Duty calls

American Dad – Possession Story Chapter 3: Duty Calls

Stan (in Francine’s body) stood there for a moment, still trying to process everything. His own **** male body was slumped on the couch like a discarded puppet. With a heavy sigh, he grabbed it under the arms and awkwardly dragged it upstairs to the bedroom, grunting the whole way.

“Come on, you big patriotic lug… let’s get you into bed. A real American man doesn’t leave his body lying around the living room like a sack of potatoes.”

He heaved his own body onto the bed, tucked it in neatly, and patted its cheek. “Stay put. I’ll fix this mess after work.”

Stan glanced at the clock. “Damn it, I’m already late for the CIA. Bullock will have my ass if I don’t show up.” He looked down at the sundress he was still wearing and groaned. “Fine. Time to get dressed like a proper… wife.”

He rummaged through Francine’s closet. There were no pants. No suits. Just dresses, skirts, blouses, and lingerie. Stan picked out the least feminine thing he could find — a short black skirt that barely reached mid-thigh, a low-cut red blouse that showed way too much cleavage, and a lacy black bra that was clearly visible through the thin fabric. He also accidentally put on a matching black thong that kept riding up.

As he adjusted the clothes, Stan couldn’t help himself. He ran his hands over Francine’s breasts, giving them a firm, lingering squeeze, then slid them down over her hips and ass.

“Sweet liberty… these are incredible,” he muttered in Francine’s voice, voice thick with confused fascination. He squeezed his chest again, bouncing them slightly. “So soft… so heavy… how does she walk around with these all day?”

He shook his head, trying to stay focused. “No! A real American man does not fondle his wife’s… his own… assets! This is temporary. Very temporary.”

But he still gave them one last appreciative squeeze before stepping back.

Standing in front of the mirror, he attempted to do his own makeup. The result was… questionable. Bright red lipstick smeared a little too thick, heavy eyeliner, and blush that made him look like a confused hooker who had just discovered contouring.

Stan stepped back and admired his work, hands on his wide hips.

“Not bad,” he said, nodding approvingly. “Very professional. A strong, independent American woman heading to work. The boys at the office will respect this look.”

He turned side to side, the short skirt swishing and the blouse straining across Francine’s chest. The thong was definitely showing when he moved.

“Perfect. Time to go maintain national security.”

Stan grabbed Francine’s purse, took one last look at his **** male body on the bed, and headed for the door, hips swaying more than he intended.