Dave was unraveling.
Three days. That’s how long it had been since Matt called out sick. Three days without his voice. His weight. His taste. Three days since Dave had taken him in his mouth, felt the twitch and swell, swallowed him whole.
He hadn’t touched the Chronivac since. Not to reset. Not to undo. Not even to ease the ache building inside him.
He tried. Opened the program, stared at the sliders. He even hovered over the reset button. But something in him wouldn’t let him press it. Something deep. Something hungry.
So he waited. And every hour, the craving grew worse.
His cock refused to go down. His balls felt like they were fermenting—sloshy, sore, swollen with tension. He’d edged himself for hours, over and over, always stopping before release. Always pulling back. He was raw. Aching. Caught in a state of perpetual heat with no way out.
Now he lay flat on the man cave carpet, naked and slick with sweat, body trembling like it was miswired. His cock stood flushed and furious above him, veins bulging, spit-pearled at the tip. It looked obscene. Useless. Beautiful.
Beside him, the Chronivac glowed soft pink-gold. Gentle. Waiting.
Partner reinforcement sync incomplete. Solo compatibility insufficient.
Would you like to optimize physical compatibility with your reinforced partner?
This may involve morphological realignment.
[YES] [NO]
His breath caught. He should stop. Should reset. Walk away.
Instead…[YES]
He exhaled like he’d been holding it for hours and let himself go slack, sprawling on the floor.
It began in his feet.
Heat. First soft, then pressurized. His toes curled, then pulled inward, the skin between them webbing, melting, merging. The seams vanished. The bones in his arches cracked faintly as they began to collapse, dissolving from structure into pulp, into form.
“Shit. Fuck, wait…” he gasped, trying to pull himself upright. His legs didn’t respond correctly. His heels broadened. Ankles thickened. Muscle buckled, then swelled in new directions—rounder, smoother, heavier.
His calves inflated with a deep, stretching ache, skin pulling taut over the swelling mass. Thighs followed, trembling once, then softening. The skin flushed dark with blood as it stretched, then tensed. Veins rose. New hair sprouted across the surface—thicker, blacker, curlier than anything he’d had before.
He whimpered.
His legs weren’t legs anymore.
They were growing into testicles.
Full. Heavy. Matched. Churning.
The skin twitched, pulled tighter. Weight settled deep and low, dragging at him with animal gravity.
And then he smelled it.
Faint at first, barely there. A curl of warmth in the air. Musky. Sharp. Male. It came from beneath him, rising slowly as his legs swelled and sealed. He might’ve thought it was sweat, but it wasn’t his usual scent. This was different. Richer. Earthier. Familiar in a way he couldn’t place.
His nostrils flared. Took it in.
The room felt hotter. Closer. The scent clung to his skin as it changed, soaked into his chest hair, his neck, his lips. It was pheromone-thick—built not just to stink, but to signal.
Some part of him reacted immediately.
His cock gave a savage twitch, like it recognized itself.
“No. No, fuck, don’t…” he tried to plead, but it was too late.
It spasmed once—twice—and he came.
Hard.
But there was no rush. No bliss. Just pressure. A brutal, one-note spurt that emptied him out in a single, shuddering release. His cock spat thick onto his chest, but it felt wasted, like a shell emptying.
His body jerked. His fingers curled against the carpet.
Then he saw it.
His cock was shrinking.
The shaft slid inward. Head darkened. His hands flew to hold it in place, but the touch only sped it up.
“No. No please!” he begged, voice cracking.
The skin folded. Pulled inward. Shaft collapsing into his groin. His original balls drew tight, then flattened. He felt them surge, then crumple…shrinking, slipping into his pelvis like air being sucked from a balloon. They disappeared with a slow, sucking ache.
Gone.
And then his cock followed.
Folded. Swallowed. Sealed.
He moaned. Not from orgasm. From absence.
And then, from something else.
Pleasure.
Hot. Low. Internal.
His legs—his balls—twitched. Not in reflex. In rhythm. Every throb sent a faint drag across the carpet as the sack swayed beneath him, slick with sweat and thick with hair.
He couldn’t feel his cock anymore.
Because he didn’t have one.
