For a while now, I've been visiting a local tennis court to watch handsome men run around in tight, short shorts, groaning with every swing, just to play ball.
Most of the people were pretty cute, but no one compared to Jake.
He would be there every Sunday and Wednesday to play against the same ol' guys, week after week. I figured they don't really know each other; they would never really talk, just chitchat during the match about the match.
Even though I never talked to him, I kind of knew he was an awful prick. Every game was the same. He would enter the court and play for a couple of minutes before discarding his pretty tight shirt to the side, exposing his well-formed physique. His shorts were barely able to contain his member, and it was visible most of the time.
This made him the center of attention every time—he was handsome, well-trained, and had a pretty smile. Jake was completely aware of this as well, and he made sure that not only every woman's but every man's eyes were on him only.
He wasn't a bad player either; his groans echoed across the field with every swing. He was quick on his feet and possessed talent and prowess as well.
I was so fucking envious, and it felt like he knew. At times, he would look at the crowd, flexing his abs, arms, and thighs for anyone to look at.
During my nightly web surfing, I stumbled across a, at first, weird-looking site. It was a doctor selling a special serum—an injection—to create special skin suits. The site promised a fast but high-quality result. Still, $1000 was a lot of money for me for something that might be just a scam.
But then I remembered all the times Jake was teasing his audience, showing off his pretty body, and that's when I made the decision to try it out.
What could possibly go wrong?
My package arrived two weeks later, and I was surprised at how good it looked. Also, there were multiple shots of the serum included with a personal note.
"Starterkit for your new collection."
I read the instructions, which told me there are three kinds of serums. The first one—the most important one—was to create the suit. The second one was to finish putting on the suit, and lastly, the third one was to get out of the suit.
This made me excited, and I wanted to try it.
The next Wednesday, I went to the tennis court again, and of course, Jake was already there—his beautiful chest exposed, of course.
With the serum inside my bag, I hid inside the bathroom—a tiny yet secluded kind of room with multiple stalls. I watched him use the bathroom so many times after two rounds of tennis. Like all of us, he was just a creature of habit.
Someone opened the door, and I peeked through the stall door. It was Jake who went straight to the urinal. He groaned as he pissed and kept running a hand across his sweaty chest—fuck, so hot.
He stretched his neck and walked over to the sink, looking at himself through the mirror—the opportunity to strike.
Jake wasn't able to see me; he was too busy admiring his own reflection. I caught him off guard, covered his mouth with my hand, pulled him back, and injected him right away.
He screamed into the palm of my hand and tried to fight me off, but the serum incapacitated him in mere seconds. Still, I pulled him back into my hiding place, locked the stall, sat down, and embraced him in a tight hug.
I never imagined holding a handsome man like Jake in my arms—fuck, I got hard right away. He kept breathing slowly, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, while I tenderly stroked his cheek again and again. His skin was sweaty yet so soft, and his scent was so damn delicious.
As his breathing got lighter, I started to stroke his firm chest; his nipples and pecs were so hard, just like his abs. It was a sensational feeling. But somehow, I felt his body deflating slowly.
The serum was actually working.
I ran my hand down his chest again and again before my eyes fell on his huge junk hidden inside his shorts. I grabbed him firmly through the fabric of his shorts—so hard, so good. But at the same time, all of him flattened rapidly.
After a minute, his shorts slid down his thighs and dropped to the cold bathroom floor. All that was left of this handsome, thick bloke was a rubber-like, skin-tight suit.
The kit included a sharp knife, which I used to open up the new skin suit for the very first time. Slowly, I stripped and discarded my old clothes on the floor behind me; there was no use for them anyway.
Then, I grabbed him by his shoulders and held him in front of me, like a tailored suit just made for me.
My own member was tenting visibly; I still couldn't believe this actually worked.
Carefully, I stepped into his legs; my own were barely able to fill his thick thighs and calves. It was a weird yet amazing feeling. This suit smelled, looked, and felt like Jake, yet I was able to simply step inside it.
It felt like putting on my biker leather suit. I loved how tight he was and how his skin dragged over my own. Even though he was slightly ill-fitting. He was a little bigger and much bulkier than me, after all.
Even though my cock was nearly fully erect, it wasn't enough to fill this suit, and that made me chuckle—he was packing.
The next thing I did was put his upper body on, one arm at a time. I slipped inside him, barely reaching his finger tips, and my arms were way too thin to fill him.
Lastly, I put his face on like a mask before I pulled the second serum out of my bag.
"Here we go."
I injected myself and felt the effect right away: my whole body was shaking, my head was spinning, and my stomach was twisting and turning. However, it actually worked: my body enlarged itself to fill Jake completely.
My arms, thighs, and chest grew bigger with every deep breath I took. This made me stroke myself and my chest again and again; it just felt soooo good.
I let out an audible moan, and to my surprise, I heard Jake's deep, manly voice. Using his hands and his fingertips to touch my new skin felt amazing. My body was tingling, almost tickling my inner self, and this made me chuckle again, using Jake's beautiful voice.
