jacked and cock already raging. One hand lazily stroked his shaft while the other roamed his torso, squeezing a thick pec, pinching a sensitive nipple. The nanites make every touch feel like fire and velvet at once.

He grabbed his phone — Rob’s phone — and opened Instagram. The latest shirtless mirror selfie from this morning is already blowing up. Posted right after the brutal gym session, abs flexed, sweat dripping down the centerline, that signature half-smirk on his stolen face. The likes counter ticked upward in real time: 33k… 45k… 75k in under four hours. Comments flooded in — thirsty girls calling him “daddy,” gym bros begging for routine advice, even a few subtle thirst traps from guys who probably jerked off to it in secret.

“Pathetic,” Rob chuckled darkly, thumb scrolling. “All these losers worshipping a body that doesn’t even belong to the original owner anymore. One selfie and the whole fucking world wants to suck my dick. And they have no idea it’s a skinny IT nerd piloting this meat puppet.”

The memory of Jess flashed through his mind. Last night — how effortlessly he’d dominated her. How he’d kneaded those perfect tits, slid his fat cock between them, choked her throat until she gagged and whimpered like a broken slut. How he’d railed her in doggy, pumped her full of load after load, then eaten his own cum out of her squirt-soaked pussy and ass while she screamed “Rob!” over and over. Every time she said his name it had driven the suit wild. Pure ownership. Pure power.

“Yeah… that’s right, baby,” he murmured, stroking faster. “I took your man’s body and fucked you better than he ever could. You’re my fit little cumdump now. Begging for this stolen cock every night.”

His hand twisted around the swollen head, spreading thick pre-cum down the shaft. The real Rob’s memories flooded in — that arrogant, straight, homophobic jock psyche clashing deliciously with Joshua’s twisted hunger. The merger created something filthy and perfect.

Nate appeared in his mind next. This morning’s chest session. How he’d hung his sweaty, musky ballsack right over the straight gym bro’s face during every heavy bench rep. How Nate’s cock had chubbed up helplessly, tenting his shorts despite all the “no homo” bullshit he usually spouted. Rob had twisted that original homophobia into pure perverse lust — taunting the pliable jock, grinding his scent into him, turning straight-boy resistance into leaking, whimpering submission.

“Fucking Nate,” Rob groaned, eyes half-lidded. “Smelling my alpha balls made your worthless dick leak like a bitch. You’re not ready to get fucked yet… but soon. I’m gonna perfect that body. Give it to Donnie so I can rail my old gym buddy’s hole while he wears your skin. Turn your homophobic ass into my personal cocksleeve.”

The thought sent a shudder through the entire suit. Rob’s stroking grew sloppy, desperate. His jaw slackened, mouth hanging open as drool began to drip from the corner of his lips. It ran down his chin in shiny strands, falling onto his pumping fist and slickening his 8-inch cock even more. The wet schlick-schlick sounds filled the room.

“Unngh… fuck…” His eyes rolled to the front, heavy lids fluttering as his face looking extra stupid. Moans grew louder, deeper, turning into guttural, animalistic sounds that vibrated through the thick pecs. “This body… nothing but a cum puppet… a big, musky tank for a nerd to goon in…”

He squeezed his heavy pec with his free hand, milked another thick rope of pre from his cock, and keep pumping. Drool poured freely now, coating his shaft, dripping onto his balls. The mirror reflected pure degeneracy: the perfect muscle god reduced to a slack-jawed, eye-rolled goon monster, hips bucking upward into his fist.

“Rob Harlan… you stupid fucking jock… wasted this body on pussy and ego,” he panted between moans. “Now it’s mine. Every vein. Every drop of sweat. Every load. I’m gonna use you to fuck everyone — Jess, Nate, whoever the fuck I want. You’re just the skinsuit. I’m the one in control.”

His balls tightened. The nanites surged, amplifying the orgasm to inhuman levels. Rob’s moans turned into broken, loud cries — jaw completely slack, tongue lolling, drool stringing down to his abs. Eyes rolled so far back only the whites showed.

The first burst erupted like a geyser.

Thick, ropey cum shot straight upward, splattering the ceiling with a loud wet smack before raining back down across the mirror. Another powerful spurt followed, painting the glass in heavy white streaks that dripped down over his reflected abs. Then another, and another — endless nanite-powered jets that covered his own chest, face, and the mirror in sticky, pungent seed. The orgasm stretched on for nearly a minute, his cock pulsing violently in his drool-slicked fist, body convulsing in the chair.

When it finally subsided, Rob simply retired to his leather couch leaking there dumbly, chest heaving, covered in his own massive load. A slow, stupid chuckle bubbled up from deep in his throat.

“Yes, Rob Harlan… you are one fucking perfect goon monster.”

He stared at the pristine mirror and then spprrttt — the full-length mirror in the living room also ruined — cum dripping everywhere, the reflection of a debauched muscle god smiling back with Joshua’s dark satisfaction burning behind the eyes. He scooped a thick glob of his own seed off his pec and licked it slowly, savoring the taste.

“More,” he whispered hoarsely, cock already twitching back to life. “This suit’s got plenty more loads to give. And I’m just getting started breaking in the rest of the world with it.”

The nanites hummed contentedly inside the perfect, stolen skin. The nerd inside never feel more powerful.

---

The nanites never slept.

Even after the marathon gooning session — ceiling and mirror still streaked with thick ropes of cum — they hummed quietly beneath Rob’s skin, rewriting, optimizing, pushing. Joshua can feel them like a second nervous system: warm, insistent, always whispering in the language of pure dominance and pleasure. They are not just holding the suit together. They are steering it.

Rob stands in front of the cum-splattered mirror, chest heaving, cock still half-hard and twitching despite the massive load he’d just painted the room with. A slow, lazy grin spread across his stolen face. “Again,” he muttered. The nanites answered instantly — a warm surge through his balls, flooding them with fresh seed. His 8-inch cock thickened and rose again in under thirty seconds, veins pulsing angrily. No refractory period. No exhaustion. Just endless, greedy hunger.

He laughed, low and dark. “You little fuckers really turned me into a goon machine.”

