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He knew.

The moment he opened the door, you felt it in the shift of the air around him. His gaze didn’t simply settle on you — it dragged, slow and deliberate, as if he was cataloging every inch of your face, every line of your body, every breath you took. There was no surprise in his eyes. No confusion. Only a thick, simmering awareness that curled in the space between you like smoke. He stepped forward, closing the door behind him with a quiet click that felt far louder than it should have. The hall light behind him cast his figure in a warm, amber glow, shaping him into something carved from shadow and intention.

“You were inside my house,” he murmured, his voice carrying the softness of velvet wrapped around something far more dangerous. He didn’t have to raise his tone; the quiet dominance was enough to pull your spine straighter. “Wearing things that aren’t yours.”

Your pulse spiked. The sound of your own heartbeat filled your ears. You opened your mouth, unsure whether you meant to deny it or justify it, but no words came. He didn’t wait for them. He stepped closer — a slow, predatory glide rather than a simple approach — until your back found the wall. The cool surface met your shoulder blades, while his presence pressed heat into the front of your body. He leaned in, his breath brushing your neck as he inhaled. Not touching you, not yet, but close enough that your knees threatened to weaken.

“You tried on the suit,” he continued, voice lowering, thickening. “And the mask.”

The sentence slid over your skin like a hand. His own hand lifted then, moving toward your face but stopping just before contact, hovering near your cheek as though even air between you was too intimate. “Do you have any idea what that mask means?” he asked, his whisper tracing a line that made your stomach twist. “What it does to anyone who wears it?”

His fingers finally touched you — the barest brush along your jaw, but it felt like possession. His thumb followed, sweeping slowly across your lower lip, a single measured stroke that sent heat spiraling through your chest.

“You weren’t supposed to see that side of me,” he said, the words trembling at the edges with restraint. “You weren’t supposed to look like that while wearing something so dangerous.” His gaze drifted down your body and back up again, something almost feral flickering in his eyes. “And yet…”

He inhaled sharply, the movement controlled but revealing enough. “You fit it better than I ever imagined.”

He took a half-step back — barely anything, just enough that you sensed the absence like a hand sliding away right before the second touch you were desperate for. But his attention never wavered. It sharpened. Deepened.

“That suit isn’t just clothing,” he said finally, the explanation spoken like a confession he didn’t want to give but needed you to understand. “It’s a conduit. A mirror. It reshapes itself to its wearer’s desire… and exposes what desires them in return.” His voice dipped lower. “When I saw it molding to you — changing for you — I realized something important.”

His fingers trailed from your jaw down to your throat. Not squeezing, not restricting, but claiming. Testing how you reacted. And your breath caught exactly the way he wanted it to.

“The house chose you,” he whispered. “It responded to you in ways it has never responded to anyone else. Including me.”

He leaned in so close your lips almost brushed, the space between you humming with heat and danger and something older than either of you fully understood. His thumb pressed just a little firmer at your throat, grounding you. Restraining you. Tempting you.

“I should punish you,” he said quietly. “For trespassing. For touching what’s mine. For looking so goddamn beautiful in something meant to command, not tempt.”

His grip tightened a fraction, just enough to make your body go still, anticipation coiling through you like a wire pulled taut.

“But when I saw you in that mask…” His breath ghosted across your mouth. “I wanted you. In my place. In my role.” He swallowed, his jaw flexing. “I wanted you exactly the way the mask shaped you.”

He let the moment stretch until it felt like your skin was vibrating.

Then, softly, darkly:

“So tell me,” he murmured. “Should I punish you for trespassing…?”

His hand tightened again, a delicious, controlled pressure.

“Or should I worship the version of you the mask revealed to me?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

He waited for your answer — knowing fully that whichever you chose, you would be surrendering to him.

The house next door had been a siren’s song, its parade of breathtaking men—each one a masterpiece of rugged charm or polished allure—stoking a fire in your chest that refused to be ignored. The bearded lumberjack with a stride that shook the earth, the businessman whose tailored suits clung to every sharp angle, the surfer with a grin that promised wild nights—they haunted your thoughts, their fleeting appearances from that house a mystery you could no longer resist. Curiosity had become obsession, and tonight, under a starless sky, you gave in.