Shivers ran down my entire back once my head was flooded with serotonin, making me feel so fucking good. A side effect of the serum was to make the subject feel no pain, just pleasure.
My new member grew so hard so quick, and I needed to hold back releasing myself just now. I started touching myself, one hand at my junk, the other following my new firm 'jawline. Feeling my stubbly moustache made things worse, however.
"Fuck." I groaned, steading myself against the door in front of me, as it took all my strength to not cum right there. "So good." Instinctively, however, I started to jerk off, starting off softly and slowly at first, but my hand basically moved on its own.
After mere seconds, after edging on for a while, I came the first time through my new skin suit, covering the door with my precious cream. The release felt so good, and for a while, I just enjoyed the moment.
Loving my new scent, I smelled my own pits deeply. Damn, this was so fucking good. At the same time, my dick was still pulsating. Just touching myself made me leak some more, as all of me was acting purely on instinct.
I grabbed myself, touched myself, moaned, and groaned until a noise from outside snapped me out of this state of pure blissful trance. I needed to hurry up a bit.
Then, I got dressed again, leaving my old clothes behind. I just put on his tight underwear, shorts, and shoes. They suited me so well.
I stepped outside the stall and caught a glimpse of my new face. Damn, I was beautiful.
"I can't believe it worked." I groaned deeply, touching myself, my chest, and my junk once again. I grabbed my bag and Jake's old stuff and licked my lips. With one last look in the mirror, I winked at myself and left the bathroom.
It was time to go home and explore my new acquisition.
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Six weeks of stalking and I knew him pretty well. His height and weight—6’2” 207 pounds, from his stat’s page on the College football players website. The sleeping schedule—last post 11:40 PM, first story 7:15 AM, a man of demolished alarms and animal regularity. I had screenshots organized by month in a locked folder. I had the width of his shoulders measured against the known dimensions of a standard bench press in three separate gym selfies—21.4 inches. I knew the exact placement of the mole on his left oblique from a shirtless photo at a lake where the light turned his skin into something I had to close my laptop over and just breathe through.
I just hadn't walked in his shoes yet.
Now I was eleven minutes into waiting and my knee wouldn't stop bouncing. Sitting on a folding table in his fraternity's basement with a black nylon case across my lap, my glasses fogging in the dryer heat, my palms slick against my jeans. The room was all fluorescent buzz and fabric softener cutting through old copper pipes and mildew, and underneath it something faint I wanted to believe was him—some trace molecule of his presence baked into this concrete, this air, this place where he came every Friday at 3:47 PM to wash his gym clothes alone.
Alone. That was the important part. I pressed my hand flat against my chest—thin ribs, narrow sternum, a body that had never justified the space it took up. Felt the flutter-kick of adrenaline against my palm.
The case was warm on my thighs. I'd opened it twice already. Just to check. Just to see the suit folded inside, flesh-toned and iridescent under fluorescent light, the face collapsed and slack and waiting.
Thirteen minutes.
The door at the top of the stairs creaked open and my entire body locked.
Bass bled down from the main floor, muffled when the door swung shut. Footsteps—heavy, unhurried, the cadence of someone who'd never once wondered if anyone was waiting at the bottom.
This wait was nothing. I'd already waited six weeks. Six weeks of memorizing his schedule, his gait, the specific way his shoulder blades moved under cotton when he carried his laundry down these stairs. Class until 2:30. Gym until 3:15. Then here, alone, sorting darks from lights before the weekend rush.
He sorted his laundry. Conscientious. For someone who'd never had to be anything.
The door creaked open at the top of the stairs. Bass from the main floor bled through and muffled again. Footsteps—heavy, unhurried. The cadence of someone who'd never once wondered if anyone was waiting at the bottom. Why would he? The world waited for Cale Bakal. Not the other way around.
He rounded the corner with a mesh bag over one shoulder, phone in the other hand, thumb scrolling. Not looking up. Six-two. Dark wavy hair damp from the gym, pushed back and curling at the temples where the sweat hadn't dried. Jaw shadowed with two days of stubble—he shaved Wednesdays and Sundays, I knew that, I'd tracked the cycle through Instagram stories and dining hall sightings until I could predict the exact texture on any given day. Friday stubble. Dense. Darkest along the jaw, lighter on the upper lip, that grain pattern like brushstrokes on raw canvas.
Broad shoulders in a grey cutoff, the armholes cut too wide, showing the lateral swell of his lats when he shifted the bag. Basketball shorts slung low, the waistband sitting on hip bones that jutted just enough to catch shadow. Slides on bare feet. Irish Spring and vanilla protein shake still on his breath, and underneath it the warm animal musk of a body that had just been working, just been performing, every muscle firing in sequence for an hour under fluorescent gym light while I sat in the parking lot outside and counted the minutes.
He looked exactly like his photos. Better. Three-dimensional. Present. Taking up actual space in a way pixels couldn't replicate—the mass of him displacing air, the soft thud of his slides on concrete, the way the fluorescents caught the sheen of sweat still drying on his collarbone.
