Matt wiped the sweat from his brow as he surveyed the dimly lit room. The air was stale, carrying with it a damp, earthy smell—rotten and roiling, somewhere just beneath the floor’s surface. He glanced back at Luke; the short, wiry man’s button-up shirt was clinging to his skin with sweat and his glasses were slightly fogged. Luke's eyes darted nervously around the room, fingers fidgeting with the pocket of his khakis.
"Matt?" Luke’s voice cracked, betraying his fear.
"Don't worry, I'm sure there'll be a way out dude." Matt’s voice was gruffer than he intended, but he was still catching his breath from dashing into the room. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that had settled deep in his gut ever since he inhaled the strange gas.
“I don’t know,” Luke said, rubbing his temples. “Something feels… different.” He looked down at his hand, eyes narrowing. His own skin seemed… foreign to him, somehow.
Matt scratched his scruffy beard and frowned. Something was definitely off, and not just with the room or how they’d arrived. He hadn’t mentioned it yet, but Matt could feel the way his muscles were straining, almost swollen, like a post-gym pump but with more tension in his entire form. His body still felt strong, but there was an odd pressure inside him, building with every passing moment.
Suddenly, a sharp, searing pain stabbed through his gut, causing him to double over. His hands clutched at his stomach as he let out a guttural groan. Speckles of light floated in his vision as a tinny ringing sounded in his ears.
"Matt? Are you—"
Luke turned sharply, then froze, his eyes locked on Matt. Before him, Matt’s body had started to contort, skin rippling as though something underneath was shifting, moving through the toned man’s muscles, causing them to twitch uncontrollably. Veins lightened to an unnaturally pale, sickly hue as they pressed against the skin’s surface, begging for release.
"I don’t... feel right," Matt growled, his voice deepening. He let out another gasp as he felt his arms starting to lock in place around his stomach. The gym rat struggled to pull them away and separate them from his torso, but no matter what he did, they felt completely locked in place. The sandy beige of his skin was starting to grow pale as well, a glossy sheen forming over it in splotches along his exposed arms and legs.
Luke stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest. “Matt! Your—your skin!”
Matt could barely hear Luke’s cry of shock over the din in his eardrums. All over his body, his nerves were vibrating, shuddering as they burned with foreign energy. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, and with how strong the warmth under his skin had become, he was desperate for some sort of respite from the warmth. Without thinking, Matt sank to his knees in an effort to feel the cool concrete floor against his exposed lower legs… but as soon as he did that, Matt realized the mistake he’d just made. His legs now seemed to be locked in place, just as his arms were, and now they were stuck to each other as well.
Another moan escaped from his mouth as his torso both widened outwards and compressed downward unnaturally. Small mercies, the agony began to dull - not because the pain had lessened, but because his nerves seemed to be dissolving, melding against muscle and bone as his mind became overwhelmed. There were no parameters, no guidelines, for a mind to process this sort of shift. With each passing moment, Matt’s thoughts slowed, fragmented, as his human identity began to break apart, peeled away layer by layer.
Meanwhile, Luke felt a strange sensation spreading through his own body. Right before his eyes, Matt was horrifically changing. He should have been horrified—should have run screaming—but something in his mind had shifted the moment he inhaled those spores. Instead of fear, there was a growing apathy. A sudden wave of lethargy washed over Luke, starting to cloud his once sharp mind. His hands trembled, clothes straining against his perspiring skin.
He looked down to see his usually slim frame thickening, his button-up shirt pulling tight across his gut. His body felt… heavier. The waistband of his khakis dug painfully into his stomach, and his once slim figure bulged awkwardly against his professional clothes. Shirt buttons strained as Luke’s belly pushed outwards, softening with each passing second. A wave of discomfort washed over him, and he didn't move to adjust his clothes—he simply didn’t, or perhaps couldn’t, find the ability to care.
Instead, Luke looked down at his expanding gut with mild curiosity, feeling the warmth of his body fat spreading beneath his skin. A strange, calming sensation rippled through him, unlike anything he had ever felt. That obsession with order, cleanliness, control, his sharp intellect and logical approach towards analysis, all of it now felt... useless. He scratched lazily at his stomach, a small belch escaping his lips. A stain seemingly formed from thin air on his once-pristine button-up shirt, but the sight of it didn’t bother him. In fact, something about the mess felt... right.