But something deep inside still throbbed.
His mouth fell open, a thick string of drool spilling down his chin.
He didn’t notice.
The change was still climbing.
His pelvis cracked. He felt it: a deep, rolling shift in his hips, bones twisting inward. His stance narrowed. His core buckled, then compacted, like something dense being forged from soft metal. His stomach tensed, then smoothed. The flesh rippled, flushed, then tightened.
It wasn’t a torso anymore.
It was shaft.
Veins pushed to the surface, thick and meandering, branching upward from his groin like vines hungry for sunlight. The heat followed them, each pulse deeper than the last. Each breath harder to take.
His ribs folded. He wheezed once, but nothing filled his lungs.
And somehow, it didn’t matter.
He didn’t need breath. Not anymore.
His pecs softened. His nipples dimmed, then vanished. His chest melted into a smooth curve—rounded, veined, flushed with blood.
He was becoming a cock.
No, more than that.
He already was.
From neck to groin, every inch of him pulsed with a slow, smothering pressure. Tight, slick, hot. His skin shimmered with sweat, or maybe something thicker. A glisten, like pre-cum weeping from every pore. Every motion sent tingling echoes rippling through the form he'd once called a body.
And underneath it all, that scent was growing stronger.
Still subtle. Still background.
But unmistakable.
That musky edge clung to the air now—sour-sweet, humid, alive. It rose with the heat, filled the space around him. It wasn’t just coming from his balls anymore. It was him. Embedded in his skin, saturating the air with the quiet stink of male arousal. Dave wasn’t just smelling it now.
He was producing it.
His arms still moved.
Shaking. Desperate.
He lifted one hand to touch his chest—his shaft.
The sensation that met him nearly undid him.
Warm. Slick. Real.
He traced the line of his body with trembling fingers, from where his pecs used to be to the new swell of his lower core. His hand slipped. The surface was too smooth, too alive.
He gripped.
And something inside him spasmed.
His tongue lolled. Drool spilled anew. He didn’t care. His hands were pumping now. Slowly, steadily. Stroking the full curve of himself like he was both the cock and the one pleasuring it.
Because he was.
He stroked harder.
And then his elbows locked. His wrists buckled.
He cried out, but it was already happening.
His arms gave way, muscle collapsing inward, shoulders shrinking, bones sloshing into hot, obedient mass. His hands didn’t fall away.
They fused.
Skin met skin. Fingers melted into palm. Palm merged into forearm. All of it folded inward.
Gone.
No more limbs.
Only girth.
Only need.
Dave twitched where he lay, a slick, veined shaft from throat down, legs now balls, arms now memory, skin flushed and trembling with bloodheat. He could feel every inch of himself. Every square millimeter sensitive, responsive, alive.
His foreskin hadn’t even arrived yet.
But he knew it was coming.
He could feel the pressure coiling at his neck—like something warm and heavy was about to rise.
He couldn’t stop it.
He didn’t want to.
His throat stretched. His jaw began to ache.
The transformation wasn’t slowing.
It was cresting.
And he could feel it in his head.
His throat stretched.
The muscles along his neck bulged, then rippled, skin pulling tight as the transformation climbed higher. A new tension gathered at the base of his skull—a tugging, a coiling, a soft encasement that moved with slow, deliberate purpose.
He couldn’t see it, but he knew what it was.
Foreskin.
It rose like a living sheath, curling up the underside of his jaw, wet and warm, hugging tighter with every inch. It wasn’t just covering him.
It was claiming him.
His neck thickened. The base flared outward. His throat was no longer his—it was shaft now, hot and twitching, slick with leaking heat. The flesh trembled with each pulse.
Then his mouth started to fill.
At first, it was subtle. A familiar taste, seeping up from nowhere.
Salty.
Bitter.
Heavy.
His tongue moved reflexively, confused, then went still.
Because he knew that taste.
It was Matt’s.
Pre-cum.
Not imagined. Not remembered. Fresh. Real. Leaking from inside him.
His eyes widened.
“No,” he whispered—but the sound was already wrong. Soft. Slurred. Like something melting.
Pre-cum spilled out of his mouth, coating his lips, then rolling downward across his face.