My mouth went dry.
He saw me and stopped. Confused. Head tilting the way a dog tilts—curious, not threatened. Never threatened.
"You good, bro? You in the right house?"
He didn't recognize me. Four years of shared campus and I hadn't registered once. Narrow face, glasses that left red dents on the bridge of my nose, thin wrists I could circle with my own fingers. A body I'd been losing arguments with since puberty struck everyone else harder.
"Study group with a friend," I lied. "A pledge, he's upstairs."
He shrugged. Already done with my nonsense reply. Already filed under irrelevant in whatever breezy sorting system operated behind those brown eyes. He crossed to the washers, tossed the bag down, started sorting. Darks left, lights right. Methodical. His back to me—the cutoff riding up as he reached into the bag, exposing the valley of his lower back, the ridge of his spine, dark hair trailing from his navel down past his waistband into territory I'd only imagined in granular, aching detail.
My hands were shaking. Not nerves. Hunger. The specific tremor of holding yourself back from something you've wanted so long your body has started to mistake patience for starvation.
I unzipped the case.
The suit didn't look like much laid flat. Flesh-toned, semi-translucent, faintly iridescent under the fluorescents like an oil slick on shallow water. Almost weightless. The face was collapsed, features slack and undefined—eye holes dark, mouth a soft slit, the whole thing formless and waiting. Down the back, skull to tailbone, a line of black stitching ran tight and precise. Like lacing on a basketball.
I'd paid for it with everything I had. Savings. Rerouted student loans. Seven months corresponding with someone in Kuala Lumpur who only used Signal and never used verbs. It arrived vacuum-sealed inside a crate of textbooks, pressed flat like a preserved specimen.
The instructions were three lines:
Subdue host. Apply to host within four minutes of unconsciousness. Stitching faces outward.
Cale hummed. Country song, loose and tuneless. His shoulders moved with it—rolling, easy, unconscious rhythm. He bunched a shirt, brought it to his face, sniffed, tossed it in the darks. The gesture was so casual. So animal. He inhabited himself the way water inhabits a glass—without effort, without gratitude, without any awareness that the container was extraordinary.
He'd never had to inventory himself. Never stood in front of a mirror and calculated deltoid to deltoid, the exact width of his back, the ratio of shoulder to waist, the square footage of golden skin he simply had. Like it cost him nothing. Like the universe hadn't spent its entire budget on his chassis and left the rest of us with the change.
I slid off the table. Three steps. Two.
The taser clicked—dry, small, a sound like cracking a knuckle.
Cale heard it. Started to turn, and I caught the edge of his confusion, that half-second of processing where his mouth opened and his brow creased and the world briefly stopped making sense for a boy to whom it had always made perfect sense—
"Wha—"
I pressed it to his neck. Just below the jaw, in the soft triangle between tendon and pulse point.
Every muscle seized at once. Full-body clench—shoulders climbing to his ears, spine arching, veins surfacing in his forearms like roads on a map. A choked sound, "nngh—", and then gravity. Knees first, then sideways, catching the edge of the washer on the way down. The mesh bag spilled. Socks, boxers, a Sigma Chi intramural jersey. His phone skittered under the dryer, screen still lit, a country song still twanging tinny from the speaker.
He lay on the concrete. Breathing. Slow. Eyes closed. Face slack and younger without the tension—without the casual authority, the chin-up confidence. Just features. Just skin and bone and the faint wet gleam of drool catching fluorescent light at the corner of his mouth.
Four minutes.
I set the taser down. Set the suit beside him, spread flat, waiting.
Then I knelt.
My hands found his jaw first. Both hands. Cradling his face like something fragile, tilting it toward me. The stubble rasped against my palms—coarse, dense, Friday stubble, exactly the texture I'd predicted. I dragged my thumb along his jawline, slow, root to tip, feeling every individual hair push back against my skin. His jaw was wide. Solid. The mandible of a man who'd never clenched it in anxiety, only in exertion, in effort that was always rewarded.
"Soon," I whispered.
I traced the mole under his left eye. The small scar bisecting his right eyebrow—a childhood thing, probably, a bike accident or a brother's elbow, some golden-boy origin story. I pressed my thumb into the divot of his chin. His lips parted slightly under the pressure, and I could feel the warmth of his breath against my wrist.
My own breathing was ragged. I could hear it bouncing off the concrete walls, too fast, too loud. I didn't care.
I pulled his cutoff over his head—gently, so gently it made my chest ache—lifting his arms one at a time, threading them free. His torso was bare now. Chest broad and defined, pecs thick with a dusting of dark hair between them, nipples flat and brown. His stomach was ridged—not the carved six-pack of someone who starved for it, but the easy, functional musculature of someone who ate whatever he wanted and burned it off by existing.
I put my hand flat on his sternum. Felt his heart beat. Slow, steady, utterly unbothered, pumping blood through a machine that had never broken down.