You slipped through the shadows, your pulse a steady drum as you crossed the dew-slick grass to the neighbor’s back door. It was unlocked, an invitation to unravel the enigma. Inside, the house was disarmingly ordinary: a tidy kitchen, a threadbare couch, the faint scent of cedar and musk hanging in the air. But at the end of the hallway, a cherry-red wooden door gleamed like a forbidden promise, its glossy surface pulling you closer. The air grew warm, heavy, as if the house itself held its breath. You turned the brass knob, and the door opened with a soft, seductive creak.

The room beyond was a sanctuary of transformation. Shelves lined the walls, each one cradling silicone masks that stared back with eerie vitality—the lumberjack’s weathered intensity, the businessman’s sleek confidence, the surfer’s boyish mischief. Beside them hung muscle suits, their sculpted forms glowing under the chandelier’s amber light, every chiseled pec and rippling ab a testament to power. The air was thick with the scent of silicone and something richer, headier, like amber and primal desire. Your breath caught as the truth sank in: these were the men you’d seen, not flesh but artifice, crafted with a precision that made your skin prickle.

Your eyes fell on a mask—a college jock, his face all sharp cheekbones and cocky swagger, a smirk that dared the world to kneel. The silicone was cool, almost alive under your fingers, its texture so real it sent a shiver down your spine. Next to it hung a light-skinned muscle suit, its broad shoulders and carved abs radiating dominance. You couldn’t resist. You didn’t want to.

The room pulsed with a charged energy as you shed your clothes, the air kissing your skin like a lover’s whisper. You stepped into the muscle suit, the silicone cool and slick as it slid over your legs, hugging your thighs, your hips, your torso. It molded to you like a second skin, the sculpted pecs amplifying your chest, the ridged abs tightening against your core. The suit’s weight was intoxicating, every movement heavy with strength—your shoulders broader, your arms thicker, your entire body a monument to power. And then you felt it: the silicone sheath at the crotch, crafted with meticulous detail, encasing you in a way that made your breath hitch. It hugged you tightly, accentuating every contour, making you feel colossal, godlike, your new form enormous and commanding.

You ran a hand over the sheath, your fingers tracing the exaggerated size, the lifelike texture sending a jolt of raw power through you. It was more than a disguise—it was a crown, a scepter, a symbol of your newfound dominance. You gripped it, marveling at the sheer size, the weight, the way it felt like an extension of your will. Your other hand roamed the suit, worshipping the hard planes of your pecs, the deep grooves of your abs, each touch igniting a fire in your veins. You were no longer just you—you were a titan, a deity sculpted from silicone and desire, every inch of you radiating unyielding confidence.

You lifted the jock’s mask, its smirk mirroring the power coursing through you. The silicone was soft, pliant, almost eager as you pressed it to your face. It sealed against your skin, warm and intimate, the sensation like a lover’s breath. You aligned the eyes, the nose, the mouth, and as it settled, the world sharpened. You blinked through the jock’s eyes, and the mirror across the room revealed a god. His green eyes burned with arrogance, his tousled brown hair fell perfectly, his jawline a blade forged to cut through hesitation. You were him, and he was you.

You stepped closer to the mirror, your movements fluid, commanding. The suit hugged every curve, every muscle, the sheath making you feel like a colossus, untouchable and immense. You flexed, watching the pecs rise, the biceps swell, the abs tighten. Your hand returned to the sheath, gripping it with reverence, worshipping its size, its power. The silicone was warm now, alive with your heat, each touch sending a surge of pleasure through you. You ran your fingers along its length, slow and deliberate, savoring the way it made you feel—invincible, desired, larger than life. Your other hand traced the suit’s contours, from the broad expanse of your chest to the chiseled lines of your thighs, each touch a hymn to your new form.

The room thrummed with energy, the air thick with the scent of power and possibility. You tilted your head, the jock’s smirk widening as you admired your reflection, the light catching the sharp angles of your face, the gleam of your sweat-slicked skin. You let out a low, rumbling laugh, the sound deep and commanding, a voice that could bend wills. The other masks—the brooding artist, the stoic firefighter—beckoned from their shelves, each one a new facet of dominance waiting to be claimed. The thought of slipping into another, of feeling this rush again, made your blood roar.

But then, a creak. The cherry-red door shifted, and soft, deliberate footsteps echoed in the hallway. Your heart thundered, but the jock’s smirk held firm, your grip on the sheath tightening as if to anchor your power. You stood taller, the suit and sheath making you feel like a king, ready to face whoever—or whatever—dared to interrupt your worship. Would you slip away, or would you let this godlike power carry you into the unknown?

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