AMERICAN CHARLIE

I have a British friend, Charles, who allows me to use him as a skin suit every now and then. He loves the way it feels, and I love wearing him. I’m more of a bear type guy, but he’s not, so he’s always skintight when I pull him on, but I never let my body really FILL his up. I’ve never allowed my muscle and bear fat to affect the way I look when I’m Charles, but I always wonder what it would be like . . . if the two of us were to actually merge. 

In fact, I'm in the mood to be Charles right now. I go and find him. It doesn’t matter where he is. I can be at his side in a matter of seconds. 

He’s at home, getting ready for work, wearing one of his lovely suits. He sees me in the mirror and I see a faint smile ease over his face. He knows what’s coming, and he loves it just as much as I do. I give him a wink before tapping him on the back. He instantly empties into a suit, falling to the floor. 

I slide him on, my legs pushing into his. My cock sliding into his. Everything's so tight, my larger body and muscles straining to fill him up. My bear stomach stretches his out, and I let it, my muscular bear arms filling his up. Finally, I slide his face over mine, and look into the mirror to see him staring back at me, but he’s a bit bigger than he was before. 

My muscular bear bod forces his to be the same. The thickness looks good on him . . . or me. I lick my lips, staring at this new version of Charles. This bear version with thick muscle and soft, pink, sensitive nipples. I round my fingers over them, the sensation pulsing through me like lightning.

Yeah, it’s still him, but a different, merged version. Then I get an idea.

“Shall we play a bit more?” I ask, his accent holding strong as I smile into the mirror. The rush of Charles’ excitement pulses through me. He’s a skin suit, but he’s still here. I can feel him, and he loves every moment of this.  

“Okay,” I smile, his accent suddenly fading. “I feel like Charlie here is more American than you.” I smile, running my fingers over my lip, a thick mustache appearing as my new accent teases a more southern flair. “Yeah, Charlie here’s a good Texas man. Works on a ranch, sweating in the hot sun all day.” I reach down with Charlie’s new, meaty hands and rub my thicker cock. It’s twice the size with me filling it up. I close my eyes for a moment, reality shifting around me before I open them again to find myself looking in an older, rustic mirror. It’s hanging on a wood paneled barn wall. 

I can’t help but smile, adjusting the western hat perched on my head, my muscular bear frame struggling against the tight denim shirt. I still see pieces of Charles staring back at me. Same eyes. Same furrowed brow, but this American version is the best of both of us. I smile at my reflection, knowing that Charles is still there with me, deep inside. 

“So, what do you think, bud? Charlie’s got a lot of work to do.” I smile, tossing him another wink, and I feel Charles’ excitement wash through me. “Yeah, we might have to stay here for a while, see what kind of trouble we can get into.” 

I adjust my hard cock in my tight Levi’s and brush my hands over my mustache before straightening my hat. “Let’s get ‘er done.”

THE ATTORNEY

Another swap out of nowhere, but this is much more than the typical "show up in a strange body and try to figure out who I am" situation. Normally, I'd be able to find a restroom and check out my wallet and get a good look in the mirror, but I'm . . . I'm on a news set, being interviewed . . . LIVE.

I'm an attorney and, I can see myself in the video feed. I read my name . . . Charles Burnham.

Hello, Charles. Damn, I'm quite the bow tie daddy. I'm starting to get hard underneath the news desk. I'm packing quite a cock if the tension on my expensive trousers are any indication.

Trying to pay attention, I reach under the desk and rub my new cock. Oh god, this body is so fucking horny. I have to take care of this, but the whole world is watching . . . at least . . . yeah, I'm on CNN. So goddamn horny and looking at myself in the monitor isn't helping. Look at my perfectly parted salt and pepper hair and beard and . . . that suit . . . the way it feels against my body. I swallow hard, answering another question, trying to focus, but I have to take care of this.

I unzip and fortunately I'm wearing boxers. My new cock is easy to access as my fingers graze the sensitive, thick tip. Damn, this guys . . . I mean, I'm really packing. I smile faintly, trying to hide the fact that I'm starting to jerk myself off on national . . . no, world wide TV. I watch myself in the monitor. I make sure I don't crack. I look like a typical, boring white attorney. I gently tug. I make sure not to move my upper body as my new dick gets even harder, more engorged. How is that even possible?

I slide my new hand over it carefully, fake smiling as I answer another question about my client's impending case. My mind just gives me the answers as if on autopilot. I can't take my eyes off myself in the monitor. Fuck, this guy's hot and . . . those blue eyes . . . that tie . . . those daddy greys.

I tug a few more times. I feel a huge load working its way up until . . . it bursts out of my cock. My hand's wet with daddy cum as I nod again, answer another question as it suddenly hits.

Just look at me. FUCK, I might be a goddamn republican.

NORMAL GUY

Yesterday, I was Maxwell Foster, but most of the people in the office just referred to me as SIR. I was wealthy, handsome, respected and the envy of all my peers. But, I was overworked and tired of being the boss 24/7. It was exhausting to be the one who constantly answered everybody’s questions and told people what to do. The power and money was amazing, but I needed a vacation or a change or something. So, in a moment of sheer annoyance, I wished I could just be a normal guy, somebody with little responsibility who just flew under the radar. 