I worked his shorts down. Hips first—thumbs hooking the waistband and the boxer briefs beneath, sliding both together. His hip bones rose like architecture. The trail of dark hair thickened below his navel and spread, and then he was exposed—soft, heavy, resting against his thigh. I pulled the shorts past his knees, his calves, off over his bare feet. Kicked the slides aside.
He lay naked on the concrete floor.
I stood over him. Looked. Let myself look the way I'd never been allowed to—not the stolen glances across lecture halls, not the peripheral worship at parties where his body moved through crowds like a current. I looked at him the way you look at a painting when the museum is closed and you're the only one left.
Golden skin. Everywhere. Shoulders, chest, stomach, the thick columns of his thighs, the taper of his calves. Dark hair on his legs, his forearms, the trail from navel to groin. His hands rested palm-up on the concrete, fingers loosely curled, calluses on the right palm from the barbell.
I started pulling off my own clothes.
Shirt first—yanking it over my head, glasses catching, almost falling. I didn't care. Jeans next, fumbling the button, kicking them off. Boxers. Socks. Everything. Piled in a heap beside the dryers.
I stood naked above him. My body—narrow-chested, pale, the ribs visible when I breathed, wrists bony, legs thin, the body of someone the gene pool had shrugged at. The contrast was so sharp it felt surgical. His body and mine in the same frame like two different species sharing a habitat by accident.
I knelt beside him. Then lowered myself.
The first contact was electric. My chest against his chest—his skin radiating gym-heat, still damp, and mine cool, goosefleshed. I pressed down. Felt his pecs flatten under my sternum, the hard ridge of his ribs against my ribs, and the size difference was obscene—his torso was so much wider than mine that my arms barely reached the concrete on either side of him. I was draped on him like a coat on a chair.
I slid lower. Pressed my thigh between his thighs.
"Hh—oh—"
The sound that came out of me wasn't voluntary. His thigh was dense. Warm. The muscle firm even unconscious, even slack, and the hair on his leg pressed into my skin—fine, dark, countless tiny points of friction, a texture I'd never felt against my own bare leg because I'd never been close enough to a body like this. I could feel each hair individually, a field of them, bristling against my inner thigh where the skin was thinnest and most honest.
I rocked against him. Slow. Deliberate. My hips grinding down into the junction of his thigh and groin, and the friction was devastating—his skin against mine, the heat of him, the size of him underneath me. My cock slid against the crease of his hip and I pressed my face into his neck and breathed him in. Irish Spring. Protein shake. Sweat. The warm, yeasty, lived-in smell of a body that functioned like a temple and was maintained with the casualness of a rental car.
"Soon," I said into his neck. My lips moved against his pulse point. I could feel the beat. "Soon, soon. I'll feel it from the inside."
I rutted harder. His thigh hair dragging against mine, the friction building, his limp cock warm against my hip, his heartbeat slow and oblivious under my chest. I was shaking—not from exertion but from proximity, from the impossible reality that his body was under mine, that I could feel the specific topography of Cale Bakal's quadricep against my bare skin, that his stubble was scratching my forehead where I'd pressed my face into his jaw.
I reached up and touched his face again. Dragged my fingers across the grain of his stubble—against it, feeling the catch and rasp, then with it, smooth. His jaw was slack. His lips parted. His breath came warm and slow against my fingers and I pressed two of them against his lower lip, feeling how soft it was, how full, the specific give of tissue that had kissed girls at parties and smiled for photos and said "you good, bro?" to someone he'd never see.
"You're not going to feel any of this," I said. "You're not going to know."
I pulled back. Forced myself. My body screamed against the separation—every nerve ending howling at the loss of his heat, his solidity, the sheer gravitational fact of him.
But the clock was running. I could feel it in my teeth.
I grabbed the suit. Spread it open.
Started with his feet.
It was harder than I expected. Dead weight is one thing; unconscious weight is another, and Cale's unconscious weight was substantial. His ankle was thick, solid, and the suit's opening was narrow—I had to push, force his toes through the membrane, then his heel, pulling the material up over his calf. The suit was cold against his skin. I watched it make contact and cling, vacuum-tight, like plastic wrap pulled taut over warm meat. His calf hair pressed flat under the membrane, dark lines visible through the translucence.
Other leg. Same process. Push, pull, adjust, the material stretching and snapping back. His thighs were harder—the muscle dense, the circumference massive. I had to lift each leg to work the suit over his quads, and his weight in my hands was extraordinary. This single thigh weighed more than both of mine combined. I thought about how it had felt pressed between my legs. My cock twitched and I ignored it.
I lifted his hips to get the suit over his ass and groin. Heavy. The material stretched to accommodate and then contracted, sealing tight to every contour. His cock pressed flat against his pelvis under the membrane, visible through the translucence like a shape under ice.
Up over his waist. His stomach. The suit snapped tight against every ridge of his abdominals. I threaded his arms through the sleeves one at a time—lifting from the concrete, bending at the elbow, guiding fingers into fingers. His right hand was bigger than both of mine. The callus on his palm scraped against the material as it slid over.
