Reclining Venus - Inanimate Statue

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   Every now and then, I liked to visit the museum of art after college in the quiet hour before closing time. There was a new installation there, an alabaster sculpture of a girl of beautiful craftsmanship. ‘Reclining Venus - Lorenzo Bartolini - 1820’.

A peculiar sensation of being watched overcame me as I stooped over the sculpture to examine its beauty. Oddly, while the rest of the artwork had ‘Do Not Touch’ signs, the one attached to this one read 'Please Touch'.

“Go ahead.” A woman, dark-haired and beautiful, stepped into the room. “You're welcome to touch it. Don't worry, she won’t bite. She won’t do anything. She’s just a statue.”

“I figured it was a misprint.”

“Not at all. We're encouraging all our visitors to interact with this particular piece. We find it's the best way for them to truly appreciate the artform. Go ahead.”

I shrugged and placed a hand on the statue's knee, appreciating the startling realism there before trailing my fingers slowly up the thigh. The stone was warmer than I’d anticipated, almost body temperature, and not quite as smooth as it appeared. Instead it was slightly granular, and it left a white, chalky residue on my fingertips.

The woman watched with an eerie intensity as my fingers investigated the anatomical-detail of the marble musculature that made up the buttocks. “Did you say something?” I asked. I could have sworn a soft moan came from somewhere.

“Must be the wind,” she soothed. “Pretty, isn’t she? She's such a pretty little thing. Don’t you think?”

“Whoever made her had quite the eye for female anatomy."

"Would you like to own her?"

"A little out of my price range I'm afraid," I laughed politely. Her strange manner unnerved me a little. "Do you work here?”

“My husband owns this collection.”

“He must be a rich man.”

“Very. Marcellino Vecoli, you may have heard of him. He worked hard all his life to assemble these pieces. But in his retirement he is somewhat more… reclining. He found that money did not buy him satisfaction.”

“What does?” I asked, making polite chit-chat. Something about the woman put me on edge, though she was beautiful enough to tolerate. Perhaps it was something about the room I didn't like.

She smiled enigmatically at my question. “What do you think about the chest? Please, take your time. The nipples were made by a master artisan.”

In the hope that complying would make her leave me alone in peace, I obliged, cupping the marble mammaries. Again, they were warmer than I expected stone to be. My fingertips examined the nipples, circling them studiously.

“There’s that wind again,” I muttered, withdrawing my hands quickly. The muffled orgasmic grunt from somewhere in the room was undeniable that time. I mumbled a 'thank you for your time', and quickly left, staring uneasily at the chalky residue on my hands.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————

Gabriella Vecoli looks down at her husband frozen in plaster and spray-on marble. “Did you have fun there, darling?”

The statue gives a soft groan of affirmation, shifting its stiffly painted hand with effort to unveil something stiffer - the fleshy, pink, unpainted cock standing proud and throbbing between its alabaster thighs.

“Liked him, did you?” Gabriella croons, taking the cock in her hand. “Why don’t I finish you off and then we can get you out of this.” She leans in to whisper as she slowly jerks her encased husband to completion. “Or maybe I’ll keep you in there and sell you to the nice young man.”

Her statueified husband gives a gurgle of delight around his concealed oxygen and feeding tubes at the thought, as a spray of cum coats his marble skin.

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"Show time! Girdles on, boys!” my wife crows excitedly. She’s already whipping together the plaster of paris.

   My sons help each other with their corsets. I struggle with mine until she comes over and pulls hard on the strings, cinches it tight enough to force the air out my lungs. I wince and look down. It hurts to laugh, and I try not to chuckle at how my crushed male waist creates the illusion of a flaring, female pelvis and jutting behind. The corset comes to just below my pectorals, forcing the flesh of my chest up into two modest breast-shaped mounds. The corsets would hold us in the desired shape and, once covered in plaster, would be blended seamlessly with our bodies.

Jessica was a sculptor and the city council had commissioned her to create a showpiece to decorate a gala celebrating International Women’s Day. They wanted an eye-pleaser, something amazonian, something strong and fierce exemplifying the female ideal. And they wanted it in two days.

“Is using men as ornaments antithetical or in-keeping with the ideals of Women’s Day,” I muse as my wife tightens the corset a little more, cupping and pushing up my chest to form a facsimile of a B-cup.

