#model tf

The sterile, recycled air of the accounting firm, McKinley, Pierce & Sons, was a constant hum in the back of Ethan’s throat. It tasted of printer toner, despair, and the faint, acrid tang of cheap instant coffee that had been sitting on the warmer for six hours. He was a 32-year-old Senior Financial Analyst, a title that sounded far more important than it actually was. His world was a landscape of spreadsheets, pivot tables, and quarterly reports that no one read but everyone demanded. The highlight of his existence was the fifteen-minute walk from his glass-and-steel corporate prison to the underground station, a brief respite where he could pretend he was a human being and not a cog in a machine of numbers.

Ethan was average in every conceivable way. Average height, average build, with a face that was pleasing enough but utterly forgettable. He had a receding hairline he concealed with a carefully combed-over style of dull brown hair, a wardrobe of grey, navy, and charcoal suits bought from the same department store sale, and a soul that felt as if it had been bleached of all color by the relentless fluorescent lighting of his office.

He was trudging home, his mind a fog of annual targets and a potential buyout that would probably cost him his job, when the world abruptly stopped being mundane. A man had stepped directly into his path, seemingly from nowhere.

He was tall and lithe, with an elegance that was almost predatory. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than Ethan’s monthly rent, and his face was a study in sharp, angular lines. But it was the man’s eyes that caught Ethan, a disturbing shade of pale blue that seemed to see right through him, not at him, but through him, as if appraising the very molecular structure of his being.

“Ethan, isn’t it?” the man said, his voice a silken baritone. It wasn't a question.

Ethan stopped, startled. “I… yes? Do I know you?”

The man smiled, a thin, practiced expression that didn't reach his eyes. "No, not yet. My name is Patrick. I’m a talent scout. For Chrysalis Models."

Ethan blinked, a short, incredulous laugh escaping him. “Models? I think you’ve made a mistake. I don’t… I work in finance. I’m 32.”

Patrick’s gaze never wavered. He looked Ethan up and down, and Ethan felt an odd, shivering sensation, as if an invisible hand were measuring him. “I’m quite aware of your age and profession, Ethan. I have a dossier on you. And I know exactly what I’m looking for. You have… structure. A strong bone structure that’s currently hidden under a layer of… corporate exhaustion. We’re looking for a specific look. A raw, powerful, masculine energy. And you have the potential for it. The raw material is there.”

Ethan shook his head, the encounter feeling increasingly surreal. “I’m really not interested. I have a job, and this is… this is a bit weird, if I’m honest.” He tried to step around  Patrick, but the man moved with him, a dancer’s grace blocking his path.

“We are offering one million dollars,” Patrick said, his voice as smooth and cool as a marble floor. “A flat fee for a six-month contract. You would be the face of a new campaign for our premier athletic client. No experience necessary. We’ll supply the training, the styling, everything. You just need to be… yourself. Or, rather, who you could be.”

The number hung in the air between them, a shimmering, impossible figure. One million. It was more money than Ethan would make in the next twenty years. It was a down payment on a house, a new life, an escape. His world, which had been a dull, predictable grey, suddenly flickered with vibrant, impossible color. He thought of his cramped apartment, his beat-up car, the fifty thousand dollars in student loan debt that clung to him like a curse. He thought of his boss, a man named Henderson who made Patrick seem warm and fuzzy.

“One… million?” Ethan repeated, his voice barely a whisper. The skepticism was warring with a greed so potent it felt like a physical force.

“In an escrow account,” Patrick confirmed. “Half upfront. You can verify it with your own lawyers. We have a car waiting. Come, have a look at the studio. No obligation. Just a look.” He gestured to a sleek, black town car idling at the curb, its windows tinted so dark they were like polished obsidian.

Ethan’s logical mind, the one that had served him so well in the world of pivot tables and quarterly audits, was screaming at him. This was a scam. It was too good to be true. People didn't just get offered a million dollars for walking down the street.

