The Life Of Lydia

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   I’m sorry, Lydia. I know what you're thinking, I’m a terrible father. But you had such a perfect life, such a perfect body, that I couldn’t resist taking it. I felt terrible casting that spell but, on the plus side, nobody will ever know. You wouldn’t have any objections if I removed these clothes to examine my prize, would you?
Mmm perfection.
Here, let me retrieve you from where you’ve fallen. ‘The Life of Lydia’, what an amusing title! You don’t mind if I just flip through to the last page. Ah, it’s still being written! More magic! Let's see here... *clears throat*
“Lydia stared up in horror at the figure - her figure! It was her! Her own father within her body, while her soul had been evicted into this vessel of paper and glue. He stooped, picking her up from the flooor. She felt tiny within his hands. He was a giantess! Her leather spine creaked painfully as he spread her wide open, riffling roughly through the thin parchment that was now her entire being. ‘This can’t be happening’, Jessica screamed, though no sound could be heard. ‘This isn’t happening. Give me my body back!’”.
You make for such fascinating reading. I’m afraid your body is my body now, and reversal is quite out of the question. I suppose the kindest thing would be to burn you to free your soul from these pages but, alas, if I’m to take over your life, I need all the secrets written in these pages, access to your innermost thoughts. You don’t mind if I read through these memories, do you? I simply need to know how you and your husband first met.
Oh my, these pages are quite erotic. And with illustrations too! You naughty girl! Is this what I have to look forward to?
Hmm, what’s this you're writing now? “Lydia watched, hope kindling within her as her husband slipped quietly into the room. Unknowing of the theft of her body and life, the man’s dark eyes glittered lustfully at the sight of her father’s exposed, stolen ass. With amorous intent, her husband approached her father, and she saw the same dark lust alight in her father’s eyes as he read her thoughts, as he considered what was to come - his acquired womanhood impaled over and over on his own son-in-law's cock. Too late, Lydia realized her mistake, tried to mask her mind even as her father read it, but the hope of freedom intruded over all other thoughts. The hope that if her husband were only to catch a glimpse of the writing of her book-bound form -even just her title! - he would realize the deception and rescue her from this tor-”
*snap*
Don’t think I don’t see you creeping back there, dearest, admiring my ass. Hmm? 'What was I reading'? Oh, nothing important. But you’re welcome to watch as I put it away. Far, far away.

Mysterio Jones Watson

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“Is that your phone in your pocket, MJ?” Peter Parker asked.
“Mm-hmm, yep,” Mysterio replied, shifting himself around so that his cock wasn't jutting against the hero’s hip. He pressed his breasts against Spider-Man's arms, knowing that was usually sufficient to distract the teenager.
   It had been a week since Mysterio had faked his death in London. A week since he’d been a respectable villain, now reduced to this absurd charade. The plan had been a concocted at the last minute - kidnap Spider-Man’s girlfriend and use the drones to project a holographic shell of the girl around Mysterio, allowing him to get close enough to Spider-Man to steal back the glasses. Simple.
There was of course one very obvious flaw in that plan, which his team were racing to correct - Miss Jones-Watson was an 18 year old girl, while he was a 39 year old man. There was a mismatch there. If the body beneath didn’t match the illusion, Parker’s hand would vanish through the hologram the first time he went for a fumble of a nonexistent breast.
Mysterio’s chest ached from the two large silicone breast implants his team had forced into him. All so that his nemesis would have something to fondle.
“Could you put your arm around my waist this time,” Mysterio said sweetly. The implants inside his ass-cheeks were similarly tender. His team had at least programmed a subroutine into the audio converters to filter out his grunt of pain every time the randy teenager groped Mysterio’s tender cheeks. The audio converters were so far doing a spectacular job modulating his voice into a girly lilt.
"Sure thing, MJ." Peter gripped his waist, and Mysterio’s heart sank as Peter used the closeness as a opportunity to peel up his mask and pull his girlfriend into a kiss. While Mysterio was focused on twisting his head in such a way that his larger nose didn’t bump against Peter’s, Peter took the opening to shove his tongue down his throat. Mysterio nearly gagged. Perhaps the worst part was knowing a live feed of this tryst was being streamed to his team from multiple angles. He played along in kind, examining Peter's tonsils with his own tongue.
At least the lasers and chemical epilation had dealt permanently with his body hair. There’d be no more of ‘MJs’ rough five o’clock shadow scraping against Peter’s cheek as they kissed. That had nearly blown the entire ruse wide open the first time.
And then they were away. Mysterio clung on for dear life as they swung through the city, aware that even the slightest flicker of his disguise would give him away now, while the invisible, hologram-projecting drones struggled to keep pace. His team were similarly rushing to keep up with events, Mysterio’s heads-up display reeling from data as they fed him details of MJ's life, her likes and dislikes, as well as diet tips, gossip, feminine perfumes, and fashion trends. Worst of all was the endless stream of appointments filling his calendar as his team sought ways to improve the foundation of the illusion - liposuction, hair extensions and follicle implants, a buttock lift, jaw and nose reduction and facial feminisation surgery. He shuddered. If this continued, he might not even need the holograms.
“I was thinking we could have Netflix and chill tonight.”
“Of course, honey,” Mysterio replied sweetly. He had no idea what Netflix and Chill was but, 500 feet above the streets of Manhattan, he’d agree to anything. “I-is that your phone in your pocket, Peter?”