Hot.
Slick.
He felt it glide over his chin, what remained of it, then slip along his cheeks, dripping across skin that was softening, flattening, warping. His nose began to collapse beneath it, cartilage dissolving under the weight of warm arousal. His upper lip tugged upward, skin tightening as bone withdrew. His mouth stayed open, leaking steadily, his lips dragging backward as if they were being pulled into his own head.
The fluid didn’t just run over him.
It soaked into him.
He could feel it, feeding the shift, marking each feature as obsolete.
His jaw twitched, then clenched, then cracked.
His tongue pulsed once, thick with taste, then folded. His palate curved downward. His throat followed: narrowing, stretching, reshaping into a smooth inner tunnel. A slit, not for breath. For flow.
And it was leaking.
Pre-cum dripped freely now, seeping from the flexing ridge at the center of what used to be his face. His cheeks had vanished into smooth, flushed skin. His eyes, still twitching behind their lids, began to dull. The muscles around them smoothed. The sockets shallowed.
And then they just…
Sealed.
He couldn’t see anymore.
But he could feel everything.
Every drip across his new face. Every bead of slick oozing from his slit, warm and steady. Every pulse of blood hammering through the shaft he had become.
And then. Sensation. Different. Lower. Anchoring.
His jaw met resistance—flesh wrapping beneath it, tugging gently but firmly into place. The foreskin had reached the edge of his chin and was rising over it, smoothing forward, climbing across his cheeks like a seal being drawn.
And at the base of that tug, warmth.
A spark of pressure at the underside of his face.
Right where his tongue used to be.
It tightened—cinched—and something locked into place.
The sensation was blinding.
His entire body flexed.
He twitched. Spasmed.
Anchored now. Bound. His foreskin was his skin. His chin, his throat, his whole lower face had been cinched beneath that hot, fleshy grip.
His scalp tugged backward as the head of the glans began to flare.
His forehead slid down. His brow smoothed out. There was no skull anymore. Just curve. Just slope. Just flesh reshaping into glans—pink, swollen, drooling.
Inside his head, thoughts pulsed once.
This isn’t—
Pulse.
I’m still—
Pulse.
I don’t—
Pulse.
His mind throbbed with the same rhythm as his skin. His sense of self narrowed with each twitch. He couldn’t track ideas anymore, only pressure. Heat. Sensation. Every moment was a haze of leaking, stretching, reshaping.
The foreskin climbed higher, wrapping up and over.
Sealing.
It cinched just behind the flare, tight and warm and final.
And then—
Hands.
Warm. Familiar. Certain.
Matt.
Dave’s whole world shifted.
Because he felt it—Matt’s grip—not from the outside, but from within. Pressure wrapped around him. Not lifting, but enclosing. He was already there. Already part of the body that now held him.
His foreskin slid forward, then back, a lazy stroke over his slit.
He twitched helplessly—no, naturally—responding without thought. His shaft flexed. His world tightened.
He wasn’t just being touched.
He was functioning.
Sensation cascaded up from his base—Matt’s base—through his new root, his body now wired to another’s movements. Dave felt hips shift. Legs adjust. A waistband press close.
But it didn’t feel like being dressed.
It felt like being flexed.
Used.
Matt’s thigh brushed casually against his shaft, and Dave felt it.
Not as pressure from outside.
But as sensation.
From within.
His entire length responded. Every nerve twitched. The contact sent a shiver through him. Not just pleasure, but proof.
He was connected. Wired. Embedded.
His balls—his legs—hung full and low beneath, heavy with shared heat. Not separate. Not held.
A part of the whole.
He wasn’t being worn.
He was part of Matt.
Integrated.
Tucked.
Owned.
Back in Dave’s man cave, the Chronivac chimed softly in the dark.
Transformation complete.
New form: Sentient, anatomically integrated penis – MATT
Cognitive sync: 99.8%
Erotic response filter: ACTIVE
Host interface: DIRECT. Conscious input suppressed. Reflex loop sustained.
You are Matt’s cock.
You are aware.
You are home.
You are being used.
The message faded.
But the throbbing didn’t.
It never would.