But the other part of him, the part that was bone-tired of the grey suit and the grey life, was shouting louder. It was a fantasy, and he decided, for one foolish, wonderful moment, to let himself live it. He nodded, a jerky, uncertain movement. He didn’t notice the predatory glint of satisfaction in Patrick’s pale eyes.

The car’s interior was a sanctuary of leather and soft music. It smelled expensive, like sandalwood and success. Patrick didn’t speak, just sat across from Ethan, his pale eyes fixed on him with an unnerving intensity, like an artist studying a block of marble, already envisioning the statue within.

They drove for twenty minutes, through the familiar streets of the financial district and into a more fashionable, avant-garde part of the city. The car pulled into an underground garage beneath a building that looked like a giant, shattered prism of smoked glass. The studio, when they emerged from a private elevator, was a vast, white, sterile space, as quiet as a church and as cold as a morgue. The air was cool, and it smelled of hairspray, expensive cologne, and the faint, clean scent of ozone.

It was filled with a humming, silent energy. Half a dozen people, all impossibly beautiful and dressed in black, moved with quiet efficiency. A photographer with a shock of white hair adjusted a massive, complex camera. A stylist with severe cheekbones hung up a rack of clothes. Another person was carefully arranging a gleaming set of dumbbells on a pristine white plinth.

“This is where the magic happens,” Patrick announced, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Now, the concept for this campaign is simple. It’s raw, modern masculinity. The power of the modern athlete. We want to strip away the artifice and get to the primal core. You, Ethan, are going to be our… everyman. The canvas on which we paint our masterpiece.”

Ethan, feeling a bit like a lab rat entering a maze, just nodded, his eyes wide. The white space was dizzying.

A stylist, a woman named Chloe with jet-black hair and a silver ring in her nose, approached him. Her smile was professional, utterly detached. “Ethan, this way to the changing suite. We have a couple of looks for you to try.”

He followed her into a smaller, white room that held a comfortable chair, a full-length mirror, and a rail of clothes. The atmosphere in the changing suite was different - more intimate, but still clinical. She handed him a garment bag.

“First look,” she said. “Just a base. We’ll see how it moves on you.”

Ethan opened the bag. Inside was a pair of stylish, sleek boxer briefs made from a silky, black microfiber. They looked expensive, a far cry from the six-pack of cheap cotton Hanes he had at home. He felt a flicker of self-consciousness. “You want me to… model underwear?”

Chloe gave an indifferent shrug. “It’s a premium athletic line. Boxer-briefs are their signature piece. Just put them on. The pants and hoodie are next.”

Ethan stepped behind a thin, white curtain. He stripped off his own grey boxer-briefs - the fabric felt cheap and coarse in his hands compared to the pair he was about to put on. He pulled the new ones on. They were snug, incredibly comfortable, and immediately made his middle-aged physique look better than it had any right to. He felt a strange tingle against his skin, like a mild static charge. The sensation was peculiar, but he dismissed it as nerves.

He stepped back out, feeling awkward. Chloe looked him up and down, her face impassive. “Fine.” She then handed him a black tracksuit hoodie and a pair of black tracksuit pants. “Here’s the second look. Put the hoodie on with no shirt underneath. Leave it unzipped. We want to show off some… potential.”

The hoodie was thick, soft on the inside, with a sleek, matte-black exterior. The pants were a matching, perfectly cut, relaxed-fit track pant. He slipped them on, and then pulled the heavy, comfortable hoodie over his bare chest. The fabric was heavenly against his skin, and again, a subtle, almost pleasant buzz began to emanate from the clothes.

He looked in the mirror. He saw the same old Ethan, but in expensive sportswear. The man in the mirror looked a bit ridiculous, an aging accountant trying to dress like a much cooler, younger guy. He sighed. This was a mistake. He was going to look like a complete idiot.

“Shoes,” Chloe said, placing a box before him. He opened it to reveal a pair of stylish, all-black Nike trainers. They were sleek, with a futuristic sole and subtle branding. “The finishing touch.”

He sat down and pulled them on. The fit was perfect, almost custom-made. As he laced them up, the buzzing feeling that had started with the boxers began to intensify.