I didn’t expect anybody to be listening. 

Now, for the last week, I’ve been living the life of Samuel Smith, and he’s just as vanilla as his name. I woke up in his small apartment with inexpensive furniture and off the rack suits. I was thin, balding and had the presence of a wet towel. I was now a junior accountant in the firm and no matter how hard I tried, I was forced to exist with Samuel’s introverted, meek and mostly frightened personality. I went from being the confident man in charge to the worried man who simply wanted to please, and I mean that in every sense. 

Samuel was gay, but in the closet, and I wasn’t able to say no to my boss, Mr. Foster when he called me into his office for meetings and locked the door. I wasn’t able to resist the smell of his expensive cologne, his perfect features and the way he kissed me. He called me Sammy and demanded I call him SIR. It felt familiar and strange, but I never questioned him. I was just a simple accountant who was lucky a man like Maxwell Foster even knew I existed. 

THE POPULAR INTERN

My name is Steve Matheson. I’ve spent the last twenty years working my way up the corporate ladder, pissing a lot of people off along the way. Now, I’m finally in charge. I’m the boss and demand respect. I also work hard on my body. I’m the largest man in the office, a thick wall of muscle, and I take advantage of my intimidating frame. 

I am a man’s man and deserve everything I have, but it still doesn’t feel like enough. Being the boss can be lonely and almost nobody in the office likes me. Well, nobody likes me. 

In reality, I could give three fucks what all those pussies think of me. They can suck my my big, rich cock for all I care, but there’s a part of me that wishes . . . I don’t know, that wishes I was more popular . . . no, the most popular man in the office. Don’t I fucking deserve that?

I remember sitting in my leather office chair, closing my eyes and rubbing my hard cock. It was almost time for lunch and a litte me time. I leaned back in my chair, thinking about the hot new intern that just started. She was ripe, and I’d talk her into some alone time in my office before the week was over. That’s one of the perks of being the boss and how could she really say no?

I was sitting there, eyes closed, thinking about it, my hand wrapped around my thick cock as I started to feel dizzy, tired. Before I knew it, I was asleep, my mind wandering as I fetl my entire body beginning to tingle. It was a strange sensation as I drifted into a dream. It was a strange. I was walking through the office, but people looked at me differently. They smiled and said hello, but there weren’t any hot new interns or women at any of the desks. They were all men and, as strange as it sounds, I was just as attracted to them. But, it was just a dream. I wasn’t one of those faggots. 

The next thing I knew, somebody was shaking me awake. 

LEATHERMANS FIRM

I'd started working at the firm about a month ago. I was kind of shocked when I got the job because I didn't, well, I really didn't fit in with the other men that worked there. They were all very fit, wore tight shirts and fine leather braces, etc. It was definitely a CLUB of sorts, but even though I'd been welcomed with incredible grace, I still felt a bit out of place.

It was time for my thirty day review, and I walked into my boss, Mr. Parker's, office. He was just as buff as the other men, his tight shirt strained by his physique. You could see every muscle, the tight leather braces giving his whole look a naughty flair. Some days it was hard working in an environment with so many good looking men...well, so many insanely good looking men.

"Jackson," Mr. Parker said. "It's so good to see you." Mr. Parker was always very kind, the type of man you were drawn to and the kind of man all men strived to be. "Please, have a seat." He motioned to a leather chair across from his desk and turned to face me, a calm look making him look even sexier than usual with his thick mustache.

"Thank you," I managed, feeling very small in his presence. I wasn't buff like the other men at the firm. I was shorter and thin, but I loved the work and wanted to make a difference.

PERFECT SON IN LAW

I couldn’t believe it was finally here; my wedding day. I’d met Jennifer in college and we dated for years before I popped the question last summer. Her dad was anything but happy about it, completely pissed because I didn’t ask for her hand like it was the 1950s. He was very conservative and I was not. We couldn’t be more different. I was a musician and he was the head of a law practice he’d started when Jen was little. He wore suits and did attorney stuff all day, whatever that was. He’d love it if I were more like him, but I was artistic and free-spirited. He was…well, he was NOT. 

The day of the wedding, everything was going smoothly. My bros had come in and threw me an insane bachelor party so I was kind of hung over. The last thing I wanted was to see Jen’s dad walking into the room. 

“Hey gentleman,” he said to my groomsmen. “Mind if we have the room for a moment? I want to have a chat with my soon to be son in law, here.”

My friends nodded, looking back at me as they left the room and Mr.Peterson, Jen’s dad, closed the door behind them. He looked exactly what you’d imagine a Mr. Peterson to look like. Very intense, bald, thick with a bushy mustache. He was much larger than me and always made me nervous, but he wanted to talk. Maybe this was the olive branch I’d been waiting for. We were going to have to make this work one way or another…even if he didn’t like me and was always a complete asshole.