Red Robin knocked the futuristic gun out of the perpetrator’s hands but not before it fired into the fight and hit Robin square in the chest. There was a rush of chaos and confusion immediately following. Nightwing takes the unconscious teen into his arms and retreats while the rest of the bats take down the rest of the thugs with brutal efficiency.

Red Hood and Spoiler stay behind to question the criminals and do some more investigating while Red Robin examines the gun used.

It’s hours later, with Robin still unconscious in the Batcave medbay, they figure out it’s an alien device originally used to find others of the same endangered race. Frankly, it didn’t at all explain why Damian was still unconscious, or why he fell unconscious to begin with. From the research they found, it shouldn’t physically alter or affect the individual. Which leads them to believe the device had been tampered with.

Tensions were high. Answers were scarce. Doubts were increasing as well as fear and anger.

It came to a head almost twenty-four hours later when Damian violently wakes up.

From one moment to the next, the teen goes from being completely unaware to gasping awake. Dick, who had been by his side through this ordeal, is so startled he shouts in surprise. He jumps from his seat to keep Damian from hurting himself as the boy thrashes in the bed.

Tim comes running in from where he was stationed at the Bat computer to see Damian screaming and struggling against their older brother’s calming hands. The heart monitor is going ballistic and if Damian keeps flailing he’ll rip out his IV.

“Tim!”

He already knows what Dick wants and dashes toward the medicine cabinet for a sedative. It doesn’t take long for the drug to do its job with Dick holding down Damian.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. I got you. I got you,” Dick reassures as Damian loses his strength and sags into the bed.

Tim is already texting Bruce about the situation, not wanting to leave Dick by himself.

“What was that?” Tim asks out loud.

He had never seen Damian act like that except for when he got fear gassed. They had run every test they could think of when he came in, he was clean.

Dick is running his fingers through Damian’s hair soothingly even though the teen is out of it.

“I don’t know. Something’s off.”

They only gave him a small dose, but Damian is out for another six hours. In that time they had ran all the tests again to find nothing abnormal and Jason had pulled in about four hours in to park his butt at the work bench to clean his weapons in front of Bruce and within hearing distance.

When Damian wakes again, it’s sluggish from the drugs. He blinks and groans. Dick is at his side immediately.

“Hey, Baby Bat. How you feeling?”

Damian pulls at the cushioned restraints around his wrists. The teen wrinkles his brows in confusion and looks down.

“You want them off? The first time you woke up you almost ripped your IV out,” Dick explains as he carefully unlatches the Velcro.

“Oh,” Damian mumbles and then thinks about the words. “What?”

Bruce walks through the door. Jason lingers in the doorway peering in to check on the kid.

“There you are. You had us worried,” Bruce says. He stands at the side of the bed to put a hand on the boy’s shoulder while his eyes scan the monitors.

“Sorry.”

That got their attention.

“‘Sorry’?” Jason asks incredulously as he pushes off the doorway to stand at the end of the bed. “Since when have you ever apologized for anything?”

“Jason,” Dick hushes. “He just woke up. Give him a break.”

Damian rubs his free wrists as he looks around at them and the room. The longer they watch him they can see the lack of recognition in his eyes.

“What- what happened?”

Dick and Jason give each other a look at the stutter, but it’s Bruce that responds.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Damian looks down in thought, a hand coming up to fiddle with the IV site. Dick reaches over to pull his hand away. Surprisingly, Damian lets him.

“Um, I was- I was-… sorry,” he says in frustration.

“That’s okay. Take your time.”

Damian rubs at his face in a nervous mannerism he’s never shown before.

“I think I was doing homework? I- There’s this stupid project in history class that’s due in like two weeks and I’ve been procrastinating,” Damian shrugs.

Damian hadn’t once mentioned a history project.

He looks up at Bruce.

“Did I pass out or something?”

Bruce squeezes his shoulder before letting it drop. Dick was right, something is wrong.

“First, can you tell me your identification code?”

Dick shoots him a look that he ignores.

Damian blinks up at him.

“My what?”

Tension immediately seeps into everyone present.

“Your identification code, Dami, you remember it, right?” Dick pushes.

Damian turns to him in confusion.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did he hit his head when he went down?” Jason demands. He turns to Bruce. “I thought you checked for a concussion!”