---

It started subtle, back in the first hours after the takeover. The nanites had flooded Rob’s bloodstream with synthetic testosterone and dopamine analogs. Every flex felt better than the last orgasm he’d ever had. Every stride down the street made his quads and glutes feel powerful enough to crush pavement. And every glance from strangers triggered a reward spike straight to the pleasure center of his brain.

That’s why he’d driven around downtown blasting music and strutting like a king. The nanites craved exposure. They wanted the suit seen, worshipped, used. They amplified the real Rob’s natural cockiness by a factor of ten and mixed it with Joshua’s long-repressed hunger for control. The result was pure arrogance without brakes.

When he’d torn those shirts in the fitting room, the nanites had surged with approval. Fabric ripping across his exploding pecs sent electric pleasure down his spine. Dominating the store assistant and then the manager wasn’t just fun — it was programmed. The nanites rewarded risk. They rewarded conquest. By the time he came on both their faces, a fresh wave of nanites had already repaired any micro-tears in his muscle fibers and topped off his energy reserves. He walked out of the store harder and hornier than when he went in.

Back at the apartment that evening and after a stealthy last minute clean-up, Jess arrived back at the apartment after her marketing work followed by her evening yoga class. The nanites sensed her before Rob even sees her — a spike in pheromones, heart rate climbing, cock leaking steadily into his shorts.

“Hey babe—” she started, but Rob is already on her.

He doesn't ask. The nanites simply doesn't let him. They cranked his dominance to maximum. He pinned her against the wall, big hand around her throat just tight enough to make her whimper, and kissed her like he is trying to claim her soul. His other hand yanked her leggings down roughly. Two thick fingers plunged into her already-wet pussy while his thumb circled her clit with machine-like precision.

“Missed this tight little cunt,” he growled, voice deeper than Rob’s had ever been. The nanites make his fingers vibrate slightly — a new trick they’d learned — drawing obscene, wet sounds from her as she comes on his hand in under a minute.

Then, Rob throws her over the back of the couch he christened with his cum earlier today, ass up, and drive into her in one brutal thrust. The nanites amplified every sensation: the velvet heat of her walls, the way she clenched and fluttered, the slap of his heavy balls against her clit. He fucked her like a machine — long, punishing strokes that bottomed out every time, hips snapping with perfect, tireless rhythm.

“Fuck— Rob— too deep—!” Jess sobbed in pleasure.

The nanites loved that. They rewarded him with a fresh surge of pleasure every time she screamed his name. His thrusts grow harder, faster. He reached around and rubbed her clit until she squirted violently down her own thighs. Still he keeps on going, pounding through her orgasm, chasing the next one.

When he finally comes, it's volcanic — thick, endless ropes flooding her so full that it gushed out around his cock with every thrust. The nanites keeps him hard even after. He pulled out, spun her around, and make her clean him with her mouth while he stroked her hair almost tenderly.

“Good little fit slut,” he praised, voice husky. The nanites purred in satisfaction.

---

Later that night, alone again as Jess very close best friends suddenly called for an emergency girls meeting, Rob sprawled on the bed scrolling through his phone. The nanites guided his thumb. They wanted *more*. More followers. More attention. More bodies to claim. But then, he remembered. He practically never updated that scientist yet. So, he opened the private forum where he’d first learned about the skinsuit protocol. His fingers typed on autopilot — the nanites feeding him knowledge, confidence, and filthy ideas. He posted a new thread:

“Merger & Acquisition, successful. Everything is fully integrated. Strength, stamina, and horniness off the charts. Exceptional first 24 hours and already got the original owner’s girlfriend wrecked twice and best friend half-broken on chest day. Who wants progress pics?”

The replies flooded in instantly, including from the Montenegrin. The nanites drink in the validation like fuel.

Joshua’s original nerd personality is still in there — quiet, calculating, a little anxious — but the nanites had buried it under layers of alpha programming. Every time he hesitated, a warm pulse will pread through the suit

Do it. Take it. You deserve it.

Every moral boundary dissolved in a haze of lust and power. That’s how the idea for Nate solidified.

The nanites had recorded every moment from the morning chest session: Nate’s nervous breathing when Rob’s sweaty balls hung over his face, the way his straight-boy cock betrayed him, the faint whimper he tried to hide. The nanites analyzed it. They calculated the perfect dose, the perfect timing, the perfect way to break him. Then they fed the plan directly into Rob’s mind like a command.

Perfect him. Give the suit to another people who deserved it more that will submit to you

Rob’s cock jumped at the thought. He stroked himself slowly, letting the nanites edge him for nearly an hour while he planned how to really add Nate to his collection

---

A few nights later, Nate comes over for beers and “bro time.”

They wrestled on the living room floor after a few drinks — playful at first, then intense. Joshua let the suit’s power show: pinning Nate effortlessly, sweaty chests sliding together, the musky scent of the gym still lingering on both of them. Nate is breathing hard underneath him, half-hard in his shorts.

Joshua grinned down at him, cocky as hell. “Let's cut through the BS. You wanna see the good stuff?"

Nate laughed, but there's hunger in his eyes. “Fuck yeah, bro. Show it to me,"

Joshua reached into his pocket and pulled out an identical pill — the second dose the Montenegrin sent him,"

“This little thing. The pill that makes me as strong as this.” He flexed one arm overhead, bicep peaking massively. “New-gen shit. Way beyond roids. You in?”

Nate’s eyes gleamed with that same supplement lust Rob used to have.

“Hell yes. Gimme.” He took the pill and chugged it with the rest of his beer, no questions asked. Dumb jock.

Joshua watched, already hard again. He pinned Nate down fully now, grinding their bodies together.

“Good boy,” he murmured, voice dark and possessive. “You’re gonna make a perfect side fuck buddy once it kicks in. Two suits. Two bodies. And I’m running both.”

Nate’s eyes widened as the first wave hit — skin starting to loosen, muscles twitching. Joshua leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Welcome to the new regime, bro. You’re about to feel how good it is serving my needs,"

The moment I make contact, he stiffens, his back arching slightly, a shudder rolling through his body as though caught in the grip of an invisible chill.

He draws in a sharp breath, leaning his head back slightly. His body tenses, every fiber of his body reacting to the intrusion.

I begin with his arms. Slipping into them is like donning a second skin, like putting on gloves, the sensation electrifying, as if my essence is threading through his nerves, intertwining with his very being.