Shoulders. Chest. Neck.
Then the head.
I cradled the back of his skull—hair still damp, warm scalp, the tender give of it—and lifted. His head lolled against my forearm. I bent down and pressed my lips to his forehead. Quick. Instinctive. The stubble at his hairline scratched my chin.
"Thank you," I said. I didn't know what I meant.
I worked the suit up over his jaw, his mouth, his nose. The membrane stretched thin over his features, and for a second I could see everything underneath—his lips compressed, his closed eyelids distorted and flattened like a face pressed against glass from the inside. A face in a window. A face going away.
I pulled the suit over his forehead, over the crown of his skull, and smoothed it down.
He was sealed inside.
For a moment nothing. Just Cale's body wrapped in translucent flesh-toned film, features vague and blurred underneath like a mannequin in shrink wrap. The dryer hummed. The fluorescents buzzed. The country song had ended.
Then the suit began to move.
Not him. It.
The material tightened in pulses—rhythmic, peristaltic, like something breathing or swallowing. It contracted against his skin, vacuum-sealed, and every detail sharpened through the membrane. I watched his face come into focus—the slope of his nose, the shape of his jaw, the stubble pressing through like seeds under cellophane, each individual hair finding its way to the surface.
The suit drank him.
Translucence thickened. Skin tone bloomed across the surface—golden tan, exactly matched, the warmth spreading outward from his chest like a blush in reverse. The membrane over his face shifted, rippled, and then it wasn't a membrane anymore. It was skin. His skin. The suit's skin. Eyes still closed but the lids were perfect, lashes dark and distinct. Lips full and parted. The stubble wasn't underneath anymore—it was on the surface, grown into the suit like hair through scalp, textured and real. The mole under his left eye darkened into place. The scar through his eyebrow etched itself like a signature.
I could see his chest rising and falling beneath. Two systems breathing—his lungs and the suit's stolen surface, one inside the other, like a Russian doll made of someone's entire life.
The stitching at the back of the neck pulsed once. Warm, then hot, then still.
Ready.
I reached for the seam. Found the base of the skull and pulled.
Peeling it off was worse than putting it on. The material clung, reluctant, possessive—like tape leaving skin, like something that had tasted what it wanted and didn't want to give it back. I peeled it down over his forehead, his nose, his mouth—watching Cale's real face reappear underneath, slack, unchanged, none the wiser. Down his neck. His chest. I rolled him onto his side to work it off his back, and his body was heavier now, colder. Sweat and something else—something faintly chemical, faintly sweet—had pooled between his shoulder blades.
I pulled the suit off his arms, his hips, his legs. The material made a soft wet sound as it separated from skin—schlk, schlk, schlk—tacky, intimate, obscene.
I held it up.
It wasn't blank anymore.
Cale's face stared back at me from the collapsed hood. Slack-jawed, eyes closed, but his. Fully formed. Dimensional. Textured. The stubble was there—Friday stubble, the exact grain I'd felt under my thumb thirty seconds ago. The mole. The scar. Every detail stolen, cataloged, preserved in a medium that fit in a garment bag.
I looked down at the real Cale. Naked on the concrete. Breathing slow. Skin pale where the suit had been, flushed pink where it hadn't. Goosebumps rising along his arms in the basement chill.
He had no idea he'd just been hollowed out.
I reached for the seam at the back of his neck—the stitching, the neat black line I'd pulled closed over his skull minutes ago. My fingers found it easily. But the texture was wrong. Not thread against membrane. Not synthetic. The stitching had sunk into him. I could feel it under his skin—a ridge running from the base of his skull down the channel of his spine, vertebra by vertebra, all the way to the tailbone. Like a surgical scar that had healed in minutes. Like something installed.
I pressed my thumb into the ridge at the top. The skin dimpled. Warm. Living. His pulse fluttered beneath it.
I pressed harder.
The seam opened.
Not the suit peeling away from a body. The body itself—splitting along the line the stitching had drawn, skin parting like a mouth along his spine. Clean. Bloodless. The edges curling back to reveal not muscle, not bone, but space. A hollow. Pink-warm and glistening, faintly luminous, shaped exactly like the interior architecture of Cale Bakal's body—ribcage, pelvic bowl, the long channels where limbs connected to trunk. A cavity that had been carved out of living tissue and left waiting.
The smell hit me. Warm copper. Saline. Something faintly electric, like ozone after lightning. And underneath it, still, absurdly—Irish Spring.
His body lay open on the concrete. Cale Bakal, split down the back, breathing slow and even, face-down now, arms at his sides. From the outside, his skin was still golden, still perfect. From behind, he was a doorway.
I was already naked. I'd stripped minutes ago—my clothes in a pile by the dryers, my body pale and narrow and shaking in the basement chill. The contrast between what I was and what lay open in front of me was so vast it felt like vertigo. Like standing at the edge of something that would either kill you or replace you entirely.