Damian actually shrinks away from the aggressive tone. Bruce raises a hand for silence. He bends to get eye level with the teen.

“Do you know where you are?”

Damian glances around with cautious eyes.

“…The hospital?”

Dick puts a hand over his mouth in disbelief. Damian sends him a look.

“Not the hospital?”

“No,” Jason answers. “Not the hospital.”

“Do you know who I am?” Bruce asks next.

Damian studies him too closely, looking for context clues. It didn’t leave a lot of confidence.

“My… doctor?”

Dick stands abruptly to pace.

“What is happening?” He demands to no one.

“That’s what I want to know,” Damian chimes in.

“Damian,” Bruce calls to get his attention. “Damian, look at me.”

The teen turns to him in bewilderment.

“Who’s Damian?”

That question freezes them.

“What?” Jason asks. “Who the- If you’re not Damian, who are you?”

“Me? Who are you?”

Dick intervenes with raised hands. He approaches the bed like the teen is a scared animal.

“Okay. We’re starting over. Hi. I’m Dick. What’s your name?”

Not-Damian looks him up and down suspiciously.

“I’m Danny. Fenton. Danny Fenton. You- I thought you called me by my name earlier?”

Dick thinks back and gives a tight smile. “I said ‘Dami’, short for Damian, not Danny.”

Danny slumps back into the bed. “Oh.”

“We’ll figure this out, kiddo. Don’t worry-“

Bruce’s phone rings with an unknown number. He glances at the teen and shows him the screen.

“Do you recognize this number?”

“Yea, it’s mine,” Danny confesses.

Bruce puts it on speaker.

“Damian.”

“Father, it seems I’ve switched bodies with a civilian,” comes the voice.

"Ahhhhn... oh my gosh this body is too sexy... mmmph, this cock is leaking so much already, oohhh... I can't stop milking it..."

Few minutes ago Clara's mind just slammed hard into the Nathan's towering muscular frame. Thanks to her own botched stupid wish, her soul now stuck for god knows how long inside his insanely perfect fit physique.

Her new fingers slid slow and deliberate down every sweat-glistened inch of those massive heaving pecs and carved eight-pack abs that now pulsed under her control. The warm ridges of her rock-hard stomach, pressing deep into the firm grooves as raw electric fire shot straight to the thick heavy cock swelling thick between her legs. A high-pitched girly moan tore from his full lips, soft and needy, quite unmatched with the rest of masculine exterior. Her hips rolling forward on instinct while the pleasure built thick and hot inside.

Outside the door, Nathan's bros froze mid-step, smirking wide as those unmistakable feminine moans drifted through the wood, figuring the heartthrob jock had scored another random chick again for a hard, raw, mid-day fuck like always. They laughed low, one muttering about how loud the bitch was getting.

Greg was vain and cocky. Why wouldn’t he be? He was raised in a world that exalted his conventionally attractive body and milky white complexion.

His unremarkable life was a dime a dozen among gay gymbros. Scrawny gay kid was bullied in his rural town and when he got out of town for college and work he devoted himself to the gym. Aiming to attain a physique that would warrant him all the male affection he craved but never received growing up. A cliche plight for a cliche man.

Even with all the conventionally attractive attributes, Greg was held back in the world from meaningful relationships and meaningful growth as a person. Night after night was filled with clubbing and hookups after hard days as a financial analyst in his father’s company. That was Greg’s life. It should then come as no surprise that he also lacked empathy for anyone different from him because he felt as if the struggles he went through was as hard as the world got. Greg routinely passed off news headlines as fake news meant to pass agendas that only hindered him and his families fortune.

That’s the great thing about the gym though, it’s the ultimate primal equalizer. People from all walks of life come in with the same goal, to look and feel good. But Greg brought in the added issue of a sense of superiority. He thought everyone around him was blessed to be in his presence.

Gabriel was definitely what Greg would call woke. A first generation American, he’s worked hard to build a life and a physique most would admire. He was living the (dead) American Dream. A self made personal trainer, advocate for immigrant rights in his community. A truly admirable and stand up guy with morals, something Greg couldn’t begin to understand.

But all the defying the odds, all that perseverance, is taxing. Gabriel was tired of fighting the good fight for his loved ones, at least for now. He needed a temporary break, but being a self-employed trainer didn’t loan itself to off time. And his family needed his support. Often Gabriel found himself occasionally supplementing his families pay to keep his youngest siblings fed and dressed for school.