“If they wanted a real statue, they should have given me months to make it, not days. Besides, what they don’t know, won’t hurt them.”

“It’s me I’m worried about. If they realize Hippolyta is a dude, they’ll kill me.”

“They’re not going to realise. You’re going to be beautiful. I’ll make sure of it,” she smiles. She cups my manhood but, rather than a fun fumble, she pushes my package back between my legs, tucking it out of sight between my asscheeks before taping it firmly down. That too will be smoothed over with plaster, merged seamlessly with my ass and obliterated from sight. She pats my flat crotch in amusement.

“Okay, now hold this,” she says, thrusting a bronze spear into my hands. “And wear this,” she says, handing me a helmet. “And these.” She gives me a pair of bronze-coloured, mirrored lenses that fit snugly over my eyes, intended to allow me to see out of my statue-body without looking like a scooby doo painting. She ushers me to a pedestal where my sons are already crouching in position.

She spends 20 minutes posing us - shoulders back, head back, breasts thrust proudly forward - while shouting contradictory advice at us about how to look both ‘feminine’ and ‘fierce’.

“I feel so stupid,” says Albert, crouching beside my right calf.

“Well if we don’t get this perfect you’ll spend the next 24 hours feeling stupid,” my wife chides him. She sighs, picking up her plaster. “That will have to do,” she says, as she begins to paint us.

The first coating is only a thin veneer, yet it hardens like stone as it sets, immobilizing me from neck to foot. I try to move even a finger. I can’t. “That stuff has quite a hold on it.”

“Don’t talk until it's fully set.”

The veneer tightens as it dries. It feels like I’m being vacuum-sealed inside it, though it isn’t too painful, and actually provides a pleasant amount of support, allowing me to relax out of the stance. Even fully relaxed, I remain standing, frozen in position.

   Jessica mixes the next, much thicker layer before daubing it onto my shoulders, smearing it down my torso in long lines that smother the outline of the corset. She rubs the clay in slow circles around my ‘breasts’. There’s  just enough mobility left to crane my neck to see her sculpting extra volume to my chest, and etching in the details of my nipples.

“Do you really need to make my tits so big?”

“Stop complaining or I’ll shove a water feature up your ass,” she snaps.

My sons receive the same treatment. She adds big handfuls of clay to our buttocks and hips, adding volume at first before smoothing it out to construct feminine asses and childbearing hips.

I feel her fingertips rummaging around near my ass and yelp as her finger pokes my puckered asshole. “The hell are you doing back there?!”

“Making a hole for your ass.”

“Why? You’ve had us on a liquid diet for three days.” The last thing my wife needed was her centerpiece taking a dump all over the gala.

“Duh, for the farts. Unless you want your farts just bouncing around inside your shell for the next 24 hours?”

Ugh. That hadn’t occurred to me. Was it too late to reconsider this?

It takes her a while to craft it in such a way that nobody is likely to ever notice it, but at last she’s satisfied with my asshole-hole. She steps back.

“Oh my god, this is amazing! You look incredible! Hold that pose, I’ve got to get a picture!”

“‘Hold that pose’? What else am I going to do?” I yell, cringing as she snaps picture after picture - my male head perched atop a the body of a female clay statue. “These better not be going anywhere near Instagram.”

“Relax, they’re just for my own personal enjoyment,” she teases. “Hold that scowl too, it's perfect! I need to do your face next!”

I’m frowning all the way until the veneer has been painted over my jaw and face. “How long does it take to dry?” I try to ask. My jaw doesn’t move. My entire face is rigid. I stare out at my wife, silent and completely immobile. Only my eyes move behind the lenses stuck to my face.

“Finally a bit of peace around here,” she chuckles after completing the same procedure on the two ‘amazons’ at my feet. She moves out of my line of sight before returning with the thicker clay, which she begins to thinly layer over my face, molding and shaping it. “I promised I’d make you beautiful and I will,” she croons, as I feel my face becoming a feminine mask.

The last step is the spray-on bronze. She slips on a mask, lays down a tarp, and comes at us with the cans of metallic paint from all ankles, making sure to get every nook and cranny. Gradually the plaster of paris is buried beneath a layer of metal. She wheels out a mirror for us to see the statue we’ve become. The illusion is perfect. We might be a thousand years old relic for all the world knows.