The Cruise of A Lifetime

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    It was to be my retirement cruise. Just me and my wife touring the world in the lap of luxury. Fourteen months of beautiful scenery, fine dining beneath both the aurora borealis and australis, and tender, intimate moments alone together in the most romantic European cities, culminating in the renewal of our vows as we prepared to spend a comfortable retirement together. No phones, no contact with the outside world, just me and her. Gwendoline had prepared for the holiday in her usual way by packing plenty of little blue pills. The hormonal rollercoaster of menopause had awakened a rapacious sexual appetite in the woman that I’d yet to find a way of quenching.

I’d known my granddaughter Maisie was desperate to see the world. I didn’t realised just how desperate until I awoke on the day of departure with sticky electrodes glued to my scalp beneath my long hair. I’d been bald when I went to sleep. A swap helmet lay on the pillow beside me. My head lolled groggily. She must have dosed herself with sleeping pills last night just before slipping on the swap device, leaving me to have a long, deep sleep inside her.

Navigating the absurdly wide and wiggling hips of a woman was bad enough without the drugs. I staggered to the bathroom, staring in horror at her… my naked reflection. My fingers refused to play ball with donning a bra, so I pulled on a shirt, panties, and ran as fast as I could for the docks.

I arrive just as the cruise liner is departing. Maisie and Gwendoline stand on their cabin balcony, wrapped in each other's arms in the cold morning air. Maisie doesn’t seem to see or hear me hollering on the dockside as the ship pulls away. Perhaps she’s still adapting to her new cataracts and figuring out the on-button on my hearing aid. Perhaps she’s distracted as Gwendoline presses her wrinkles lips against hers in a lingering kiss, her insistent tongue worming its way into her granddaughter’s mouth, her old hands fumbling for the girl’s wizened cock.

The last I see, before the ship departs for 14 months, is Maisie's pale face as Gwendoline pulls her back into the privacy of their cabin.

Celebrity Culture - Olivia Munn TG/TFPD

 

On the trail of a smuggler known as Janik Schaper, we'd tracked stolen genetic material from Hollywood, via LAX, all the way to a warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin. The air was thick with the meaty tang of cellular broth as we kicked in the door. A dozen-over-the-counter hot tubs had been installed, each a body-temperature bath of bubbling stem-cell infused liquid. Our torches focused on the sole occupant of the warehouse.

"Wenn Sie wegen der Party hier sind, sind Sie früh dran, meine Herren," the girl said.

"TFPD. Hands where we can see them."

"Americans? You have no jurisdiction here.” She had Olivia Munn’s voice, albeit thickly accented in German, as well as her body.

"Mr Schaper, I presume," stated Donovan, my partner.

"I'd like to see you prove it. No fingerprints.” She seemed only mildly annoyed at our intrusion. “Look, Americans, there is 40 thousand euros in my satchel over there. Take it and go. Or if you prefer, wait around an hour and I can provide you an Olivia or two. Or three? Eight? And the girls are so eager when they're fresh.” He gestured to the other hot tubs. “We have Scarlet Johansen if you prefer. Over there we have the Olsen twins… soon to become the Olsen quintuplets. Now there's an orgy I am excited to see.”

"Afraid we only got eyes for you, Herr Munn,” retorted Officer Thompson. “Go call in the locals, rookie, I’ll keep an eye on this one.”

   I was outside, still half-way through explaining illegal stem-cell infusions to the emergency services in my best high-school German, when Donovan came waddling out of the warehouse buckling his pants, a blissed smile on his face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked €40,000 heavier, and his balls a little lighter.

“He got away.”

“He WHAT?!”

“The money too.”

“You son of a-”

“Stow it, rookie. The man was right. We’re way out of our jurisdiction. We’d never have nailed him - heh- for it. The best we can do is flush the material and get a list of his clients when they show up. And you can sleep easy in bed knowing there’s a hundred less Hollywood starlets in the world, and a hundred more German perverts.”

“Great,” I snarled through gritted teeth, half-tempted to punch that smile off his face.

Celebrity Culture - Emmy Rossum

It was one of the largest illegal DNA busts the TFPD had made. A criminal gang were running their operation out of a tower block where they were manufacturing and distributing celebrity status - cells stolen, grown, and pumped back into anyone who could pay for it.

The SWAT team entered through the parking garage at the base, heading up, sweeping floor by floor, room by room, past vats of bubbling flesh-coloured goop.

“Watch you dont get that shit on you, rookie,” Daniels growled behind his respiratory. “Unless you want to spend your career as Anne Hathaway.”

The patients and low level technicians administering the treatments were fleeing. The real criminals were fighting back, gunshots echoing down the concrete corridors. The radio channels erupted as resistance was encountered. 

“-got a Downey Junior heading for the roof with-”

“Kardashians have sealed the stairwell. I need gas grenades.”

“Oprah is armed. I repeat, Oprah is armed.”

I kicked in a door and swept the room. Empty, oversized IV bags dangled above a chair in the center of the room.

A half-clothed figure darted past me from the shadows, sprinting for the elevator, trailing an IV drip behind her. She must not have realized we cut the power. I found her desperately thumping at the buttons. She cowered back at the business end of my rifle.

“Miss Rossum, I presume. Hands where I can see them.”

She doesn’t resist as I push her against the wall, patting her pockets until I locate a wallet. One hand pressing her face against cold steel, I flip it open to her driver's license.

Poor guy. Men’s prison wouldn’t be kind to him. He sniffed miserably. “I just wanted to be someone…”

Two floors up, the roar of a machine gun turned my blood to ice. The radio chatter became screams. Shit. Our intel hadn’t mentioned that level of firepower.

“Don’t be here when I get back,” I hissed, shoving the ID back into his hands and sprinting back into the fight.