Both men needed something from each other they didn’t realize, but the world was ready to do its part to rectify the world for them. A day as mundane as any other, it seemed. Greg was wrapping up his workout his chest felt puffed up and taut. Gabriel coincidentally wrapped up a few minutes ago and was checking out his hard work, posing in the mirror room.

Greg arrogantly walked in the way of Gabriel’s view while doomscrolling on his phone. When the white gymbro finally looked up to see where he was standing, his eyes locked with the Latino hunk. Gabriel stood in a silent confidence that would shake anyone into getting out his way. But Greg had spent his whole life thinking he was a prime specimen all men should aspire to resemble. The two were caught in a deadlock, somehow a mutual respect for each other’s presence but a disdain for what each other clearly represented.

Greg scoffed at Gabriel as if he was in the wrong and walked towards the showers. He walked into a stall and filled the space with steam. As the hot moist air filled the musty room, Gabriel walked into get his belongings and head home but the thick steam suddenly filled the space. Both men were engrossed in the moisture and eventually it felt like they were drowning as their vision went white.

A bright light filled their sight as a ringing chimed in. Then darkness. Greg woke up from the heaviest sleep he could remember in years. He could feel the soreness of his heaving chest and something under the sheets was just as hard and commanding of his full attention. As a financial analyst, he was very routine in his day and had his mornings down to a science. As he swung his legs off the bed to search for his luxury slippers to make his way to shower, he was shocked to find they weren’t there. He passed it off as a mistake he must’ve made last night. His body guided him to a restroom he had yet to realize was unfamiliar and turned on the hot water. Preparing for his morning jerk and shower, his strong palm made its routine way down to begin when the newfound girth and length confused him. He always thought highly of himself and his “immaculate” form, and passed it off as his peak form getting more peak. But that’s when the cocky prick finally looked down to realize everything about his skin tone was significantly darker than before. The visual also confirming his tool wasn’t just thicker it wasn’t even his. He turned to the mirror that only confirmed what occurred.

He knew what his form looked like by memory, this wasn’t that. Gone was his marble off-white lean torso lined with sculpture abdominals, replaced instead with a tanned torso rippling with his own, hardened musculature equally matched by a magnificent set of pectorals. He rotated his arms in awe looking at his strong new calloused hands. Opening them in and out before latching their grip on his pecs, alternating them between flexed and unflexed to see how they felt. He enjoyed how full and squishy they felt when he released a flex, the phenomenon almost electric. It’s that electricity that led him to a twinge. A familiar feeling with unfamiliar equipment. He lifted an eyebrow and moved his grip from his chest to his new thick and surprisingly long tool. It was actually one of the first times Greg could remember being intimidated. Could they actually get this large….especially when not at full mast? Like an eager person ready to open a birthday gift, he put one hand at the base and readied the other. A natural excitement met a primal urge to pump and he began going back and forth, allowing his brain and new muscle memory to dictate the rhythm.

Greg turned to the side and looked up at the mirror, locking eyes with his new self. The deep brown eyes held enthusiasm but also lust. He watched in awe as his hips rocked with a fluidity his original body could never do. He couldn’t contain the thoughts arising from the darkest recesses of his mind. He was more of a grunter in his original body but he wanted to see what Gabriel’s primal moans sounded like. The new “Gabriel” emulating what he thought the stunning Latino beast would do in this moment. Greg couldn’t believe how much longer this was taking than it would’ve in his original body. Panting and panting half an hour went by when a familiar sensation surprised him. He locked eyes with himself in the mirror once again before examining every muscular striation and contraction as he erupted. Pulse after pulse sent him over the edge as he returned to grunting. A wicked smile arose on his face as he rose his hand to his mouth to taste himself.

An alarm disrupted the moment of “self” discovery as a client called asking where “Gabriel” was for their appointment. Muscle memory took over and he headed to the gym to meet his first client.

A selfie of his new torso felt like a must before that hour long session. The morning hormones and weight lifting session sparked more testosterone to flow. This time Greg chose to channel it in a more disruptive way. Gabriel looked too juvenile for him, so Greg sought out a barber to evolved his new body to look like a MAN. One haircut later, a conveniently timed text came to his new phone. A silent pleasure flowed over him as the phone unlocked to his new face. The text invited him to a night out with the bros. He laughed to himself, it’s the perfect chance to show off the new “Gabriel” and see what he could pull.