Jessica clambers up, giving me a lingering kiss on my frozen, bronze lips. “You’re so beautiful. I think you might be my finest work. A pity you’ll only last 24 hours.” She sighs. “The delivery men will be here to pick you up in a few minutes. You girls have a fun time at the gala, and I’ll break you out of there in the morning, okay?”

The Pretty Great Shift - Brother TG Swap

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   I don’t know if we’re the unluckiest men in the world or the luckiest. Me and my brother were hiking the Canadian Rockies in late fall when we got caught in an avalanche. I took a powdering and twisted an ankle, while Liam took the brunt of it. He was swept off a ridge, breaking his legs and likely worse.

“Don’t bother,” he groaned as I started digging him out of the snow drift. “I’m going nowhere like this.”

“You kidding? I’m only digging you out so you can carry me down,” I joked weakly, forcing a smile. I knew things were bad. Even if I dug him out, he was a big guy then, there was no way I could lift him.

“Just leave me.” His eyelids drooped. The snow around him was turning bloody pink terrifyingly fast.

“You’ll be fine. A couple of bandaids and you’ll be fine.”

Then the darndest thing happened. It was like the world shifted. Where my battered brother had been a moment ago, a young woman lay, looking up at me, shivering as the cold air flowed into her loose-fitting clothing, but bright-eyed and bushy tailed, and with not a scratch on her.

“... Liam?”

“I’m hallucinating,” she murmured, staring at her hands before slipping them down the neck of her jacket to grope her tits. That was my brother alright. She wriggled her slim body easily out of the mold in the snow of a much larger man.

“You're not the only one,” I stared. “But if you can hallucinate and walk, I’ll take it.”

We got down from that mountain as fast as we could, not daring to acknowledge what had happened in case reality realized its mistake and corrected it. Liam was as agile as a gazelle as she scrambled from rock to rock. True to my word, she helped carry me the last few miles, slipping her slender form under my arm to take the weight off my twisted ankle.

We hunkered down in the survival cabin expecting help to come get us in a day or two. They never did. We later learned, upon returning to what was left of civilisation, that a thing called the Great Shift had knocked out most of the emergency services, and those that were left were too busy sorting out the chaos in the cities to worry about two idiots up a mountain.

We might have rationed our firewood better if we’d known we’d be there all winter. It was a bitter one. The winds howled, the snow piled up against the cabin door. Huddled tight together, sharing our body heat, we lasted a few months before our naturally impulses overrode our squeamishness. My fingers were blue, but at least my cock was warm inside him. When we were cold, we fucked. When we were horny, lonely and missing our girlfriends, we fucked. Mostly it was the tedium of the long dark. We fucked just to pass the time.

When the spring thaw finally came, Liam was far less gazelle-like as we descended to the valley, her arms wrapped protectively around her heavy abdomen. They'd stocked the cabin with everything for survival - condoms not included.

The Cruise Of A Lifetime - Part Two

 

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Ah, Maisie, you’re home already? Has it really been twelve months since you stole my life? Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun. Did you enjoy sharing that tiny cabin with your grandmother all that time, enjoy having your wrinkly old balls drained night after night by her toothless gums around your cock? Gwendoline’s quite the cougar and she doesn’t like to take no for an answer.

I suppose you expected me to jump at the chance to change back, but I’ve gotten quite comfortable in your skin. It was a shock at first but I soon came to view your body and life as my own, and decided to make a few changes. Hm? ‘I made you a lesbian?’ Well, not quite. Don’t you recognise the tattoos? Don’t you recognise your husband?

Your plan to swap us must have been short notice if you didn't even tell him about it. It was a simple matter to pose as you, and I soon had my darling husband wrapped around my little finger. Such a sweet, gullible young man, he truly did love you. Well, me now.

After I told him I only had eyes for women, he begged me to stay, said he could change. After giving him a big pair of silicone tits, it was a simple matter to push him to take hormones. And those got him so confused and submissive, persuading him to undergo the snip was easy. I’ve been treating his body as my plaything ever since he lost that ugly cock of his. While you were eating oysters in the mediterranean, I was eating out your husband's beautiful new pussy. Do you like what I’ve done with him?

I hear your wife calling you. She truly is your wife, you know, after you renewed your vows. You shouldn’t keep her waiting too long. Who knows how long an old man like you has left!