My cock was hard. Had been since I'd pressed my thighs against his. I didn't care. It wasn't sexual—or it was, but it was also something past sexual, something the word didn't have the architecture to hold. Want so dense it had its own gravity.
I sat on the concrete behind him. Extended my right leg.
Slid my foot into his foot.
"Ahh—hahh—"
Warm. God, warm. Not membrane-cold, not synthetic-slick. Body heat. The inside of Cale Bakal's foot was the temperature of living tissue because it was living tissue—sole and arch and the five tunnels where his toes were, and my toes slid into them like fingers into glove fingers, each one finding its channel and settling, and the skin closed around them. Snug. Wet-warm. I could feel the bones of his foot around mine, metatarsals nesting outside my metatarsals, his arch cupping my arch. His foot was bigger. My foot compressed to fit—painless, impossible, the bones condensing or the space expanding, I couldn't tell which. I flexed. His toes flexed. Mine flexed inside his, a beat behind, and then the delay vanished and there was just one flex. One foot.
Left foot. Same. Sliding in—the heat, the give, the accommodation. His heel settling around mine like a cupped palm. My ankles disappearing into his ankles. I looked down and saw his feet at the end of my legs: large, tanned, a dusting of dark hair across the tops of the toes. My legs emerging pale and thin from his calves like something half-born.
I pushed deeper.
His calves swallowed mine. The muscle wrapped around my shins—dense, heavy, the soleus and gastrocnemius encasing my own like a second skeleton of meat. I could feel the fibers. The density. The sheer volume of muscle that Cale Bakal carried on his lower legs without thinking about it, tissue I'd never grown, would never grow, now pressed against my skin on all sides. His leg hair prickled against me from the inside—thousands of follicle roots, each one a pinpoint of texture along the interior wall of his calves.
His thighs were next, and I had to lie back on the concrete to push into them. Hips lifting, feeding my legs deeper into his legs, and the thighs were enormous from the inside. Quads wrapping my quads. Hamstrings cradling my hamstrings. The interior was slick and hot and gripped me with a peristaltic squeeze—the same rhythm the suit had pulsed with earlier, that swallowing motion, pulling me in. My thighs compressed. His thighs thickened around them. I felt the specific mass of each muscle group as it enveloped mine—the rectus femoris, the vastus lateralis, names I'd memorized from anatomy charts while studying his Instagram photos with a devotion that bordered on liturgical.
I reached his hips and the fit changed. The pelvic bowl was wider, the hollow deeper. My narrow hips slotted into his broad hips and the bones shifted—not breaking, just rearranging, finding a configuration where my skeleton and his skeleton could coexist. His glutes settled around mine, heavy and firm. My cock pressed against the interior wall of his groin and I gasped—"nnh, fuck"—because I could feel his, from the inside, the root and weight of it on the other side of a membrane of living tissue no thicker than a breath.
I sat up inside him. Threaded my torso into his torso.
His abdominals wrapped my stomach. His ribs enclosed my ribs—each one finding its larger counterpart and nesting inside it, my narrow chest expanding to fill his broad one. I felt his lungs on either side of mine. The capacity. The sheer square footage of alveoli, the volume of air this body could hold. I inhaled and his chest rose with me, and the breath was huge—filling spaces I'd never had, pressing outward against a ribcage built for an athlete, a body that had never known the shallow, anxious breathing of someone who took up as little space as possible.
Arms. I fed my arms into his arms, and the sensation was exquisite—biceps around biceps, triceps around triceps, his forearms thick as my calves wrapping my thin forearms in a sheath of corded muscle. My hands pushed into his hands. Each finger finding its tunnel, sliding in past the first knuckle, the second, the third—his fingers were so much longer, my fingertips sitting mid-palm for an instant before the interior contracted and pulled me the rest of the way, stretching me, mapping me, until I could feel his calluses from the inside. The rough thickened skin of his right palm pressed against my own palm like they were holding hands through a wall.
His shoulders settled over mine. The deltoids—massive, rounded, heavy as epaulets—capped my narrow shoulders and the width of me doubled. I rolled them. Felt the ball-and-socket joints move in perfect, lubricated arcs, the rotator cuffs healthy and silent, no clicking, no grinding, none of the small complaints my own body had accumulated from years of hunching over laptops in bad lighting.
I was inside him to the neck. My body encased in his from toe to collarbone, every surface touching, his flesh around mine like water around a stone.
The head was last.
I reached back. Found the opening of the seam where it crested at his skull. Lifted his head—heavy, lolling, the neck muscles thick and warm around my own neck now—and pulled it over mine like a hood.
His face slid over my face.
I felt his jaw settle around my jaw. Wider. Heavier. The mandible was a different architecture entirely—broad, squared, the masseter muscles dense against my own hollow cheeks. His lips closed over my lips. His nose over my nose. Eyelids over eyelids—and for a second I was in darkness, warm, wet darkness, breathing his breath from inside his mouth, feeling his stubble from underneath, each hair a root pressing into the surface above me.
