Turn and Turnabout

Turn and Turnabout

Published by Elf · 2013-02-09T22:12:50+0000

When Maurice gets home after a hard day at work, he likes to slip into something more comfortable.

No one can say that he doesn’t work hard, because he does. Vice-President, Marketing, at Body-Mod, Inc, providing strategies for expansion and working endlessly to neutralise the fury of the unreasonable hordes of religious loonies who claim that body-modification is against the will of God somehow, countering their picketing and boycotts with endless loops on radio and television and e-billboards of glamourous, sexy A-list-ers promoting the benefits of getting the body you want, instantly, and endorsing Body-Mod, Inc as the premier source of reliable and reasonably priced transformations. An exhausting job. He can be at his desk, or in meetings, from 7 am until 8 or 9 at night, and is constantly jetting off to Delhi or Nairobi or Buenos Aires or Hong Kong. I don’t pretend to understand the technology, but I sure do appreciate the possibilities.

So when Maurice walks through the door each evening—and the body he wears these days is tall, handsome, and gloriously male, wide-shouldered and fit and and full-bearded and reeking of testosterone—the first thing he does (after kissing me!) is to head for the BM Booth, and slip out of his taut, tailored, athletic, expensive business-exec body into one he can relax in. A hum, a flicker, a groan (it’s a feeling not unlike pain, changing bodies, and not unlike sexual pleasure. Halfway between, I’d say), and he steps out, ready for a drink or two, then dinner.

Same guy, you’d recognise him—Maurice likes his original face and almost never alters it—but looking like a jock who’d dropped out of training years ago. Same chestnut hair and beard, but fuller, scruffier; same height and muscle and big chest and wide breadth of shoulders, but Maurice, when he’s not working, likes to relax. And relaxing, to him, means a belly like a huge soft feather pillow. Fat ass, tree-trunk thighs, heavy jowls, pudgy fingers and all. He loves leaning back in his recliner, massively soft and round, with me bringing him crisps and bottles of beer, loves leaning over the dining table, his enormous ball-belly sagging between his thighs, and shoveling enough food into his mouth to feed three or four men. Loves climbing on top of me in bed, drunk with food, and pressing all his 300-pound-plus weight down…

And then loves stepping into the Booth in the morning and stepping out a few moments later as the perfect sexy executive daddy. Six-pack abs, tight butt, sculptured jawline under the neatly-barbered beard. And he can afford the daily change, because as a Body-Mod VP, he gets top-of-the-line services for free, every day, services which would cost the typical buying public the better part of a month’s wages…

I love him both ways—love the daytime look of him in his Jermyn Street suits, love stepping out on his arm for a fancy dinner and the looks we get from envious bystanders… and love our wild nighttime romps, when he’s swollen huge, and all that heft and strength and fur and belly is lusting for me. Because he does lust for me. It’s obvious. And because he finds me so sexy, he says, red-headed and short and young-looking and lithe, he hardly ever lets me use the Booth. Once in a great while, when his appetite will only be whetted by something different, and he’ll set the codes and key in his secret password and I’ll step out even shorter than usual, maybe five feet tall instead of my usual five-foot eight, and built like a wrestler, with thickets of dark curls at chest and belly and groin… I like that one! Don’t like the pale, willowy six-foot-tall blond dancer so much, though Maurice dials that one up again and again and has saved it to the Booth’s memory…

Lately, I’d noticed he’s been sighing and groaning a lot more, bitching about work, complaining about his team and the goals and benchmarks being set by the CEO and the board of directors. “The new CEO, he’s a right bastard,” Maurice grumbles one evening last month, scratching his huge hairy belly idly, with something like annoyance and something like respect combined in his voice. “It’s not that he doesn’t have some good ideas, but the way he’s pushing his weight around…”

And it just after that that I notice Maurice’s expensive suits beginning to look just a wee bit snug on him. I don’t say anything, but I know that it has to be deliberate. The Booth wouldn’t add an ounce to any of his bodies without his authorization. I may not have the codes to operate the Booth when Maurice isn’t home, but you don’t need the codes to request its history and stats—maybe that’s a design flaw that no one’s noticed yet—and I could see that Maurice has been notching his weight up a small fraction of a pound every morning. His height, too—just a tiny fraction of an inch. And as his usual body was already six-foot-four, far taller than most men (especially those without regular access to a BM Booth), he has to have a reason.

Nothing to see at first—such subtle changes! But after two months or so it is obvious. Maurice is almost an inch taller, and probably twenty pounds heavier. It doesn’t show, really—but, of course, it does. To me. An extra inch or two in the waistline. Suits re-tailored for the added bulk in belly—and soon a re-tailoring for extra heft in the ass, the neck, the pecs. The subtlest streaks of silver appearing at his temples and in the chestnut glory of his beard. A bit more… and a bit more…

Not that I mind. I can hardly wait for him to get in the door at night! My sexy, sexy man… who wouldn’t want to make love to a rich, mature, hedonistic stud? But I wish he would confide in me, tell me what was wrong. Some nights he comes in so late, so tired, so frustrated, that he won’t even bother changing into his big ol’ comfortable body, just slumps exhaustedly in his chair, half-asleep before I’ve even brought him a beer. Six-foot-five, edging up towards 250 pounds… damn. Sometimes I crawl into the chair on top of him, and kiss him and tickle him and stroke his burgeoning belly until he groans and laughs and, with a roar, leaps to his feet and carries me off to bed.