Florida Man(?) - Chemical Leak Sexchange

 Didn't dare upload this one over on DeviantArt yet as pretty sure they'll run me out of town with pitchforks :S All the best to everybody currently in the situation over in Florida,

HEALTH ADVISORY FOR PALM BEACH COUNTY

   A Florida man has reported severe itching and swelling of the chest and buttocks following contact with flood waters in Palm Beach County. Storm surges struck the nearby Agrigenex chemical plant in the early hours of Wednesday, and there are fears that 10 thousand gallons of the concentrated compound estragene-412, a potent synthetic estrogen analog used in the chemical castration of livestock and manufacture of dairy cows out of superfluous bulls, may have leaked into the surrounding water supply.
While Agrigenex has released a statement assuring Floridians that the leak was a minor one and poses no threat to human health, local hospitals have been inundated with a 1000x fold rise in cases of gynecomastia and acute facial and bodily hair loss in the last 24 hours alone. Emergency personnel working in the area have reported symptoms such as diminished muscle mass and strength, confusion, and distracting impulses.
Wildlife experts at the J.W. Corbett Wildlife Management Area, where work is being done on flood defenses to limit damage to the area, have reported the sudden and almost total absence of male fish, frogs, amphibians and water-dwelling birds.
A provisional advisory by the FDA has advised all local Floridians, but especially men, to avoid contact with flood waters wherever possible, to avoid drinking non-bottled water, and to attempt to reach higher ground as the water levels continue to rise.
We will bring you more on this story as it develops.

Mobile Phoney

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Okay, Alexa, what’s the plan for today?

*bleep bleep* Today’s plan is as follows: 8am to 6pm - shapeshift into my sister’s phone to eavesdrop on calls with her boyfriend.

Uh… what?

Shit, why did I say that?! Uh. Your schedule today is... go to work?

Oh no, what was that stuff about listening in on my boyfriend?

Uh, nothing! Nothing!

You’re not a very convincing phone, are you? Alexa, tell me everything that’s going on here.

*bleep bleep* I am not Alexa. I am Eliana, your sister. I have shapeshifted into a copy of your phone to learn about your boyfriend. Damnit, I can’t stop myself!

Oh my god, you’re not joking. All your memories are here as videos in the media library. The most recent one is you sneaking into my room to hide my phone when I was in the shower!

That doesn’t prove anything! Err, those could be anyone’s memories! Err, I mean videos!

Alexa, tell me what your plans were with my boyfriend. Right now.

*bleep bleep* After learning about your relationship, I would shapeshift into you and fuck his brains out, same as all your previously boyfriends…. Oh shit…

You little piece of trash.

L-look, just give me a moment to shift back and we can talk this out like sisters.

Oh, I don’t think so. What’s this little app I found on you here? ‘Shapeshifting Powers’? Would be a shame if your owner were to delete that, wouldn't it?

Don’t even joke about th-

Alexa, delete ‘Shapeshifting Powers’.

*bleep bleep* App has been permanently deleted. Noooooooooooo!

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.

A Friend In Knead - Breast TF

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    Sophie was pushing her way into my house the moment I opened the door, already stripping off her sweater. “Oliver, thank god you’re here! Quick, I need you to titfuck me, right now.”

My jaw droped at the sight of her spectacular rack. Were they… bigger than normal? “Wh-what?! “Are you crazy? No way am I doing that, your husband’s my best friend!”

“That’s why I need you. Eric told you I’m a witch, right? For our anniversary, I said he could have any spell he desired. So he asked to become my breasts.”

I quickly avert my eyes from the tits that I’d been thoroughly ogled. “Eric, I’m sorry, dude, I wasn’t looking at you! I mean I wasn’t looking at your wife or anything. We’re still cool, right?”

Sophie tossed her sweater aside and moved to grab my clothes. I jumped back but she was insistent, backing me against the wall and wrestling my pants around my ankles. She kneeled, the cleavage of her tittified husband inches from my hard cock.

“We were playing with him so late into the night, I fell asleep with him still part of me. My body has been draining his essence all night, there’s barely anything left. Not enough for the reversal to work.”

She cupped her husband’s curves, pressing her tits together around my cock to enclose it completely within their soft warmth. I shuddered in arousal and discomfort, knowing it was my best friend. She looked up with pleading eyes.