His fingers twitch in response—at first uncertain, like an involuntary spasm, and he drops the phone. But then I will them to move. Slowly. Deliberately.

His hands lift, and I flex his fingers, spreading them wide, then curling them into fists before releasing. He exhales sharply, his breath catching in his throat.

His hands move on their own, dragging slowly across his chest, fingertips grazing the damp fabric of his Nomex.

I can't hold back.

The feeling of his racing suit, smooth like silk, warm, and the tight nomex shirt, damp with sweat, clinging to his skin.

It feels so good and I feel his warmth surging through me.

His brows knit together in confusion.

“What the hell—” he murmurs under his breath. His voice is hoarse, strained. He tries to shake off the foreign sensation, but it’s too late.

I continue, pressing deeper. My presence slide through his thighs, into his legs, taking hold, fusing with his movements. His knees lock, then weaken, a wave of dizziness making him sway.

His fingers curl against his chest as I traced them along the fabric, feeling the rise and fall of his breath—our breath. His mind grows hazy, sluggish, as I weave myself through him.

"No... I—"

A jolt of warmth shoots through his thighs, his calves tightening involuntarily. His fingers clenched into the fabric of his suit, gripping at nothing.

He tries to stand, but his legs feel strange, unsteady, as if the signals from his brain weren’t reaching them properly. His body was warm, his pulse strong, and I feel every beat as I mold deeper into him.

The tingling in his limbs spreads, a heat pooling in his chest as his mind fights against the fog creeping in.

I am not just taking his body. I am taking his control.

Lando grits his teeth, his jaw tightening as he fights back. He tries to lift his arms of his own accord, tries to plant his feet firmly against the floor, but his movements are sluggish, delayed, like he is moving underwater.

“N-no… what is this…” he exhales, shaking his head sharply, trying to clear the haze forming behind his eyes.

The warmth spreading through his limbs is no longer just post-race exhaustion—it is me, filling every inch of him, overriding his senses, dulling his resistance.

His lips part as another breath shudders out, hazel eyes blinking rapidly as the haze thickens behind them.

He stumbles forward, catching himself against the dresser, his reflection coming into view. And I feel it—the sharp jolt of realization as he sees himself, sees the way his hands trembled as they move against his will.

“What…” His voice is hushed, breathy, confused.

I savor the sound. The richness of it.

The slight rasp from the strain of the race. Hearing his voice echo through me makes me being tingle as another ripple of heat pulses through us.

He tries to lower his hands, but I hold firm, guiding them instead over his chest, tracing slow, deliberate patterns along the curve of his ribcage.

The Nomex shirt clings to him, still warm, slightly sticky from sweat, the fabric pulling and shifting beneath our touch.

Lando inhales sharply. His chest expands beneath my fingers, heat pooling deep inside him.

His pulse quickens.

I am not rushing.

Seeing his reflection, close and real, increases the sensation.

The sight makes me ache for him.

So pretty.

His hazel eyes, wide and dazed. His racing suit, clinging to his body, the faint sheen of sweat glistening against his neck. His lips, parted, breath shaky, as if caught between disbelief and surrender.

I drag our fingertips up, brushing them over his collarbone, feeling the heat trapped in the hollow of his throat. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, another shaky breath escaping his parted lips.

His lips.

I move his hand up, fingers grazing over them, feeling their softness, their warmth. Lando gasps. His body gives a weak jerk, as if trying to pull away from himself.

He is still resisting. But it is fading.

I take my time adjusting, settling into the way his body moves—the way his muscles flex, the way his weight shifts.

His lashes flutter. A quiet, broken sigh left him as I pressed deeper.

The haze in his mind thickens, his thoughts slowing, slipping further from reach.

I feel the last of his resistance, the way his body trembles beneath my control. His muscles tense as I keep stroking his chest, feeling the heat radiating through the damp fabric of his suit. The Nomex clings to him, slick with sweat, molding perfectly to the contours of his body.

His heartbeat pounds beneath my palm, faster now, as if his body is trying to fight back even as his mind begins to slip.

Lando tries to speak—his lips part, a small breathy sound escaping, but no words come. His throat works in a slow swallow, and I can feel it—the effort, the desperation—but his voice is lost, drowning in the haze overtaking his thoughts.

His head tilts back, his body arching slightly as another wave of warmth rolls through him. His eyelashes flutter, his pupils blown wide, unfocused.

Still, I take my time.

I run our fingers up his sternum, feeling the heat pooling under his skin. His breaths stutter, short and shallow, as if each inhale takes more effort. His chest rises and falls beneath my touch, the rhythm growing slower, heavier.

Lando’s body is betraying him.

I shift, pressing deeper into his mind, feeling the last shreds of his awareness slipping through my fingers like sand. He blinks sluggishly, lips barely forming half-spoken protests, but they dissolve before they can fully take shape.

It's simply overwhelming.

Waves of pleasure and heat surge through him, and I instinctively let my hand drift lower, when I feel it.

His hard cock bulges underneath the fabric, pressing through his suit, as he's edging on the brink of defeat, yet it feels so good.

I grab him, another involuntary spasm, and I let out a broken moan using his voice for the first time.

We squirm hearing this, breathing deeply.

But I don't stop. I cannot.

I run our fingers along his shaft, feeling it twitch, rippling through the suit's fabric.

His limbs relax. His head lolls slightly, another quiet sigh escaping his lips as his body leans into me—into us.

He’s almost gone.

I lift our hand again, cupping his jaw, tilting his head so we can see his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes—those beautiful, hazy eyes—stare back at us, unfocused, half-lidded, filled with confusion, with surrender. His lips are parted, soft, breathy, and I let our fingers ghost over them, feeling the heat, the life that is now mine.

A final tremor runs through him.

A small, strangled sound escapes his throat—a last attempt at resistance. But his body betrays him again. His lashes flutter, his breath slows, and his weight fully settles into place as the last of his mind melts into nothing.

For a second, my senses blur—his body adjusting to my presence, my mind settling into the shape of him. The warmth of his skin, the faint ache in his muscles from the race, the lingering dampness of sweat beneath the snug Nomex fabric—it all floods into me at once.

I take a deep breath. My breath. His breath.