And there we were in bed one night, both of us lying sleepy and sated (he was in his fat body, fatter and sexier than ever, and I was the dark hairy wrestler again, yay!) that it finally came out.

“The CEO,” he mutters sleepily, unhappily. “Dominic… top stud. I can’t compete… No one can.”

“Why not?” I murmur, surreptitiously rubbing the coarse curls on my legs (damn, I like this body!) against his ham-like thighs. “You’re excellent at your job, aren’t you? He can’t complain about your marketing of the Booth…”

“It’s not that, Jimmy. It’s… See, our old CEO, Tom Patterson, he never—never showed us up, see? We were all—I don’t know—equal. All good-sized handsome guys, all in it together. Tom kept himself a bit taller, a bit older, a bit heavier, but nothing much, nothing to put us down. Alpha male, sure, but not all that alpha…”

“And this Dominic is? Alpha?”

“Alpha-plus. He’s doing the King Edward VII thing, the full Papa Hemingway thing, but more. More. He’s huge, Jimmy. And I think he’s got a special hormone or pheromone programme on his personal Booth, or something. Got to be experimental. I can’t explain it, otherwise. He’s just cowing us, Jim. And I hate it.”

“So you’ve been boosting your own height and girth? Trying to match?”

I feel Maurice stiffen. “You’ve noticed? It’s noticeable?”

“Only to me,” I assure him, rubbing his soft hairy belly until he moaned with contentment, soon falling asleep.

But I lay awake another hour or so, thinking.

How Maurice almost never lets me change. How he guards the codes to the Booth so obsessively… What the hell is he afraid of? That I’ll transform into someone else? Someone desirable to another man? And leave him? I never would…

However…

Friday night. Weekend ahead of us. Maurice walking through the door, weary and grumbling, desperate, I think, for relaxation, for soothing, for—something more? “Don’t change, love,” I whisper in his ear as he embraces me. “Not just yet. Your body-mods… this new look. So handsome… It’s really turning me on…” So Maurice stays in his workday body—bigger and greyer and potbellied and devilishly handsome still, just that touch older, more mature, more… more… um. Hard to define. More man. More daddy. More boss… And he’s got a glint in his eye again. He’s enjoying the fact that I’m enjoying him bigger and greyer… Well, who wouldn’t?

And I won’t let him out of his chair. I bring him beer after beer, bowl after bowl of crisps and popcorn. “Handsome man…” I murmur in his ear, straddling his waist with my boyish hips. “Sexy man… No wonder Dominic wants to stay bigger than you. You challenge him… You threaten him… He wants to dominate you… He wants you…”

Maurice is breathing harder, now, his blue eyes half-lidded. His eight-inch cock—unmodified, I assure you!—is stirring, rousing… I’m stroking the reddish fur on his round little pillow of a belly, nuzzling his thickened pecs with my lips.

“You’d like him here now, wouldn’t you? Grabbing you. Hugging you. Pulling you down into bed… You’d like him pounding your fat ass right now, wouldn’t you, Maurice?”

Pure porn. God, I didn’t know I had it in me, but how Maurice is responding. Breathing hard, cock totally erect, practically sprinting to the Booth and fingers flashing over the codes—and isn’t it interesting how he knows exactly what numbers to punch in to get the results he wants?—and then manhandling me into the Booth and pressing the “Sequence Begin” button…

Pain, as I mentioned, and pleasure mixed. And not instantaneous, although it’s a very fast process. Plenty of time, though, to feel the ache of bones extending, to feel the skin on face and chest and arms and belly and thighs suddenly itch with sprouting hair, to feel belly and ass swell tight, swell further, balloon and expand and sag… blood pounding in my ears, cock (suddenly enormous!) erect, staggering out of the Booth, disoriented for a moment or two, because I am suddenly a foot taller and almost two hundred pounds heavier. Massive paunch, massive thighs and calves, every inch of me covered with silvering fur… deep lines around my eyes, voice deeper, receding hairline, thick grey beard, muscles a-plenty but buried under years and years of good living…

And Maurice standing, eyes wide, staring, panting with lust. I cross the floor, my bare feet pounding heavily, topple him into bed and climb atop him…

And it’s Maurice who moans with pain and pleasure now, Maurice who sleeps curled into a ball with my big meaty arm around him, Maurice who brings me breakfast in bed and then begs, silently, for a repeat of the night’s pleasure…

And it’s Maurice who finds he can’t force me back into the Booth to resume my usual body. He tries—he cajoles, he pleads. But even when I agree, smiling indulgently (alpha male to beta), guess what? The Booth doesn’t seem to be working this morning! Oh, dear… we shall have to get a repairman in, won’t we?

And it’s Maurice who goes off to work, ass sore but face smiling, to face his ever-so-studly boss… And it’s me who growls at the repairman who shows up promptly at nine, who makes him a cup of coffee (and makes him nervous, and hot and bothered, and unexpectedly erect) and it’s me who blows another secret handful of talcum powder into the cracks and crevices of the Booth once he’s gone. Me who’s eaten the equivalent of two Christmas dinners today, stuffing my fat belly even fatter, drinking a twelve-pack of beer, reveling in my size—god, it’s glorious to be a big man! Being small, and under a big man, is nice enough, but… damn! This size, this bulk… I want more.

We’ll get the Booth repaired eventually. But not today. And not tonight. I can’t wait to see the look on Maurice’s face when he steps through the door tonight… If he thinks he’s been getting fucked over by his boss, just wait…