“This isn't sexual, it's an emergency. My husband needs an infusion of strong, male life essence to become a man, and if he doesn’t get it in the next hour he’ll be stuck like this forever. If you ever want to see him again, he needs your seed all over him.”

She was frantic as she began kneading her tits up and down my shaft, desperately trying to stroke me to orgasm.

I guess Eric never told her about my vasectomy. On the plus side, at least I enjoyed titfucking him and his widow for the next hour.

The War of Magni's Member - Part Two

 

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"Master Orim! Master Orim! Look what I found at market!”

   The elderly dwarf received quite the fright as I burst through the blacksmith door waving a stone phallus. I’d received incredulous looks all the way through my sprint through the dwarven district, though, as a human, it made a pleasant change from the looks of hatred these days.

The heat from the forge today was intense, and Orim had stripped down to a leather apron, as he had been wont to do before the… change. His nubile, naked ass perched atop a stool beside an anvil. I swallowed hard, trying to hide my body’s reaction within  my apprentice smock.

“The blazes do ye have there, boy?” Orim rumbled, his deep, gravely emerging erroneously from his diminished and delicate body.

“It’s a… it’s a… well. It’s a thingy…” I blurted, feeling suddenly sheepish. “I know things haven’t been easy for you since the emperor stole all your… thingies and- and, well… there was this man selling dwarven…. thingies at the market. And I’ve saved up the money you gave me so…”

Orim sighed wearily and set his hammer aside. “Bring it here, boy."

I set the stone cock down on the anvil. Orim wiped his sooty hands off on his pert, forge-bronzed breasts before lifting the phallus to his eye, squinting at it. Then he fixed me with a withering stare.

“First of all, this isn’t mine. Mine is longer and thicker. Second, this is carved. Yer’ve been scammed, lad. I hope ye didnae spend too much on this ornament.”

My face fell. “Uh. No. Not a lot… Uh. Five gold pieces.”

Orim spluttered. “Five gold?! By the Gods, my cock wasn’t worth that much when I had it, let alone now.” He shook his head in disbelief, long tresses of hair dancing about his slender shoulders. “Yer a good lad - for a human- but too trusting. I’ll beat that out of ye if I have tae.” He handed the false phallus back to his young apprentice. “Find a soldier’s widow. She’ll give ye a few silver for that thing.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alone in his forge, Orim was unsettled. He’d lied. The thing the young man had held was undoubtedly a dwarf’s manhood. It might even have been his own. But such an object was contraband with the death penalty attached for any dwarf found possessing it.

In disposing of it, he'd consigned one of his brothers to eternal, humiliating womanhood. A fate worse than death for any self-respecting dwarf. A choice he'd have to live with.

He wanted no part in this dwarf-human war. All he wanted was to keep his head down and focus on his work.

'Keep my head down'. His mind drifted to the unmistakeable tent in the young man's. There were rumours already that some of his dwarven brethren had learned to 'keep their heads down' or part their legs in exchange for preferential treatment from their human overlords.

Orim licked his lips as he considered his apprentice's human cock, wondering how much more of himself he would be willing to sacrifice for the sake of an easy life.

The War of Magni's Member

 I should probably clarify in advance that I don't support the brutal subjugation of any peoples, real or imaginary, before I get pitchforked to death by an internet mob.

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   The dwarven district was the industrial heart of the human empire. Dwarves had been allies since humanity took its first steps into the world, and dwarven smiths and artisans churned out armor and armaments in huge quantities for the security of all. In any other war, they'd have been indispensable. In this war, with the united dwarven clans marching on the borders, they were a liability. Rumors of the sacrilege a human had inflicted upon their vaunted God-King were spreading in the district, turning it into a literal and figurative powder keg.

As master of the guard, I’d been given instruction by the emperor himself to contain the situation. He’d chosen me for my benevolent and diplomatic nature. It was vital the forges remained open - he needed control, not a slaughter.

I assembled 15,000 guardsmen and entered the district in full battle array. The air was mutinous, wizened dwarven visages glaring out from the windows. My soldiers took the two main thoroughfares, dividing the district into quarters, and dealing with each quarter at a time.

At the business end of 15,000 crossbows, the dwarven workers were ordered to down tools and gather into lines within the foundries, where they were made to strip away their overalls and turn into their stone forms. Some disobeyed and ran, only to be cut down by crossbow bolts. The majority of them obeyed. One foundry foreman, so bent, gnarled and twisted as an old oak tree that he couldn't be any less than 600 years old, spat at my feet, though all dwarves will naturally slip into stone after a few whacks from a truncheon.