Greg may have been in a new body, but the old cockiness was never seemingly going to go away. Throughout the night, Gabriel’s friends noticed the stark personality change, but they saw it as him finally growing into a confident man you’d expect to see with that body instead of the humble one he was before.

I hate this body. Every damn day I wake up feeling like a jelly-filled balloon is a reminder of that shitty night a year ago. I'm Jackson, or at least, my brain is. But the rest... this soft belly, these legs that feel like logs, this round face I don't even recognize in the mirror... that's Billy. My stepbrother. The shy otaku who now walks around in my body, with my muscles, my damn conqueror face, and on top of that, he's become as arrogant as I used to be.

This morning was the same. It took me forever to get out of bed (my new bed, in my new room that feels like the back room of a manga store, filled with figurines with giant eyes and garishly colored posters that give me a headache). Billy, the bastard, was still sleeping in my old room, now converted into a luxury sports sanctuary. Trophies, expensive sneakers in display cases, everything tidy and perfect. As if he'd earned it.

-Billy! Gym, now!- I yelled, running up the stairs. My voice still sounds like a whistle, weak and ridiculous in this body. Nothing like the deep, confident tone I had before. Silence. I checked the empty bathroom. Nothing. Only one place remained: his room. My old room.

I hadn't been in for a year. Since the "incident" that happened at the mall, with the thousands of people surrounding me, I had to end up in my stepbrother's disgusting body. The government says they're still working on a cure, but in the meantime, living here has become unbearable. I don't think my father will ever be proud of me. You can see it in his eyes that the son, the captain of the football team, is no longer me, but Billy. I can see it in the awkward silence at dinner. But we didn't talk about it. As if ignoring it would fix it. I took a deep breath and opened the door.

The contrast left me feeling dry. Where once there had been adolescent disorder, now reigned the military order of a professional athlete. Gray walls, a huge poster of LeBron James, everything spotless… but floating beneath that smell of cleanliness and new clothes, there was something else. Damp. Acidic. Familiar. My sweat. The sweat of my old body. It came from a laundry basket next to the closet. On top, a black compression shirt. My shirt. I recognized it instantly by the small rip near the seam.

Something inside me snapped. Before I knew it, I bent down (my knees protested under the weight) and grabbed the shirt. It was stiff in places, sweaty. A raw impulse, stronger than disgust, took over. I pressed it against my face. Against this nose that isn't mine. I sniffed deeply.

God. That smell. Stale sweat mixed with a trace of my old deodorant. It was me. The real me. The one from the gym, the one from the games, the one who felt invincible. For a second, I closed my eyes, and I wasn't in this sack of meat. I was sweating, alive, strong. It was like a drug.

The illusion lasted a blink. The rough fabric against my fat cheek, the cold of the floor beneath my bare feet, the awkward position… brought me back to reality. This reality. I sat up quickly, dropping my shirt as if it were burning, shame scorching my face.

In the closet mirror, I saw the monster: Billy (my body), crouching, with the face of a desperate fat man smelling a dirty T-shirt. Pathetic.

-Where's that jerk?- I muttered, looking away from the mirror. I needed to get him out to train. I couldn't let him ruin my body completely. That's when I noticed. I instinctively looked at the floor next to the closet. The place where I always left my gym bag. The black Nike one, with the bleach stain. Empty. Just the clean rectangle on the floor, gleaming in the light.

A cold emptiness spread in my chest. He took it. He left without me. He used my bag, on my body, to go to my gym. Rage and helplessness cut through me like a knife. He was gone. And I was trapped here, smelling the remains of what I had been, while the impostor walked off with my life. The silence of the perfect room became deafening.

The grease stain on my baggy sweatshirt (how did it get there? French fries yesterday?) seemed to mock the rectangle of pristine floor where my gym bag used to sit. Stolen. Like everything else. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, the screen sticky beneath my chubby fingers. I typed furiously, my fingertip leaving greasy marks on the glass:

. WHERE ARE YOU? THE BAG'S GONE.

. I LOOKED FOR YOU. DID YOU GO TO THE GYM ALONE?

The reply was instant. Not a text. A photo.

