[Body Sculpt] You've got one shot at this.

You have no way of keeping her from seeing the bag other than tackling her to the floor, and **** will only bring more attention. You've never even given this situation its proper consideration, nor what topic you could possibly broach with the oldest woman in your building. You have only the one stray consideration you ever had around Mrs. Fields, one you dismissed the moment you considered it: your body, and her potential lust for it when doused in your presence. You know she's barren, and even after understanding your breeding sense you very easily decided that she was obviously not on your list... but here now is your only weapon, and to your immediate senses your only choice. Your disgust at thinking of pleasuring her prune-like body is overcome by the fear of life imprisonment. You let the literally dead weight fall to the ground, and Devi nearly tips over from the loss of support. You grab the hem of your shirt and start to peel it upwards as you march up to do something, anything, to distract the old crone. She wouldn't forget this scene if you let her realize it; she'd tell someone, probably everyone, about your odd trash bag. Even if she couldn't determine it to be a body, she's still gossip about you and Devi and your vaguely human-sized garbage. That's how it would start, but the **** investigation you imagine will follow won't let it end there.

As your shirt goes into the air behind you, you consider what other possible choices you have, something you didn't consider. You have little in the ways to distract a woman of advanced years, even as you rack your brain for an alternative. You doubt money could buy her silence, she'd scream bloody **** if you tried to intimidate or hurt her, and she'd doggedly refuse to ignore the giant, body-shaped object Devi still struggles to half-push, half-carry by herself. You have only the resources this wonderful genetic disease has seen fit to give you. By the time you reach her, your shirt is landing onto the sticky apartment floor, discarded.

Mrs. Fields turns around after locking her door, muttering about indignities you'll never understand. Her eyes drift over to where she thought she saw something strange happening in the hall; her two young neighbors on this floor? What could they up to, she coyly muttered to herself before your approach... but her initial scheming for gossip is extinguished when she finds her view blocked by cut slices of man. Flexing pectorals. A six-pack of steel. Two hands clenched together in as close to a Mr. Universe pose as you can muster. Your twitching, "nudge nudge wink wink" eyebrows. Your fetching (creepy) grin. Your body trembling slightly as you flex your full suite of incredibly strong, beautifully cut muscle. In response, the button of your pants bursts open on its own, and the zipper comes down halfway, hinting at your treasure trail. Though you're suffering a mixture of fear of jail and humiliation, you are absolutely a paragon of masculinity... minus the hideous grin that you think you're pulling off well.

"Good evening, Mrs. Fields," you almost whisper, deepening your voice as you do. "Do you... like what you see?"

Silence. The gentle slide of plastic on the floor. The grunts from Devi as she shoulders the trash room open. The emotionless, wide-eyed face of an old woman.

More silence, of that sacred, sacred sort that comes with a judgemental old woman. At last her withering gaze stops staring into your soul and begins to wander your body, roaming every curve that AARS has, without any effort on your part, sculpted into your flesh. Her mouth doesn't unseal or curve in any direction save the same frown she always wears, and her brow never does more than lift with a slow, even tired surprise when one of your muscles twitches unexpectedly. Any moment you expect her to crane her head around your bulging form to catch an eyeful of Devi disposing of the body alone... and every time she doesn't, you almost wish she would.

At last, she breaks her quiet while casting her eyes heavenward. "Beatrice Gaines was a friend from high school of mine... died in the hospital this afternoon, you know. No one's likely to attend her funeral except her granddaughter, so she thought she'd save a dollar by holding the viewing at this ridiculous hour." Her voice is nasal, elderly, and sounds just a bit upset. You realize it's the first time you've heard her voice. Her somber talk embarrasses you further, and you break both the **** grin and pose. "To think you would try and seduce a woman in grieving... it is a heinous thing, Mr. Peck."

"I'm... I'm sorry, Mrs. Fields, I didn't-"

"Do you know what I used to tell Beatrice, Mr. Peck?" Her tone is admonishing, and you shake your head, shivering with the chill of the hallway. "I used to tell her that life is short, and you should get everything you can while you live it... and I turned my back on that as I got older, and I don't know that she ever did... she lived proud and loud and slept with men until the very bitter end... and you know what her passing taught me, boy?"

The trash room door closes... you risk a glance back, and see neither bag nor Devi. She got in on her own, then. "N-No, Mrs. Fields," you mutter while looking back.

"She and the old me were right all along." While your defenses are down, the old woman moves in... and her fingers, snakes of bone and leathery skin, wrapped in veins you feel lifting up from her skin, slither past your open pants and the rim of your boxers, past your pubic mound and constrict your soft penis with the speed and deftness of a ball python. Stupefied, and then horrified, your body ignores your brain and settles on being paralyzed as the crone manipulates your flesh as if it were hers, masturbating you better than you ever did... and with her own flesh, terrible as it felt, you quickly hardened in that expert grasp.

"If it wasn't a night of grieving, boy, the things I would do with- oh... oh-ho-ho! And I see this body is all natural..." Her fingers dance along your shaft, pressing and probing and pinching your crotch and sack in ways you hadn't considered, much less dared. Each one paralyzed you anew as you tried to flee. "Yep... no steroids to shrink this lad, no no no... a big meaty toy, yes yes yes... heeheeheehee~" Your heart sinks as she continues to **** you, and sinks further when she reaches up to pluck your ear. Painfully, she tugs you down with that free hand to hiss into your very soul.

"How about a good ol' granny-banging later, big boy?" You body quakes with what you want to believe is horror, but is actually a building pressure at the base of your spine, urged out of you by the ministrations of her bony, masterful grip inside your pants. "Let me show you how I came to be known as... the Harlem Harlot."

Her thumb rubs into the space between your sack and rod and lifts up, tickling nerves you didn't know existed, while her longest finger dives behind your sack, probing curiously at parts unknown, threatening to make you- "I-I-I have to go now!" You jolt down and away from her, reaching down to fix your pants while putting distance between you and the predator. "Long day of work tomorrow, haha, please give them my c-condolences, Mrs. Fields-"

"Lily."

"... H-huh?"

"Please, big boy..." She raises her masturbating hand, fresh from your pants, to her face... and loudly snorts your smell off of them. A wolfish grin follows her pleased sigh. "Call me Lily."