And then, the world began to blur.

It didn’t happen instantly. It began with a warmth in his groin, centered right where the silky black boxers sat. The warmth was pleasant, but intense, spreading outwards like a slow, luxurious wave of heat. He felt a stirring, a pressure that made him gasp slightly. He looked down and saw, with a mixture of awe and horror, the front of his new tracksuit pants beginning to tent, a prominent, thick ridge forming. It didn't stop at a normal state of arousal. It kept growing, the fabric of the boxers and the track pants straining against an endowment that was rapidly becoming absurdly, impossibly large. He was hard, harder than he’d ever been in his life, the sensation a potent, primal throb that was both shocking and deeply, profoundly good.

“What the…” he started to say, but his voice sounded strange in his own ears. It was a bit deeper, a bit rougher.

Then, the warmth in his groin began to spread up his body, a torrent of heat that seemed to be liquefying him, making him feel both unbelievably strong and terrifyingly weak. The tickle in his scalp started first. It was an intense, maddening itch. He raised a hand to his head and felt his hair. The long, brown locks were… shortening. He could feel the strands retracting, the texture changing, becoming thicker and coarser. With a soft, rustling sound, like dry leaves, the hair at the sides of his head began to fall away, leaving the skin smooth, razored. He could feel the sharp, clean line of a fade forming, the top of his hair bunching up into a thick, soft mass of dark, almost black hair. He watched, transfixed, as the short, messy style took shape - a trendy, modern cut with shaved sides and back and a thick, textured crop on top. It was the haircut of a young, confident, and thoroughly modern man. A perfect chavvy jock cut.

A searing, focused pain shot through his left eyebrow, making him flinch. A thin, straight slit appeared in the thick, dark eyebrow, a deliberate, unmistakable scar that was the hallmark of a bad-boy aesthetic. It looked utterly intentional and cool. The rest of his eyebrows darkened to a jet-black, mirroring the sudden, shockingly dark color of his hair.

His face began to ache. He felt the bones shift, the skin re-draw itself. The receding hairline was a distant memory. The subtle wrinkles around his eyes, the sag in his jawline, the slight puffiness from years of corporate life - it all smoothed, tightened, and disappeared. He felt his jawline sharpen, becoming a hard, square-cut angle, and his chin filled out, becoming prominent and strong. The skin became flawless, a healthy, tanned olive tone where there had been a pasty, office-worker pallor. Any hint of stubble, any trace of the need to shave, evaporated completely. His cheeks felt hollowed, giving his face a sharp, angular, sculpted look. When his lips, now slightly fuller, parted in a gasp, his teeth were perfectly white and straight, a dazzling, movie-star smile.

He stared into the mirror, but the man staring back was a complete stranger.

The stranger’s body was doing the same thing. He was shrinking. Not in stature - he actually seemed to be getting a fraction of an inch taller, his posture straightening and elongating - but he felt his overall mass become more compact, more dense. The soft, doughy layer of fat around his middle melted away, and he felt his abdominal muscles beneath his skin clench and knit together, forming a tight, rippling six-pack. His chest swelled and hardened, the pectoral muscles becoming thick, sculpted plates with a smooth, hairless surface. His shoulders broadened, his back became a landscape of hard muscle, his arms grew thicker, the biceps and triceps developing a solid, powerful curve. He was no longer a soft, out-of-shape corporate drone. He was a solid, built, athletic specimen, a body sculpted for action, for power, for sports. All the body hair he’d ever had - the sparse dusting on his chest, the little patch on his legs - vanished, leaving his skin impossibly smooth, taut, and tanned.

He was younger. The weariness, the experience, the soul-sapping cynicism of 32 years just… drained out of him, leaving a fresh, vibrant, and terrifyingly empty vessel. The hard-won knowledge of accounting, of corporate politics, of the simple mundane facts of his adult life… it all evaporated. Replaced by a thrilling, potent, and utterly simplistic knowledge. He knew the best protein shakes, the most effective gym routines, how to strike a pose that would get the most likes on his latest Instagram post. He knew the names of the hottest clubs, the best ways to pick up a girl at a bar, and the sheer, unadulterated power of his own sexuality. All the complexity, the nuance, the years of emotional baggage and life experience - it vanished like a puff of smoke, replaced by a vibrant, powerful, and simple world of physical gratification, social media validation, and raw, undiluted sex drive.

