Mike’s mind buzzed with possibility as he slid off Paul’s lap, momentarily ignoring the needy message blinking on the chair’s display. He strode over to the Chronivac, his pulse quickening as he scanned the menus, considering the options. Foam? Gel? Memory latex? His imagination spun faster—until his eye caught on a setting: Material–Plasticine (Soft, Malleable).
A wicked thrill ran down his spine. What would it feel like to have every touch, every squeeze, knead, and push reshape my body? The forbidden, intimate allure made his breath catch. He selected “Plasticine,” adjusting the sliders for bright, toy-like, multicoloured flesh—red for his lips and glans, blue for his arms and legs, peach for his chest and torso, yellow for his hands and feet. Appearance: Human. Sensitivity: Maximum.
A tingle of anticipation washed through him as he pressed Save. At once, a tingling warmth radiated from his skin, a strange melting sensation trickling through every muscle and bone. He shuddered, looking down as his flesh began to soften and swirl. His arms faded to an artificial, luscious blue—wrists and biceps warping gently as their substance lost tension, plumping with a doughy give. His chest and belly smoothed into perfect, featureless peach, nipples and navel blurring into soft, yielding dimples.
He flexed his hands, watching as his fingers turned a bright yellow, the plasticine pulling and stretching a little as he spread them wide. He pressed his finger into his forearm and gasped; a perfect dimple formed, holding its shape before slowly rebounding. He almost laughed, the transformation creeping up his neck, jaw loosening, scalp prickling as his hair fizzled away and his head smoothed into a glossy cap of malleable skin.
Below the waist, his thighs and calves pasted into thick, blue cylinders, firm at first but soon mushy under his grip. His penis, originally a careful, natural shape, deepened to a vivid fire-red, contrasting brazenly with the rest of his new claylike body. Every inch accepted his squeeze, his poke—no matter how gentle or rough—with a delightful, gummy give.
Mike squirmed, his joints softening. His body still responded, but with every movement, he felt the edges of his form threaten to yield, to subtly squish and deform at the slightest invitation.
Unable to resist any longer, Mike nestled himself back onto Paul’s gorgeous leather lap. He selected the Special Program—Intense Massage (with attachment) on Paul’s digital control panel, watching the button pulse beneath his soft yellow finger. At once, the chair purred beneath him, the retractable dildo rising to nudge and then spread the malleable red of Mike’s plasticine entrance.
Paul’s massage motors whirred into action, internal rollers and kneaders pressing into Mike’s hips and back, arms and thighs. But unlike a normal body, each push sank deeply into Mike’s form. Rollers dug into his hips, squashing them side to side, making his blue thighs widen and flatten, then slowly rebound as the mechanism rolled away. His back became a tapestry of shifting valleys and hills as the kneading attachments pressed in, molding his spine and shoulderblades into delicious, arousing dips.
The dildo, glossy black and proud, speared into his eager, softened cleft, deforming and spreading the clay-like plasticine of his entrance. Mike shivered, delighted, as it entered him, stretching him wide, his inner form yielding and gripping snugly, perfectly molding around the attachment. He felt every ridge, every shudder of the mechanism as it pulsed with inhuman rhythm.
Each thrust reworked his deformable flesh; every squeeze sent shivers through his core, not pain or discomfort, but dizzy, liquid pleasure. The massage program intensified: rollers squished his thighs broad and fat, flattened his belly, even pressed across his red clay cock, deforming it from a proud rod into a squashed, bulbous mound before releasing it back into shape.
Mike’s moans grew louder, words melting to instinct, entire body giving under Paul’s deep kneading and the insistent fullness inside. He squirmed, clenching his yellow hands on the armrests, feeling his peach torso bulge where the motors pressed him out—no sense of harm, only the erotic, powerful sensation of total surrender, body molded and reshaped by Paul’s unrelenting embrace.
On his control panel, Paul’s text flickered eagerly:
“CAN FEEL YOU MELTING INTO ME, MIKE. GOD THIS IS INTENSE. KEEP GOING…”
Sensory overload rolled through Mike’s plasticine nerves and vivid, blushing colors as he squished, stretched, and surrendered, pounded anew from within and without, every inch malleable to the hands—or attachments—of his best friend.