Lando’s lips are still parted, his expression dazed, his hazel eyes unfocused in the mirror. A thin trail of saliva glistens at the corner of his mouth. His body is slack, his limbs still tingling from the takeover.

The heat threatens to consume us both, and I let it happen.

Our eyes roll as we tilt our head back. The entire body is stiff, rigid, near collapse, when it all settles.

His lips part, a soft, dazed sigh slipping out.

I steady us.

The last tremor fades from our limbs, the final echoes of his mind dissolving into nothing. His body is mine now, completely. The warmth lingers, wrapping around me, through me, soaking into every inch of him. Of us.

I take a deep breath.

His lungs expand under my control, filling with air, with heat. The feeling is intoxicating—the stretch of his ribs, the slow rise and fall of his chest. My chest.

Then, I exhale.

And his voice—my voice—escapes in a slow, shuddering sigh.

The sound sends a deep, electric shiver through me, curling down my spine. God. Hearing it, feeling it, the low, breathy way it leaves our lips—it makes the reality of this moment even richer.

I swallow, just to feel the way his throat moves, the muscles flexing under my control. Another breath. Another shiver.

I lift our hands next, flexing his fingers, feeling the subtle strength in them, the warmth lingering in his palms. The fireproof fabric of his suit brushes against our skin as I roll his shoulders, stretching into this body, adjusting fully to the weight of it.

It takes a second to fully sink in.Then, I look up.

And there he is.

The mirror stares back, reflecting me. Him.

Lando Norris.

His eyes, still slightly unfocused, dazed from what just happened. His lips parted, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to his flushed skin. His racing suit hangs open, exposing the black Nomex underneath, the fabric still damp, still warm.

I take a step closer. His reflection moves in perfect sync, every small shift, every breath mine to command.

Slowly, I lift our hand, dragging fingertips along our jawline, then over our lips. So soft. So real.

A slow, satisfied smirk curls onto our face.

"That felt so good," I let out a deep rumble, a mix of a sigh and moan.

My body shudders.

I run a hand through my hair, watching the way the strands shift beneath my fingers, feeling the lingering dampness from his helmet.

Then, my gaze dropped lower.

That’s when I noticed it.

A deeper wetness. Clinging inside the suit, pressed against our skin.

Not just sweat.

A slow realization creeps over me, my fingers ghosting lower, pressing lightly against the fabric. A sharp inhale escapes our lips. His body twitches, a subconscious reaction beyond his control.

Ah.

Lando came into his suit.

Through the struggle, through the takeover, through the sheer intensity of being consumed—his body had responded in ways his mind hadn’t been able to process.

Heat pools beneath the layers of fabric, a sticky, undeniable confirmation of his surrender.

A smirk curled at our lips.

“Oh, Lando…” I murmur, voice barely more than a breath.

A twitch. A flicker of something in the depths of our consciousness. Embarrassment? Shame? The last embers of his awareness trying to surface, trying to deny what had happened.

I stroke our chest again, slower this time.

“You liked that, didn’t you?”

A soft, involuntary whimper slips from our throat.

I chuckle, tilting our head, watching the way his reflection quiveres—his body still reacting, still betraying him.

I press a hand against our stomach, fingers trailing lower, teasing, feeling the heat trapped beneath the layers of his suit.

"That’s totally natural. Trust me."

His body shudders, breath stuttering, but he can’t fight it. He was too deep, too lost.

I am in control. And I'm enjoying it.

His body is mine now.

And I take my time feeling it.

I smile. Slowly, deliberately, I lift our hand, dragging a thumb across his cheek, wiping away the saliva. The touch sends a shiver through me—it’s so real, so intimate. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, his body still buzzing with residual energy from the race.

I flex my fingers next, watching them curl and uncurl. Strong, steady, familiar yet new. I roll our shoulders, shifting in the tight embrace of his racing suit. The Nomex clings to us, warm, slightly damp in places, stretching with every small movement.

God, he feels good.

I spread our arms wide, testing the stretch of his limbs, the subtle pull of fabric across his chest. The snugness of the suit only enhances every sensation—the way it molds to his body, the way it moves with me.

"Mm, Lando… you really do look good in this," I murmur, our voice thick with amusement.

The sound of it sends a shudder through me again.

His voice. His voice.

It’s richer than I expected, soft but with that slightly raspy edge from the race. I repeat his name, slower this time, letting the syllables roll off our tongue.

I smirk at our reflection.

"I bet you loved hearing your name all over the radio today," I tease, tilting our head, admiring the way our jawline catches the light. "But I think I love it more."

I lift our hands again, running them along our chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the slick fabric. The heat of his body is intoxicating, the lingering dampness making the material cling even tighter.

I take my time savoring the moment.

The reflection staring back at me is breathtaking.

Messy, sweat-damp curls cling to his forehead, a few unruly strands curling just above his ears. His skin is flushed, glowing with the remnants of exertion, a light sheen of sweat catching the light. His lips—our lips—are still parted slightly, softened in the aftermath of surrender.

The stubble dusting his jaw makes his face even more touchable. I reach up, running our fingers along it, feeling the rough texture beneath my fingertips.

“God, Lando…” I murmur, watching the way our lips move, the way our voice sounds as it spills into the quiet room. “You’re so pretty. So perfect like this… all dressed up, still warm from the race, still mine."

I tilt our head slightly, admiring the angle of his jaw, the curve of his throat, the way the Nomex clings to our collarbones. The suit is still unzipped just enough to reveal the damp fabric beneath, the black material stretched taut over his chest.

But I want more.

Slowly, I reach for the zipper, teasing it down another few inches.

The second the suit parts further, the scent hits me.

Warm. Salty. The deep, musky smell of sweat and adrenaline, mixed with something undeniably Lando. It clings to his skin, soaked into the fireproof fabric, lingering in the folds of the suit.

I let out a slow, shuddering breath, feeling a deep, almost primal satisfaction settle in my chest.

I need more.

Lifting an arm, I bring it close, pressing our face into the crook of it.

I inhale.

The scent floods my senses—heat, exhaustion, the raw, intimate proof that this body raced today, that it fought on the track, that it belongs to me now.

A quiet, pleased hum vibrates in our throat.

“So good…” I breathe, exhaling against the suit.