His mind, his very consciousness, was being overwritten.

He stumbled back, clutching his head. Fragments of his old life - his mother’s voice, the face of a girlfriend from college, the weight of a quarterly report - flashed and then dissolved, lost in a sea of new, alien, and utterly compelling memories. He saw himself on a football pitch, scoring a winning goal in a hail of shouts from his mates. He saw himself in a nightclub, a different, gorgeous girl on his arm every night. He saw himself in front of his smartphone, filming a workout for his thousands of adoring followers, his body glistening with sweat, his grin a cocky, arrogant slash across his face. He saw his own reflection in a thousand different mirrors, flexing and posing, a symphony of self-love.

He tried to hold on. He tried to remember the grey suit, the office, the name Ethan. But the name felt foreign, a piece of ill-fitting clothing. He fought to recall the details of his life, but it was like trying to hold water in his hands. His grip on the man he’d been was gone. The name Ethan slipped away, dissolving in the surge of the new identity. A new name, a better, more powerful name, rose to take its place, filling the now-vacant space in his consciousness.

Kieran.

His name was Kieran.

He staggered back to the full-length mirror, and the stranger was gone. In his place was Kieran. He was beautiful. He was powerful. And he was completely, utterly, breathtakingly horny.

His cock throbbed, still achingly hard, a massive, impossible monument to his new, youthful virility. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the weight of it pressing against the black track pants. The feeling was maddening, a constant, low-level hum of pure animalistic desire that was now the engine of his entire being. Every thought, every impulse, was filtered through a lens of sex. The curves of the studio lights, the sensual shape of a dumbbell, the way the black fabric of the hoodie felt against his bare skin - it all sent jolts of pure, raw lust straight to his groin. He was a walking, talking, massive erection, and he was ready to find a use for it.

He couldn’t stop touching himself. He ran his hand over his smooth, defined chest, feeling the hard muscle flex under his palm. He traced the deep V of his hips, leading down to the straining fabric of his pants. A low, involuntary groan escaped his lips. It was a guttural, unthinking sound of pure pleasure. He was a god. He was the king of the fucking world. He was 22, he was gorgeous, and he had a cock that could make a porn star weep with envy. He was gods gift to humanity, and any girl who saw him should consider herself lucky just to be in his presence.

He stepped out of the changing room, his new, predatory swagger already in place. The feeling of being watched, admired, was as essential to him now as breathing.

Patrick was waiting, a satisfied smirk on his thin lips. The photographer and stylist were watching him with undisguised approval. “Well, well,” Patrick purred. “Kieran. I knew it. You were perfect raw material. The clothes… they merely activated your potential. You look incredible.”

Kieran - and he was Kieran now, there was no other self to even question the statement - grinned. It was a wide, arrogant, utterly confident grin that showed off his perfect teeth. “Yeah, man, they’re well fit, like. The gear’s mint. Feels proper good on, you know? The fabric’s sick.” His voice was richer, deeper than Ethan’s, with a flat, urban twang. There was no trace of the accountant’s clipped, professional tone left. He swaggered over to the set, the movement pure, animalistic grace. “What’s the shot, yeah? Gonna show off this masterpiece, then?” He gestured down to his own body.

The photographer, a man named Stefan, looked utterly delighted. “That’s the spirit, Kieran! Just be natural. Be you. We want raw, aggressive, masculine energy. I want to capture the power of a modern athlete. A man at his peak.”