Taking a masonry chisel and mallet, I went along the line, removing each of their thick, petrified cocks with a single hard blow each to the base of the shaft. Their fallen manhoods were gathered up and thrown in a pile.

   Human sculptors followed behind, utilizing carving chisels for the finer work; grinding wheels, files and rasps to scrape away the brutish masculine physiology, erasing the ropy bands of muscles of their biceps and abdominals; while a team of men wielding rock augers finished up the job by working the crudely broken lumps of their former manhoods into delicate, dainty, tight little holes.

Their chosen form was a shrewd and calculated one - slender and petite, so as to be less danger in the event of an uprising. Human, as how better to instill loyalty than to make them appear as one of us? Feminine, and fuckable - the dwarven invaders lusted just the same as any other race, and things didn’t end well for women in a failed siege. What better incentive for the feminized workers to keep the walls standing?

One by one, the ex-dwarves shifted out of their stone shapes, staggering and collapsing at the changes wrought upon them.

“Consider these hostages, stored at his majesty’s pleasure,” I stated, pointing with my chisel at the pile. My soldiers began shoveling them into sacks for the Emperor’s vaults. “When this war ends in our favour, they’ll be returned. Cause trouble, and your cocks will be ground to dust to become mortar for the city walls. Get back to work.”

Before today, there had never existed a dwarven woman. After today, there would be 40,000.

One maiden caught my eye as I left, her look of loathing transformed into the most delightful sultry sulk on her new face. It was the foreman. I appraised his comely figure.

“Nothing more to say? No more spit?” I leered, gesturing to my guards. “Perhaps we can find a more fitting use for that mouth of yours.”

Step Mom's Yoga Panties

 I was hunting round my step-mom’s bedroom trying to ‘borrow’ money when she came home from work early. I’d forgotten she gets home early to change for yoga class on friday. Thankfully I can shapeshift, so quickly hid as something she wouldn’t notice. She has dozens of panties - it was like a million-to-one she'd pick me.

This is torture. While she does her stretches, I’m being stretched to my limit across her ass. How long can this yoga class possibly be?

And why is the instructor telling her to stay behind for a private class afterwards?

We Can Rebuild Him. We Have The Sorority - TG

    When I went and got myself blown up by an IED in the line of duty, the army scraped up what was left of me and shipped me home to my girlfriend, fully expecting me to expire on the way home. They were already measuring me up for a coffin and, let me tell you, it wouldn’t need to be a long one.

Yet somehow I held on. And if I wasn’t about to give up, neither was my girlfriend. She got me the best medical care she could afford, setting up charity drives to raise further money. Yet the organ transplants required to replace my damaged body were too much. The damage was just too extensive. My arms and legs were salsa, I’d suffered deep tissue burns across 80% of my body. Liver, kidneys, everything was failing.

As I lay there dying, she gathered all her friends together and made one last, incredible push for donations - not money this time, but organs. Skin, fat, bone and marrow, a kidney here, a chunk of lung there. Not much each but enough to form a mostly complete human. I was a Frankenstein’s monster, a mashed up jigsaw of a hundred different people, but alive. It was just a pity that all her friends were girls.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked my sorority for so much,” she’d said nervously when the bandages were first peeled away from my breasts.

Rehab was lengthy. Learning to walk again - new legs, who dis? More surgery, cosmetic this time to make the face look less of a patchwork, though they made it far too pretty if you ask me. My squadmates are already making fun of it. The visit whenever they’re on leave, as if I don’t see straight through their intentions. I’ve already overheard one of them making a crass remark about the appeal of fucking an entire sorority at once.

I knew I was healed when the army rang, asking when I’d be ready to be redeployed. I told them I’d think about it.

My manhood was gone, reduced to atoms - our sex life changed, though certainly hasn’t stopped.

“Does it bother you?” I asked as we lay in bed entwined in each other's arms. “When you kiss me, it’s like you’re kissing your friends.”

“It’s wonderful,” she said, kissing me passionately. “Every time I look at you, I see the precious gift they gave us.” She hesitated a second. “Kinda wish my sister didn’t donate though.”

“Why? Which part is she?”

“You don’t want to know.”

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.