"What... what’s happening to me?" Matt croaked, looking at Luke who was fully consumed with observing his own expanding form. He couldn’t understand why his friend was seemingly distracted from the impossible changes he was suffering through, and yet… the ability to notice how Luke was changing seemed to be fading away too. The panic once driving Matt’s primary reaction was now receding, leaving a strange, unsettling calm. His body felt heavy, unmoving, solid. He tried to lift his arm - his once muscular, gym-trained arm that he’d been so proud to flex about - but nothing responded. Looking down, his mind registered that they had fused into the base of his porcelain frame, his legs completely melded into a single pedestal. With a jolt, he felt something connect to what used to be his asshole, and craning his neck around, Matt could see that a pipe had arisen from the floor just behind him to connect to it, forming the waste drain for what he was becoming.
His thoughts flickered. Object. The word from the door echoed in his mind, repeating itself over and over. He wasn’t a man anymore, was he? No... being human felt distant now, a foreign memory. His chest, his core, was no longer warm flesh and bone - it was hard, sleek porcelain, white and stained with crusted dirt under the flickering lights.
As if on queue, he let out one last low, hollow groan as the last vestiges of human shape vanished from him. His face had been the last to change, and now his mouth stretched unnaturally wide before freezing, forming the smooth curve of the toilet seat’s edge. His eyelids grew heavy as his eyes glazed over, sliding down and solidifying into nothing but cold porcelain that merged with the rest of the new toilet’s tank. With a low hiss, both his former mouth and the tank that used to house his mind began to fill with water of a light brown hue.
Matt was still present, remnants of his former humanity still percolating, but even then his mind was starting to relinquish his old memories. His thoughts were no longer panicked; they were quiet, static, just as a toilet should be. He could feel a growing desire - not to scream, not to escape, but something more insidious. A compulsion that was overpowering his mind, an unnatural craving to be... used.
Yes, used. Although he couldn’t ‘see’ as he used to, he could still sense his nearby proximity acutely. Matt the toilet desperately wanted to be used, and Luke could do a fantastic job of that. Why, Matt was certain that Luke probably had a lot of pent up waste that could be dumped into his awaiting mouth… and that would taste absolutely delicious to the toilet.
It was as though the tunnel’s spores had rewritten the very fabric of his will, erasing everything but a singular need. He needed to be used. The thought was no longer horrifying, it was comforting, familiar, natural. After all, being a human was just a pipe dream for a dirty toilet, wasn’t it? Matt had always been one, waiting for humans to use him as they pleased. The longer he’d sat there, immobile and cold, the more his mind aligned with his body’s new purpose and forgot about his past life.
"I... am... an... object," the thought solidified. His sense of time, purpose, and identity as Matt, the strong and confident man, had been completely wiped away, replaced by the cold, simple understanding of being a toilet.
Luke’s mind was undergoing that similar rewriting, albeit on a less radical scale. The man slouched further as his fingers fumbled clumsily with the tight collar of his shirt, popping open the top button with a grunt of relief. As his body grew larger, his mind simplified to match it. Thoughts that had once raced with precision now drifted lazily, unfocused, and as his stomach sagged further over his belt, his intelligence dulled, fading beneath a thick fog of complacency. Why bother? he thought, scratching idly at the back of his neck. I’m... comfortable.
He slouched against the wall, his shirt now fully untucked and stained, fullness filling his bloated gut. Luke belched again, louder this time, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the empty walls. He didn’t even glance toward Matt anymore—the horror of his friend’s transformation no longer registered as anything but a distant, uninteresting curiosity. The once-meticulous man felt no concern, no fear, just the soft pleasure of giving in to sloth. His arms ripped through his button up shirt’s sleeves, thick with dense fat, as his ass similarly caused his khakis to loudly tear along their seat and sides. His cock stirred as it thickened as well, seemingly armed with a low level of ecstasy with how large he had become.
Luke shifted his weight, feeling the pressure of his expanding belly pressing into his waistband. His torn khakis now exposed pale, fleshy thighs that had grown soft and wide beneath the fabric. His shirt was a crumpled, stained mess hanging loosely over his bloated frame, a thick saggy pair of moobs hanging atop a truly spherical belly.. There had been a time when that would have horrified him, this dishevelled and unclean man he’d become. But now, as he scratched at the greasy stubble forming on his chin, he could barely summon a flicker of recognition of the man he had once been. No, instead he chuckled lazily at how absurd his past memories all seemed - they weren’t memories after all, simply dreams a younger version of him had had that never came to fruition.
The slobbish oaf let himself sink deeper into the growing apathy that now defined him as his former friend, now toilet, silently cried out for use.