The shoot was a blur of lights and shouted directions. But Kieran didn’t need directions. He was a natural. Every pose was instinctive, a pure expression of his physical power and sexual magnetism. He arched his back, his abs rippling under the black hoodie. He ran a hand through his short, choppy hair. He flexed his biceps, a look of mock-surprise on his face as if he’d just discovered his own strength. He stared into the lens with a lazy, hooded, seductive gaze that promised he was going to give you the best night of your life and forget your name by morning. He pulled down the zipper of his hoodie, just a little, to reveal more of his sculpted, smooth chest. He posed with a dumbbell, his jaw set in an expression of pure, primal aggression. The photographer was in his element, snapping away.

“Incredible! Fuck, yes, Kieran! That’s it! The intensity!” Stefan shouted, his camera clicking like a machine gun.

Chloe, the stylist, was entranced. She walked up to him, her clinical detachment gone, replaced with something darker, warmer. “You’re… you’re a natural. More than a natural.”

Kieran’s grin widened. “Course I am, babe. It’s all in the genes, innit? Or the… what’s the word? The- the aesthetic.” He was proud of himself for remembering that word. It felt modern, cool. He didn’t understand the nuance of it, just that it was a good word to describe his own fucking awesome looks. He gave her a wink. “And the trackies, obviously. They’re fucking proper sexy, yeah?”

The shoot wrapped up an hour later. Kieran was buzzing with an energy that was almost manic. He hadn’t just posed for photos; he’d been worshipped. The ecstasy of being the center of attention, of having cameras pointed at him, was a drug more potent than anything he’d ever experienced. He signed the contract without even reading it. The numbers, the details - they were meaningless. The only thing that mattered was that it was a chance for the world to look at him. That was his purpose now. His sole, glorious, narcissistic purpose. The old Ethan’s concern over a million dollars, over the practicalities of life, was an alien concept. Money was just a consequence of being famous, and being famous was the entire point.

His life became a whirlwind.

His old apartment was a distant, irrelevant thought. Chrysalis Models had arranged for a penthouse suite in a hip, new part of town. It was sleek, modern, and utterly impersonal, a perfect canvas for his new persona. The walls were white, the furniture minimalist. The only personal touches were the massive, floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the bedroom and the state-of-the-art gym equipment that arrived the next day. He spent hours in front of those mirrors, flexing, posing, sending videos to his new social media accounts.

He had to build his brand, he knew that much without understanding why. It was just an instinct. The manager at Chrysalis, a cool woman named Sasha, had set up his accounts. Instagram: @Kieran__The__Chav. TikTok: @Kieran_Official. Within the first week, his follower count had exploded. A picture of him shirtless, glistening with sweat after a workout, his black tracksuit pants slung low on his hips, got fifty thousand likes in an hour. A video of him doing a simple bicep curl with a challenging weight, his face a mask of concentration, got a hundred thousand views. He was an overnight sensation. Every post was a simple, unadorned celebration of himself. He didn’t have to think. He just had to be. And being Kieran was as natural as breathing.

He went out every night, a predator on the hunt. The city’s club scene, with its thumping bass and flashing lights, was his natural habitat. He wore his black tracksuit, the hoodie unzipped, the trainers gleaming. He was the perfect hybrid of chav and jock, a walking, talking piece of cocky masculinity. He was rough, confident, and exuded a primitive, raw sex appeal that was catnip to women.

He’d walk into a club, and heads would turn. He could feel the eyes on him, hear the whisper of his name. He didn’t even have to try. He’d just lean against the bar, a bottle of beer in his hand, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the crowd with the predatory focus of a wolf. He’d look for the prettiest girl in the room, the one with the tightest dress and the most challenging smile. He’d catch her eye, and a slow, confident smirk would spread across his face. He’d wait for her to make the first move. They always did.

He was never without a girl, a different one each night, or sometimes two. The old Ethan, the man who struggled with conversation, who was riddled with anxieties, didn’t exist. Kieran didn’t have anxiety. He had confidence. He didn’t have conversation. He had a presence. He would say things like, “Alright, babe?” or “You look proper fit tonight, you do,” or “Wanna get out of here?” and it was enough. The sheer force of his physicality and his unwavering, simple self-belief was his entire arsenal, and it was devastatingly effective.

