Going (Almost) Full Tan!

Jack regretted having used the soap, regretted knowing some things a woman felt when she was being used for sex. He had had an experience that was like losing his virginity; he was grateful he hadn’t had one of losing a woman’s virginity. “Never again!” he resolved, knowing he had yet to keep a resolution.

He hurriedly used his washcloth to remove the lather. Looking to see that he got it all off, he saw a horror: Everywhere the soap had touched was now tan!! The soap had been tan and now he his pale skin was stained tan! He rubbed, hoping it would come off. It wasn’t as intense without the soap or lather, but he still felt what he had felt before with them.

He looked at his hands, so obviously different than his face. People would notice! He could no longer go to the Y. He hadn’t gone for at least a couple of weeks, but, still, he thought he should be serious about his health. What was he to do - become even more of a recluse?!

Why not? Why?! After some minutes of debate with himself, Jack picked up the soap from the tub’s floor and, with trepidation, began applying its body heat and tan to the rest of his body. The first sensations: having a woman’s arms brush against and along his own, her hands - HIS hands! - running themselves over them. He told his prick it wasn’t real and to ignore it. Shoulders and the rest of the white skin of his torso had similar if less prick-twitching results.

When he got down to his legs he almost lost it and the soap, feeling very queer about thinking he might have sexily shaped legs. He pushed past the feeling, keeping the thought that they had to be tan, too, like everything else. His again stiffening prick, though, was threatening to become a needful cock. He would have to sit on the toilet lid to get his feet - and endure another, more intense session of footsie with the woman who wasn’t there.

But second to that last, he had to do his face. He was so afraid he was becoming more woman than man he thought that washing his face could be like putting on makeup. It wasn’t. It was like knowing what his own face would be like if he weren't a man. It wasn’t a pretty face; he didn’t have a handsome, or, now, a beautiful face. Be it was an attractive face. Maybe, he thought while his mind's eye compared them, more attractive than his sister’s. Or maybe he was just wishing there was something he could be vain about. He knew he shouldn’t, that people didn’t do it with soap, but he brought the bar to his lips. He kissed the woman. It was like kissing his (soapy) sister. When was the last time he had fantasized about ****?