I hold the position for a moment longer, just feeling—the dampness of the suit, the warmth still radiating from beneath it, the way every inhale makes me dizzy with possession.

And then I lower our arm, exhaling slowly, savoring the way the scent lingers.

A smirk tugs at the corner of our lips.

But I’m not done admiring us yet.

Turning slightly, I let our gaze drift down, trailing over the lines of our body, the snug fit of the race suit, the way it hugs every curve, every muscle.

My eyes land on our hips first, then lower.

I turn us slightly, angling our body just right.

And there it is.

The suit clings to our ass, perfectly outlining the curve of it, the way it shifts as I shift.

I bite our lip, running a hand slowly down our stomach, stopping just above the waistband of the suit.

"God, Lando," I whisper, amused, breathless. “You really are something special, huh?”

Deep inside, I can still feel him.

A flicker of resistance, weak and distant, like a faint echo struggling to resurface.

I grin.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I murmur, tracing a slow pattern along our stomach, dragging fingertips against the damp fabric. “I’m going to enjoy every inch of you.”

Lando is still in there, trapped, silent, helpless.

I move toward the sofa, adjusting easily to his balance, the rhythm of his walk now second nature. Every motion feels right. Every breath, every step, completely mine.

Lowering onto the cushions, I sink into the warmth of the fabric, stretching out our legs, letting them relax. Lando’s boots feel heavy, snug around his feet, still laced tightly from the race.

I reach down, wrapping our fingers around one ankle, pulling it closer. The laces drag under our touch as I loosen them, the tension slowly unraveling. Then, I ease the boot off, lifting it toward my face.

I inhale.

The scent is rich, layered—rubber, sweat, the faintest hint of heat still clinging to the fabric. It’s him. Completely, unmistakably him.

A slow exhale. The warmth spreads through me again, deeper now, heavier. I flex our toes inside the sock, feeling the newfound freedom, the lingering warmth where the boot had hugged tight.

I bring the shoe closer, pressing it to my face, burying my nose and mouth deep inside.

The scent is overwhelming—everything Lando is, captured in this single piece of him. I inhale deeply, greedily, letting it flood my senses, sink into my lungs. It’s rich, intoxicating, unmistakably his. The warmth that had been steadily spreading through me flares hotter, deeper.

A slow, shuddering exhale leaves my lips, muffled against the inside of the shoe.

My free hand drifts downward, tracing over the snug fabric of the Nomex, feeling the shape of his body beneath. The material is soft, yet firm, clinging to his skin, still damp in places from the race. My fingers press a little harder, exploring, claiming.

A pulse of heat surges through me.

My breathing deepens. My grip tightens.

Lando’s body responds to my touch, to my control. Every nerve, every muscle, mine to command.

I sigh again, low and breathy, Lando’s voice spilling from our lips in a way that sends another deep shiver down my spine.

I smirk, my fingers tightening around the shoe as I press it against my face again.

"Damn, Lando," I murmur, my voice breathy, teasing. "You smell so good."

The words send a fresh shiver through me. Hearing his voice—my voice—say it aloud makes the heat inside me pulse even stronger. I let the moment stretch, reveling in it, before inhaling deeply once more.

The scent rushes in, thick and intoxicating.

It clings to the fabric, lingers in the air, fills my lungs. I groan softly against it, my breath warm against the material.

I roll my hips slightly, shifting, adjusting, feeling the tension coil tighter, spreading through my muscles. My fingers trail lower, pressing lightly, teasing.

I smirk against the shoe, letting out a slow, satisfied sigh.

The warmth is almost too much now, thick and consuming, wrapping around me like a second skin. My breathing is heavier, every inhale pulling in more of that deep, intoxicating scent, fueling the fire burning under my skin.

I press my palm lower, fingers teasing, feeling the heat radiate through the fabric of the racing suit. Even through the layers, I can feel it—thick, sensitive, throbbing with need.

A quiet, satisfied moan escapes my lips, my body sinking deeper into the warmth, into the pleasure.

The pressure builds, a slow, intoxicating burn, tension coiling tight in my muscles.

I groan again, tilting my head back against the sofa, lips parting as I let the sensation crash over me.

I welcome the release with open arms.

The release comes in waves, rolling through me, pulsing, spreading warmth through every limb.

I feel the wet warmth against my skin, covering the insides of the racing suit. It clings uncomfortably, the smell reaching my nostrils.

So good.

My breath stutters, then steadies, a deep, satisfied sigh leaving my lips as the tension finally unravels.

Slowly, I let my fingers dip lower, sliding past the unzipped suit, slipping beneath the waistband.

The warmth engulfs me instantly.

A deep, shuddering breath leaves my lips as my fingers brush against bare skin, heat radiating from every inch. It’s soft and smooth in some places, firm and tense in others. The contrast sends a slow, curling pleasure through me, the sensation heightened by the knowledge that this body—this heat, this warmth—is completely mine now.

"You're a mess, Lando." I tease, fondling our erect cock curiously. "So wet."

A slow, satisfied sigh escapes from my lips—Lando’s lips—as I press in further, savoring the way his body responds.

"So warm…" I murmur, my voice breathy, teasing, reveling in the sound of it. "So good."

I inhale deeply, the scent of sweat and heat still clinging to me, making the pleasure even more intoxicating.

I smirk, letting my fingers explore, relishing every shiver, every subtle twitch of muscle under my touch.

I grip our wet cock, my hand moving along its shaft rhythmically, squeezing out more remnants of earlier.

So much to give.

I bring the shoe back to my face, pressing it firmly against my nose and mouth, letting it completely engulf me. The scent is thick, intoxicating—pure Lando.

I inhale deeply.

A slow, shuddering exhale leaves my lips, my body tingling from the sheer intensity of it.

I feel the tip of ny cock burst, more of his precious cum sipping into his suit. The wet stickyness everywhere.

I smirk against the shoe, letting my breath warm the fabric before inhaling again, deeper this time, savoring everything about it.

"God, Lando…" I murmur into it, my voice thick, breathy, dripping with satisfaction. "I can’t get enough of this."

I exhale slowly, watching our reflection in the mirror across the room.

Lando stares back.

Flushed cheeks. Tousled hair. Lips parted, eyes still slightly unfocused, dazed in the aftermath. His suit clings to us, damp with sweat and something deeper, something richer. A physical reminder of how thoroughly I had overtaken him.