He’d take them back to his penthouse, his body burning with a need so primal it was almost painful. His massive libido, the relentless, twenty-two-year-old engine of pure lust, was a constant, insistent companion. He would fuck with a rough, consuming intensity that left his partners breathless and exhausted. He was a force of nature, a physical phenomenon. He didn’t care about their names, their jobs, their hopes or dreams. He didn’t care about their pleasure beyond the mirror it held up to his own performance. He cared about the feeling, the physical release, the validation of having conquered another beautiful thing. The sex was incredible, pure, and utterly empty. It was a perfect reflection of who he had become. He was a beautiful, empty vessel, filled with nothing but a burning, unquenchable fire.

One night, he was out with a few of his new ‘mates’ - other lads who were either models, influencers, or just hangers-on who worshipped his newfound fame. They were a pack, a tribe of alpha males, swaggering through the club, shouting at each other over the music. Kieran was the leader, the undisputed king. He could feel the power, the dominance. He could feel his own body, so young and strong. He could feel his cock pressing against the fabric of his tracksuit pants, a constant, pleasurable pressure that reminded him of his power. He thought about the girl he’d spotted, a stunning brunette in a little black dress, and a rush of pure, animalistic lust flooded his system.

And in that moment, as he leaned against the bar, a flicker of something else stirred in the depths of his consciousness. A shadow. A whisper. An echo.

The echo of a man named Ethan.

It wasn't a clear memory, not a thought. It was just a fleeting feeling of… emptiness. A sense that something was missing, a hollow space in the core of his being. A sense that he should be feeling something other than this simple, unadulterated lust. For just a second, he felt a chill, a disconcerting sense of disconnection from his own body. It was a ghost, a remnant of a soul that had been ruthlessly evicted.

He shook his head, the image of a grey office and a tired man in a grey suit flickering in his mind before dissolving like smoke. What the fuck was that? He pushed the thought away, irritated. Probably just the booze. He wasn't a thinker. He was a doer. A man of action. He had no fucking time for existential bullshit.

“You alright, Kieran?” one of his mates, a lad named Lee, shouted.

Kieran’s grin, predatory and arrogant, snapped back into place. “Fuckin’ A, mate,” he said, his voice a deep, confident rumble. “Never better. Just lookin’ for a bit of action, innit? That bird over there… she’s proper fit. I’m gonna go, you know…” he made a crude gesture with his hips, “see if she’s up for it.”

Lee laughed, a stupid, sycophantic sound. The echo of Ethan, that brief, inexplicable moment of loss, was gone. It had to be, because Kieran didn't have a past. He only had the present, and the present was a fucking fantastic time to be alive. He was 22, he was famous, and he was ready to live his best life. He was Kieran. And Kieran was an icon in the making.

He was the perfect creation of Chrysalis Models.

He swaggered through the crowd, his hips swaying, his eyes locked on his target, his body buzzing with anticipation. The music was a thumping soundtrack to his existence, the flashing lights a celebration of his face and his form. As he approached the girl, she looked at him, and there it was - that look of recognition, of desire. He knew that look. He thrived on it. It was the only confirmation he needed that he existed, that he was real.

“Alright, babe,” he said, his voice a low, confident growl. “What’s a fit bird like you doin’ in a place like this on her own?”

She smiled, a perfect, practiced smile. He leaned in, his body radiating heat and pheromones. His mind was a perfect blank, a wall of pure, unadulterated self. There was nothing else.

The echo was gone. Ethan was gone.

There was only Kieran.

It was supposed to be a simple interview, at least that’s what your agent had told you. You twiddle your fingers anxiously in the warm lobby of Karv creative development. Your agent had lined up this interview with them saying “it’s for some human interest film,it’ll be good for your career.” Which had hit a sore spot for you as your stage name currently had only 5 credited roles and 3 were background extras. You’re sure you’ve never heard of Karv but a gig is a gig after all. 