I found the seam at the base of the skull. Pulled it closed.
The seal was different this time. Not a zip. An integration. The edges of the opening melted together—skin fusing to skin, the ridge flattening, the stitching dissolving into his flesh until there was no seam at all. Just the unbroken line of Cale Bakal's spine, the knobs of his vertebrae, the smooth golden skin of his back, with neat black cross stitching, sealing me in permanently.
Full-body pulse.
Every nerve ending fired at once—not pain, not pleasure, something that annihilated the distinction. My body and his body pressed together at every conceivable point of contact, skin against interior skin, muscle against muscle, bone nested in bone. I felt my own dimensions surrender. My narrowness expanding into his breadth. My thinness filling into his density. My face reshaping behind his face, jaw widening, cheekbones broadening, brow thickening, until the interior pressure equalized and I couldn't feel the boundary anymore.
I opened my eyes.
His eyes. Brown, gold-flecked in the fluorescent light. I blinked. Felt the lashes—his lashes, thick and dark—brush against cheeks that were now also mine.
I sat up. The movement was fluid, powerful—abdominals contracting, and I felt them from both sides now, the exterior ridge and the interior effort, the doubled sensation of muscle working around muscle. I stood. The legs unfolded beneath me and the height—God, the height. Six-two. The world was rearranged from up here. The washers were lower. The mirror was at eye level instead of above it. I occupied the room differently. The air moved around more of me.
I walked to the mirror.
Cale Bakal looked back. Not a copy. Not a replica wearing a dead-eyed approximation. Him. The real and only Cale Bakal, alive, breathing, pulse visible at the throat, stubble casting shadow on the jaw in the flat fluorescent light. The mole under the left eye. The scar through the right eyebrow. Brown eyes, slightly narrowed—the default expression of a man who'd never had to look closely at anything because everything worth seeing came to him.
I raised my hand. His hand. Touched my jaw. Felt the stubble rasp against fingertips I could feel from the inside—my original thin fingers pressed against the interior of his thick ones, both sets of nerves firing, the scratch registering twice. Once on the surface. Once beneath.
"Hey," I said.
His voice. Deep, easy, resonant in a chest that held twice the air mine ever had. A voice that expected the world to be listening because the world always was.
I smiled. His smile. The slow one, left corner first.
Somewhere behind me on the concrete, there was nothing. No body. No pale, unconscious boy left sleeping on the floor. The suit had taken everything—converted the body into a vessel, used it up, sealed shut. There was only Cale Bakal standing in a basement laundry room, alone, breath steady, heart beating, fully inhabited.
I found his phone under the dryer. Face unlock engaged, the little padlock clicking open without hesitation. I scrolled his messages. Absorbed names, cadences, the rhythm of a social life that had never required effort. Group chat: "DAWGS 🐕," forty-seven unread—memes, bar debate, Marcus saying whitford you better not flake. Sofia, lowercase, 🫠: hey you, what're you wearing tonight.Tyler: you coming to the party tonight or being a hermit again lol
I typed back to Tyler: yeah I'll be there
To Sofia: something good. you'll see 😏
I turned to the clean pile. Found a grey and white henley—fitted, soft, the kind of shirt that cost forty dollars and looked effortless. I pulled it on. It fit perfectly across the chest, snug at the biceps, the fabric settling against muscle that filled it without trying.
But that wasn't enough.
I grabbed the hem with both hands and pulled.
The fabric tore. Just—ripped clean across, the sound of cotton giving way loud in the concrete space, and I felt it in my hands, the ease of it, the strength required so minimal it was almost funny. These hands could just do that. Tear a shirt like tissue paper. I ripped upward, shredding the bottom third of the henley until the edge sat ragged just above my navel.
I looked down.
Holy fuck.
Abs. Not my abs—his abs, ridged and defined, the lines between each segment casting shadow under the fluorescents. Golden skin. The dark trail of hair running from my navel down into the waistband of his jeans, a perfect vertical line that disappeared into denim slung low enough to show the cut of the Adonis belt on either side.
I flexed.
The abs contracted. All of them, simultaneously, the entire grid of muscle pulling taut, and I felt it from both sides—the effort of contraction and the visual result, watching my stomach transform from flat and defined to carved, each ridge popping into sharper relief, the treasure trail narrowing as the skin tightened around it.
I did it again. Slower. Watching. Feeling the specific sensation of each muscle firing—rectus abdominis, top to bottom, the obliques pulling in at the sides. My hands found my waist, fingers tracing the lines, and the contact was doubled: my touch on this skin, this skin feeling my touch, the circuit closing.
"Fuck," I said out loud. His voice. My voice. Whoever's.
I rolled the sleeves up. Bunched the fabric to mid-bicep, exposing his forearms—thick, corded, veins running elbow to wrist. The callus on the right palm from the barbell. I flexed my arm. Watched the bicep swell, the peak rising, the horseshoe of the tricep visible when I rotated. Arms that could rip shirts. Arms that had never been mine.