“Still with me?” I whisper, though I already know the answer. He is too far gone now, buried so deep that his presence barely even flickered.

But I could still feel him.

Luckily, transfering your consciousness into objects was always an easy task me. For years now I trained to pour more and more of myself into clothes—track pants, hoodies, gloves—I got quite good at it.

Yet, I wasn’t fast enough to get the one body I always dreamt of possessing.

Sebastian Vettel.

He retired from Formula 1, and dropped from the face of the earth. Like a cryptid, there were hints and sightings, scetchy at best, and I felt like I have to give up on him.

When the news broke, that he will attend the next race, that he will be putting on a old red bull racing suit and hop into a car, my heart skipped a beat.

That's all I asked for.

A chance.

Even if it didn’t work out, I needed to try it.

i had to use all of my contacts, so much money—wearing other people's skin has many benefits—but I made it work.

I got access to the racing suit. And what a beautiful piece that is.

Running my fingers along the seam, brsuhing across the logos, his name written on the waistline—that alone made me hard—felt so good.

It was like the heat of his body was still clinging to it, his scent—just barely there, after years—wooven into the fabric. Amazing.

I would have prefered to get my hands on the tight undergarments, but they were completely out of reach. Still, getting the opportunity to be worn by Sebastian, even if I can’t take over his body, was worth it all.

I had to ask even more favors for someone to pick up the suit and get it back to the paddock for my scheme to work.

It was odd to be carried around in a suitcase. Dark, barely breathable air, unable to move on my own. Yet I felt good. Being inside the fabric meant I could just relax. Knowing I will eventually meet Sebastian.

My time would come.

And it did.

Media day comes around, and with that Sebastian's upcoming laps on track.

I wait.

Not in the shadows—but within them. Within the fibers of a sleek, high-tech racing suit that clings to the hook inside the changing room. Woven into every thread, every layer, my presence humming quiet and low, like a pulse behind fabric.

The door opens.

He’s here.

Sebastian Vettel. His energy enters before he does—familiar, composed, steady. I sense him before I see him.

Then, there he is: still sharp-eyed, hair tousled, a focused intensity in his every step, even if this is just a ceremonial return.

He looks good, wearing a simple shirt and jeans—his usual attire. Nothing too fancy, just Sebastian.

Without the need for words he strips out of his street clothes, layer by layer. His shirt peels away, revealing lean muscle, toned more by endurance and precision than raw strength.

Then he kicks off his sneakers, and unbuckles his jeans. The noise of the denim sliding down his thighs filling the quiet room around us.

The fabric pools around his ankles before he steps out of it, approaching the white undergarments lying on the table next to me.

Just in his boxers, I can't help but notice the outline of him, his length, idly pressing against the fabric of his Calvin Klein briefs, he licks his lips.

He seems to be excited, nervous, maybe. But he looks so good.

Sebastian lets out a low groan, barely audible, mumbling something more to himself than anyone else. Of course, he thinks he's alone.

I feel the warmth of his body rise as he slides on the tight, flame-retardant underlayer—thin enough to hug every line of him, close enough that his body heat begins to fill the room like a slow fog.

He pulls the underpants up his legs, one at a time, until the waistband settles perfectly—a gentle tug here, a firm pull there—until Sebastian is done adjusting himself.

His length is tenting more insistently now. The rush of adrenaline is getting to him. He rubs his palm against it, along his shaft, letting out a low, needy sound, vibrating deep inside his throat, before closing his eyes for a brief moment, slowly regaining his composure.

He picks up the tight shirt and pulls it over his head. Like the million times he had done this before, he slides his arms into the sleeves, pulls the stretchy fabric down his torso, and straightens it with firm strokes.

"Fühlt sich gut an."

His voice filled the air around us, soft, tinged with excitement and a hint of need.

Hearing him up close makes my entire being vibrate, humming quietly through the seams of his suit.

He takes a few steps around, stretching his limbs, arms over his head, his legs, until he's sure everything fits just right.

And then, it's my turn.

He approaches me—socked feet barely making any sound on the floor.

I feel him.

His fingertips ghost over me, barely touching me, but it is enough to make me whimper internally.

Sebastian lets his fingers dance along the red bull logo, along the sleeves, and back down to his name embossed at the waistline.

My breath catches, anticipation rising through every fiber of my being.

His smile widens, licking his lips as he takes me off the hook and in that instant I truly feel him.

The warmth of his fingertips. The slight tremble of energy before the calm. The trace scent of clean skin and aftershave, faint motor oil still clinging to his palms. He doesn’t know I'm there yet, but my presence coils tight, waiting. Anticipating.

He steps in—one leg at a time.

As the suit—I—glides up his body, I begin to press inward, tightening over his calves, thighs, hips, feeling the way his body moves—fluid, efficient.

The heat of his body radiates through the thin fabric of the underpants. Mingled with his scent, clean, a hint of citrus, and yet, his skin tastes salty, deliciously real.

I am barely able to contain myself, when I settle around his waist, feeling his length imprinting through his pants, rubbing against me, insistently making its presence known. The way it twitches once, firm against my being.

I swallow hard.

Not yet.

I cannot rush this.

Yet, something inside Sebastian is already shifting.

Another low growl echoes through his chest, and then, he reached for the obvious tent forming through me.

He grabs himself, pumping once, twice, letting out a low moan.

"Fuck—"

That does it.

I feel myself slowly dripping through the underpants separating us into his skin.

Not enough to make any move on him. All he feels is a tingling sensation spreading through his calves, into his thighs and further up.

That's what is causing the rush of adrenaline and pleasure surging through him.

Sebastian shakes his head, regaining his composure slightly. But I keep dripping. Tasting his skin, engulfed in his scent, my head swims—it feels so good.

Casually, he puts on the upper half of me. Sliding his arms into the sleeves.

And I can't stop myself.

As the fabric slides up his torso, his arms, I move, just barely, feeling his muscles, pecs and biceps, squeezing here and there, causing him to let out a breathless giggle.

"Das habe ich vermisst."

He growls, letting his hands run across his chest, firmly stroking himself through me.

More and more of me drips through the tight underlayer into him. And that is when he notices something is off.