You heard the scratch of the intercom “Ryan Wells, your interviewer is ready in the next room. Please head to the large doors on the right wall.” You get up, discarding your, mostly ads, magazine and follow the voices instructions. Pushing open the large matte gray doors you find yourself in a warm room, sparsely furnished. The walls are a simple tan color with pictures of vintage cars and abstract tribal art. You notice the large window that lets in natural light, behind a red toned wood desk. A simple green leather chair is placed in front obviously for you to sit in. The man behind the desk made the room look small around his large frame barely contained in a suit that looked hastily put on and uncomfortable. He smiles at you warmly, his trimmed beard crinkling slightly at the motion. 

“Ryan right, pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand and you grab it in a firm shake. 

“You’ve a strong grip,” he remarked “must have an excellent work out routine”

You sit down, slightly confused. You rarely went to the gym. As you puzzle over this you don’t notice as your biceps puff outwards and your lats expand. Your slight belly stretches thin over rock solid Abs matching your new lean pecs. The fabric of your dress pants grows tight as your thighs grow to massive proportions and your calves grow to support your new frame. Your brain is filled with gym exercises and protein packed meals, as you realize how ridiculous it would be if you didn’t go to the gym, it’s how you keep this body in shape after all.

“Thank you sir, I’m rarely not at the gym,” you shrug. “Eating healthy helps too.”

He smiles, “wonderful we like our models to be big and strong”

You frown “wait. . . I’m an actor not a model. .”

“This was clearly advertised as a modeling position,” he says. “You have the perfect body for it”

As he says this you remember applying to model after one of your friends had told you about this opportunity. Your feet grow in your shoes, straining them until you have nice size 11 stompers. you feel your spine and legs lengthen, shifting painlessly as you suddenly find yourself eye level with the other man. Now a casual 6’0” your suit barely fits, a fact your interviewer takes notice of. 

“That suit looks horribly uncomfortable,” he remarks “between you and me I find clothing quite annoying. Your a model anyway why would you ever need to where one”

You mull over his words wondering why indeed you chose to wear a suit, you were a model and a damn fine one at that. You had nothing to be shamed for. In fact you loved showing off your body.

“Can I. . Just,” you ask, gesturing to your horrible clothing.

“By all means, please do,” he smiles suggestively at you. “Need to inspect the wares anyhow.” 

You waste no time, ripping off your suit jacket and undershirt revealing muscles you don’t even recall having. After kicking off your shoes, you stand up and strip down to the black speedo that your boxers shift into. You turn in a circle and give your tight ass a slap for him. 

“How’s this boss man”

“You're coming along beautifully” he says to you” but . . Tsk. . Your attitude needs some work, you might look like an alpha male with your chiseled face and days old stubble. But you and I both know you're a perfectly obedient employee. All our models must be submissive, you know.”

You bow your head shamefully, “sorry sir.” and why shouldn’t you be sorry after all this man was your boss(hopefully) and deserved the utmost respect, you thought as stubble filled your shaping jawline. Your hair slicked back into a perfect styled look. 

“Now what makes you unique from all our other candidates, Ry,” your boss addressed you.

You think hard. “I don’t know sir”

“Hm I’ll tell you boy,” he said commandingly “it could be your can do attitude, maybe your obligation to this company or maybe that interesting tattoo, we do like our models to have some interest. After all those are the reasons your one of our best models in the company”

You blink, sure you misheard. You glanced to your side admiring your tattoos you got as soon as you could. Your slow brain trying to wrap itself around the complainant boss just gave you.  

“Thank you sir” you stare blankly at your obvious superior “why I here again, sir”

He laughs “Ry, just wanted to give you first dibs on the gigs for our new cars, need a strapping model like you to really sell them”

You nod vicariously, eager to please him. “Where at”

He nods at a door to the side. Heading through you find yourself in a tropical garage, a Karv modified car parked in the light. One of the many photographers gestures for you to lean on the hood of the car. You do, placing your hands on your hips and spreading your legs wider. Flashes go off as you look blankly at a camera, not remembering or caring of your old life. Just a happy obedient model, courtesy of Karv industries.