I opened it, and my breath caught in my throat. It was Billy. Outside my gym, reflected in the black window of an expensive SUV. He was wearing my favorite T-shirt. My torso. My hard pecs rose like mountains against the fabric. But the focus was on my right arm. Flexed to the limit, my biceps were a ball of rock and veins popping out, my skin taut and glistening with fresh sweat. The grin on my face was pure arrogance: eyebrows raised, lip curled in a triumphant sneer.

. Relax, bro. Just stretching my muscles. No supervision needed.

I couldn't tear my eyes away. God... that body. My body. Sweaty, powerful, lit up like a fucking Greek god. A wave of heat, a mix of rage, envy, and something else... visceral, rose from my stomach. He looked... incredible. Too good for that asshole. I abruptly turned off the screen and pressed my hand down on my small penis, which was straining in my tight underwear.

The government doctor told us something like this could happen, that the gas was experimental, and that the body swapping was imperfect. I hadn't wanted to talk about this with anyone, but I know Billy, and I noticed it right away. I couldn't see girls the way I used to, and I couldn't see my old body or other men in the same way.

My phone vibrated like a hornet's nest in my sweaty hand. Billy. I rejected it. It rang again, insistent. Cursing, I answered.

-What?- I snapped, trying not to let my squeaky voice betray the jumble in my head.

-See?- The deep, confident voice that used to be mine echoed through the receiver, thick with sarcasm. "Impressive, huh? And without your babysitting help."

-You need me there!- I nearly yelled, squeezing the phone until it cracked. -You don't know the right exercises to maintain lower back definition! You're going to injure yourself or you're going to....-

-What are you going to do, Jackson?- he cut me off, his laugh sharp like broken glass. -Ruin my physique? Look at the picture again! I'm BIGGER than you've ever been! Thicker! The girls at the gym literally gasp when I walk by! The ones you used to chase are now chasing me! Even the new instructor asked me for advice!-

I felt a cold hollow in my chest. Bigger? Thicker? The image of that arm, enormous, vascularized... Was it possible? Was my body improving without me?

-You're hallucinating…- I muttered, but without strength.

-Hallucinating?- He snorted in contempt. -I'm a better Jackson than you ever were. More popular. Stronger. And yes, even smarter, because I've realized I don't need you. Stop pretending you come to the gym to "help me." -

-Pretending?- I protested, but he didn't let me finish.

-Yeah, pretending!- His voice rose, laced with cold rage -When was the last time you saw a machine up close other than the stationary bike? NEVER! You spend all your time standing there, staring. Just staring. At me. At the other strong guys. With that weird face... that intense stare, like you're counting their veins. It's weird, Jackson! Weird and pathetic! Everyone can see it! -

I froze. The blood seemed to freeze in my veins. He'd seen it. The others too? It was just... seeing my body in action. Seeing the strength I'd lost... But admitting it sounded worse.

-No... it's not like that,- I stammered, feeling the heat rise to my fat face. -I'm watching the technique…-

-Lies!- he spat in my ear. -You blush. You hide. You look like a fucking stalker. And the worst part.- he added, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, -is having to constantly introduce you as my stepbrother. People thinking we share blood is embarrassing. Stop coming here. Stay home in your dirty clothes and your cold pizza. This body, this life, this strength…- he paused dramatically, -are mine. And I'm not sharing them with you. Not one more minute. Not one more look. Stop stalking me.-

Click!

The line died.

I remained silent, still kneeling in front of the laundry basket, for a few minutes. My mind was shattered, my thoughts empty, and all I had left was... this.

I rummaged through the laundry basket to find a dirty, yellowish jockstrap that was damp from being at the bottom of the laundry basket. I brought it to my face, filling my lungs with the mixed sweat, semen, and urine from my former crotch. I pulled out my small, uncut cock and began to jerk off. I no longer had any dignity to lose or an excuse to deceive myself. This is who I am now. I just wish JACKSON would let me be by his side a little longer.

-----

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Tonight, I finally did it.

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

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

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

The entry was pure, obscene ecstasy.

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

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

I pushed him all the way out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second I stepped inside his apartment, I stripped.

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

I needed to savor this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was almost afraid to go to sleep after fucking Jake last night. He went off back home with a sore ass. No wonder when Mr. Mills’s dick is so huge, he’s extremely hung! I am now, hehe.