I turned to the mirror above the slop sink.
Cale Bakal looked back—but wrong. Better. The henley torn and ragged, midriff exposed, sleeves rolled to show off arms that had been hidden under casual, unsexy cotton. Jeans slung low. The treasure trail on full display, leading the eye down, deliberate as a road sign.
Cale would never dress like this. Cale dressed like someone who didn't have to try. Loose shirts. Unmodified. The confidence of a body that got looked at no matter what it wore.
But I wasn't Cale.
I was what Cale could be if he knew what the fuck he had.
Something flinched deep inside—a flicker of resistance, the body's muscle memory registering wrong, too much, not how we do this. Instinct fighting against intention.
I pressed my palm flat against my stomach. Felt the abs under my hand, warm and solid and minenow.
"Yeah," I said to the mirror. "We do it like this now."
Now that I was inside, I wanted people looking.
Something flinched inside. Deep. Not the suit's resistance this time—there was no suit anymore, just integrated flesh—but something older. A muscle memory. A preference buried in tissue that remembered dressing differently, dressing casually, dressing without intent. Cale didn't perform. Cale just showed up and the performance happened around him.
I overrode it. Pressed the instinct flat. Tugged the henley up another inch.
I wasn't Cale. I was what Cale could have been if he'd ever understood what he had.
I took the stairs two at a time. The legs carried me—quads firing, calves pushing, the entire machine surging upward without negotiation, without the internal bargaining I'd lived with every day of my life. Can I, should I, will it hurt, will I be out of breath. None of it. The body just went.
At the top, Tyler clapped my shoulder. The impact landed on the deltoid and the body absorbed it—just took it in, the way sand takes a wave.
"There he is. Thought you died down there."
I grinned. The slow one. Left corner first.
"Just doing laundry, man."
He didn't blink. Didn't look twice. Chin-nodded and walked away, already on his phone, already done with me the way people are done with things they trust completely.
I leaned against a doorframe. The party filled in—bodies, music, cheap beer and vanilla body spray. A pledge carried a case of Natty Light past me: "'Scuse me, Cale." Someone pressed a red solo cup into my hand without asking. Things just arrived for this body. Drinks, space, the benefit of every conceivable doubt.
A girl brushed past. Her fingers trailed my forearm—light, automatic, the way you'd touch a banister. She didn't look back. I don't think she knew she'd done it.
I drank. The beer was terrible. It didn't matter. We were slowly replacing all the brothers. The beer would change.
You don't go to them. You stand here. Lean. Exist in the coordinates of a body the world organized itself around. And they come—unthinking, pulled by a gravity they wouldn't name if you asked.
Somewhere deep inside this chest, nested under ribs that weren't mine and never would be, a heart I'd been born with beat quiet and grateful and small. Nobody heard it. Nobody would ever hear it again. And that, finally, was the point.
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A spirit slips inside a hot stud while he's trying to get dressed. It has its fun with his muscular body before getting kicked out temporarily, and quickly slips back inside. 😏
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He is seriously thinking that you complained about the leaking pipes just because you wanted to see his body bent over, head on the counter looking at you like a grumpy piece of souvenir from the World’s Strongest Man gift shop, because there is apparently nothing wrong with the pipes.
Then it all became obvious when you walked over with a lewd smirk and slapped his butt.
And he hates that he gets hard from this. Every single time.
How many times have I told you not to cum on my neck connector while playing with my body? I can’t reattach until I scrape off these disgusting flaky stains you st—
Takeo-203—
—you asshole I’m not done talking—
—engage Alpha mode.
—ng…g…
Whew.
… A—Alpha mode engaged. Last online — two — minutes ago. Master, how may this body and head be used?
Time for round two, but remember to scrape the dried cum stains off your neck connector before handing yourself back to main personality mode.
Acknowledged, Master.
Actually, forget about it. He says he hates it but he loves finding out from the logs what outrageous things I would do with his body in Alpha mode. Turns him on every time.
Mhhf!! Mhftop pelling it to squap ip's chafing, I'm gomma—
You're gonna what, my strongman? And it's not chafing. Thanks to your decades of intense training your body doesn't just LIKE squats; it gets off from it—
Mhhf—hmf!! Pppft—what the, what is—it tastes—it is—
Too late big guy. Yes, it also comes out of your mouth now, and you still have two sets to go.
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Captain Bruce Hanxiong Zhang. Best soldier in the corps, right? The valor, the loyalty you have exhibited, that’s what we’ve all heard of; but now tell me, how does it feel to be stepped under your own foot, tasting your own boot?
You sick… bastard— Just kill me.
Don’t be wasteful. You know how much the modularizer device on both ends of your neck costs? Plus, your body is being very honest. You like this, don’t you?
I… never…
Come again? Feeling the heat in your trousers already? Ever wonder why you thrive in an environment under strict command and discipline? But you’ve never been subjugated by your own body, have you?
I— fuck, I—
No need to answer me. I think we already know the answer. Now enjoy, Captain.