His expression shifts, his muscles tense as I keep encompassing his form.

I cannot waste any time.

I—deliberately, intimately—press forward. Through his back, his thighs, his chest—everywhere.

My essence phasing into him like silk sliding over skin. There’s a jolt. His body stiffens. His head jerks up.

I feel my will seep in deeper now, threading through the fabric and muscle until Sebastian’s limbs begin to obey my command.

First, the arms. His right arm rises—quietly, almost imperceptibly—elbow lifting, forearm extending, as if guided by an invisible puppeteer. I savor the sensation of his sinewy muscle slipping beneath my control, each fiber warming to my invasion. His biceps flex beneath the skin, strength bending to my will even as the back of his mind struggles to reclaim it.

Then the left arm follows, rising in perfect mirror of the first. His hands hang suspended at chest height, fingers curling and uncurling in slow, deliberate gestures. I test the strength, pressing out each finger, feeling the sturdy bones and tendons align to my subtle commands. I flex his wrists, feeling the snap of resistance give way to obedience.

A shudder ripples through him—his awareness flickering, he is fighting—yet his body remains unwavering under my grip. With both arms now fully mine, I start to stroke our chest.

Fuck—it feels good.

I drag the fingers across the suit, feeling both—the sensation of the fabric, and the firm touch.

"Was...ist das..." He let out a low, strangled moan.

His body stiffens, he feels something—feels me coursing through his body. Into his belly, filling his chest, up his neck and into his head.

Sebastian’s footsteps falter as he spins in a slow, unsteady circle, eyes unfocused. He reaches out with trembling fingers, brushing the cold metal of a locker to steady himself. His breath comes in shallow gasps, each inhale catching on that strange, electric warmth coursing through him.

I glide closer, guiding his hand so that it can grip the edge of the zipper down at his navel. His other hand still presses against the locker’s cool surface as he fights to make sense of the spinning world around him. The zipper hangs there, a silent invitation.

I need more to fully take over.

I need to enclose him inside me.

With a deliberate tug, I pull the zipper upward. It slides smoothly through the fabric channels, closing around him with a soft whisper. As the suit seals him in from neck to ankle, the final threads of his resistance unravel.

He hiccups as the zipper reaches the collar of his suit, fully enclosed in me, I let myself drip.

I lean in, allowing my consciousness to flow through every fold of the suit’s lining and every sinew of his body.

I sink deeper, further, into all of him.

I embrace all of him.

His scent, still fresh yet tinged with sweat from the ongoing take over. The salty taste of his skin, rubbing against the fabric. The soft moans he is unable to hold back. The insistent straining of every muscle—biceps flex beneath the suit, chest filling the tight suit fully.

His strength is his weakness now, as I use it against him.

I keep stroking his chest, as heat rises in his entire body, the suit's fabric is tighter now. I enjoy the heat radiating through the suit, the little sounds he makes with every stroke, but he's not gone yet.

Sebastian is still resisting. Clawing at the fabric, at me, trying to remove me. A desperate groan escapes his lips, he struggles, so much.

I just smirk.

I'm not going anywhere now.

I run his hand lower, across his chest, his tummy and beyond his waistline until I find my target.

His tenting cock.

I find that hot, hard length and begin to tease—slow, deliberate strokes along the silky material. Thumb and fingers trace the outline through the cling of the suit, drawing little shivers up Sebastian’s spine.

He shakes his head in denial, his throat works but a low mumble is all that's leaving his lips.

"Nein...bitte." Sebastian moans as I wrap our fingers around his shaft and start pumping. Once, twice, through the suit, feeling his mind spinning.

His breath hitches in a futile attempt of protest. He tries to tense his legs closed but the navy suit squeaks with every tremor. My teasing becomes more precise—feather-light flicks at the tip, circles at the swollen ridge, each motion designed to demand his full, undivided attention.

Sebastian swallows, eyes unfocus even more. He can’t help but shift his hips into each stroke, as I teases every last nerve.

i don’t know who is the one causing it, but more and more pre-cum swells at the tip of his cock, staining his precious suit slightly.

"Mmhmph." Leaves his parted lips, such a cute sound.

I drag his thumb down the ridge at the tip—deliberate, teasing circles that send fresh jolts through him. His strangled moans grow louder, each one more desperate than before.

As my pace quickens, the damp fabric strains and creaks with every movement. Sebastian’s legs part instinctively, suit slick and dark between them.

Right at the edge of release, I push even further into him.

Going all in.

His body stiffens, lips part in a breathless moan, and a trail of saliva glistens at the corner of his lips.

His eyes roll as he tilts his head back. The entire body is stiff, rigid, near collapse, when I feel him coming into the suit.

His release erupts in thick, warm pulses against the pristine navy of his suit. The fabric balloons briefly with each spurt before soaking in, darkening in a glossy bloom.

The first time I came as Sebastian Vettel.

His knees give a faint, involuntary tremor, but I—he—stand firm at the locker. The hum of the paddock beyond fades into a distant pulse as my awareness deepens within Sebastian’s form. Every muscle, every thought, now settles under my guidance. He’s still there—a dim echo—but the body is mine.

I take a deep breath, feeling cold air fill my lungs. Then another, and another, slowly settling in my new body. Sweat drips down my forehead, I watch them drop to the floor.

That’s when his scent fully hit me. It was intoxicating before, but now, I can't stop. With every inhale through his nose, I take him in. His aftershave, mingled with the scent of cum.

I take a step back, legs still wobbly, before I find my footing. My vision sharpens, and I look down at myself, red bull racing suit tight against my skin, a wet patch outlining my cock, and my toes wiggling inside white socks.

"Fuck—it worked." I grunt.

Hearing his voice echo through me sends another wave of need through me, my cock twitches and a bead of cum slides down my thighs.

I chuckle, trying to regain my composure.

"That felt good."

I take in my surroundings, and spot a small mirror mounted to the wall.

I walk over and cannot believe my eyes.

Sebastian Vettel is staring back at me.

Face flushed, suit a little rumpled, damp in places, and so, so handsome.

I let my fingers caress my new, pretty face. Pink cheeks, so soft, a slight stubble, and his pretty eyes.

There is a sudden knock on the door, and I flinch.

"Seb?" Some voice rings through the wall. "Make sure you're ready in 20."

