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Your mind might still be yours, but you’ve inherited Keaton’s skill for wrestling. You run through all the moves in your head, imagining all the ways you’ll take him down. He’s no match for your impossible strength, lightning speed, and deadly vice grip-and he knows it. Another kid, fresh out of high school, knock-kneed and dripping with nervous sweat. You saunter into the ring and stare down your opponent.
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Will they notice if I pop a boner? Who cares! Half of them are here for the view, so why not give them a show? It makes you cocky, and makes your cock jump. The roar of the crowd fills your ears as you lift your arms in a mighty flex. Your nostrils fill with the sweet musk wafting off your used wrestling singlet. You itch your chest, running your fingers through a forest of sweaty brown chest hair that wasn’t there before. Yes, your body feels different now, doesn’t it? Everything slightly bigger, slightly bulkier. All you have to do is close your eyes and breathe… breathe… Keaton’s body is standing there, waiting for you to inhabit. You marveled at the way those wrestling suits perfectly framed their asses, and you seethed with envy every time you walked into the locker room to hear them fucking in the showers after a match. You spent all of high school on the bleachers, watching those big sweaty guys tackle each other to the ground, the outline of their dicks so clear that you could practically make out the veins on their shafts. You always said you wanted to be a wrestling jock. The hairy, hunky college wrestler is still in there… somewhere. Keaton Subjeck stares dead eyed into the distance, cock throbbing in his tight Lycra suit.