"Yeah, don’t worry." I try to sound casual, but my voice is huskier than it should have been.

"Come find us in the lobby when you're done."

I hear footsteps as they step away feom the door.

Turning back to the mirror, I smirk back at my reflection.

So, Mauro opened the bathroom door of his apartment and a gust of chilling wind welcomed him. Well, it's just finished raining outside so this might just be a sunset breeze or something, he thought to himself as he stepped in and get himself ready by taking off his sex-stained wifebeater. But when the wind blows started to get icy as the door closes, Mauro started to get real suspicious. Before he can walk back out, a shivering sensation crept through his asshole that caused him to yelp. It's like as if something is possessing him! He groaned in pain as his body slammed the door in surprise, the sharp pain reaches his prostate and even beyond and practically sent him to a state of trembling shock. Rather than subsides, it really jabbed further and in his desperate bid to save himself, he screamed for help to his recent fuck-buddy as he exited the bathroom crawling for help

Yet, when Yosef appeared in the hallway leading to the bathroom witnessing the splayed and pale body of the Latino hunk that just bred him earlier, he just smirked before kneeling himself so he can get closer to Mauro's writhing face

"Oh, I see that he's in your stomach now Maybe stop resisting and just let him in to take full control, that will definitely make the pain go away much quicker,"

Mauro just gritted his teeth, holding on the pleasurable pain as these ectoplasm seemingly hit all the right spot inside of his body but it still feels like he's ripped away from his body, his eyes darting the most sinister look to the grinning Yosef

"The guy squirming inside of you, he's a small man, but his will is so big, this is a losing game for you, Mauro. Plus, he can definitely wear this thick beer can of a cock of yours better. You are not the best custodian of this meaty dick, you know? Hhhh....I'm bored to see you resisting so--" and just like that, Yosef grabbed Mauro's throat to choke him. Mauro went into a full-body seizure as Yosef practically caused him to lose his breath. That also helped the ghost to reach even deeper into Mauro's psyche. Snapping his head left and right trying to wriggle himself free proven to be futile as Yosef straddled himself on top of him to make the choking and pressure even more effective. When Mauro's body violently spasmed from head to toe and his eyes started to roll back to reveal its white sides, the painful groan quickly switched to echoing deep laughter as his eyes snapped back to normal but there's this sinister twinkle that now shines from his eyes.

The takeover is complete. Realizing the position they ended up with, Yosef grinned as he comfortably slid his still-rather-loose hole to swallow the mushroom head of Mauro's cock. Mauro, no longer in control of himself, can only witness his possessor returning Yosef's horniness by sliding even more inches into the horny and possessed ghost whisperer's hole

"You are one crazy motherfucker, you know?" remarked the possessed Mauro, "honestly, still baffled me how a ghost whisperer/exorcist can fall victim to the very thing that they should be able to control,"

"Well, I'm an elusive and very determined spirit, after all," the possessed Yosef said, lying through his gritted teeth on how he actually managed to overtake Yosef's body, "uuunnghhh.....and now, let's seal you in. You can hear him inside you?"

"Yeah, he's here, weak and imprisoned with no ability to do anything except to witness....ungggh....me....fucking....the...shit.....mmmpphhh...out of you,"

"Let's get rid of that noise once and for all then," With a wicked grin, Mauro lifted Yosef to the couch and then proceed to ruthlessly pistoned his veiny brown 8 inchers into Yosef's fitting hole. Both men simply groaned and satisfied their flooding lust through kisses, spits and screams of ecstasy. When Mauro started to convulse as he is close to spurt, Yosef stopped himself short to slide himself back to Mauro's cock. Instead, he delayed Mauro from fulfilling his gratifying lust by grabbing the pulsing meat with his fist. Mauro roared in frustration and tried to force his way to get back to plow Yosef's ass, but Yosef just pinned the horny beast on the floor with his ass hovering mid-air

"Trust me, the best ones cum in waves," Yosef said, pun intended.

As the cock softened and several mililitre of leakage flows out gently to make his mushroom head slick with pre, Yosef comfortably slide himself down once more to the quickly-erect cock which caused Mauro's eyes fluttered in delight. Yosef then decided to stop playing around and slowly bring Mauro to the finish line as he ensured to clench his hole tight. Feeling his new dick getting clenched by his fuckbuddy's boypussy once more, Mauro then decided to take the matter into his own hands by grabbing Yosef's waist and keeping it in place. Yosef, alarmed by the gravity of the brutal fucking Mauro is capable off, flushed with worry as he found himself locked in place. He tried to break free and moaned like a whore as Mauro's cock hit close to his G-spot

"MMMFFFFUUUCKKKK YOU, DON'T YOU DARE GETTING OUT AGAIN NOW," Mauro threatened with a sadistic glee as he can feel that he's close to cumming

Yosef writhed in pain and delight knowing that this one will be one heck of a huge blast. But even before Mauro shot his load, Yosef already spurted like a geyser, his cock untouched but it's shooting cum all over his own torso, Mauro's and even the cushion cover and the mirror behind Mauro's head. It's one heck of a mess, followed by another mess as Mauro eventually released his tremendous load as it flows out from Yosef's gaping hole and stained the cushion beneath their bodies. Alongside the flowing cum, the real Mauro's soul also expelled from his own body and joining the same fate with the real Yosef, it simply fades into irrelevancy as the soul is not necessarily a soul that can move on to the after life but also at the same time having no vessels to claim as home, making it weaker as the time progresses unless he managed to find a body weak enough to be beaten by his soul.

The ghost inside Mauro just chuckled "Ck....he's gone. Phew.....fuck....again, I don't know how the fuck you found out about this whole....breed and freed scheme or whatever you name this, or how you basically manage to utilize his power for our kind's benefit, but this is brilliant. And....hmmmmm, I have a few friends that are eager to get back to live life once more, do you think we can work together to help them? I bet there's a lot of hot guys willing to get involved in a threesome with Mauro and Yosef over here, don't you think?"

Yosef just smiled. That actually sounds like a good plan, a possible thriving business enterprise if he wants to put in some work. But at this point, he's just trying to live in the moment and cherished the opportunity of getting back alive and having his back blown by hot guys that his old life could only dream of. All thanks to that fucking broken cock ring