Your best friend

The morning light has shifted by the time you make up your mind. It's no longer pale and indifferent; it's full and warm, pooling on the kitchen floor in golden rectangles. You've showered, dressed in the same hoodie and jeans you wore yesterday, and made coffee that's gone cold next to the sink without you touching it. Your skin feels like yours again, but it's tighter now, like a shirt that doesn't quite fit. You keep flexing your hands, looking at your bony knuckles, your narrow wrists. You keep thinking about the weight of Janice's breasts, the way her thighs pressed together when she walked.

You finish the coffee in one swallow, grimacing at the bitterness.

The printer sits dormant on your desk. It looks ordinary today, a lump of off-white plastic with a dust-filmed output tray. No hum, no glow, no sign of what it did twelve hours ago. You circle it slowly. The app is still on your phone, the icon plain and black. You haven't deleted it. You don't think you can.

You scroll through your camera roll.

Cathy, mid-laugh at the coffee shop. May, crossing the quad with her hair in a high ponytail. Mara, Dan's sister, in a sunhat and bikini top from a beach trip last summer. You pause on that one. The curve of her waist. The tan skin. The confidence. Your finger hovers, then swipes past.

Not yet.

You keep scrolling, past screenshots of memes and blurry lecture slides, until you find the photo you took three days ago: Dan, slouched on your couch, holding a controller and grinning at something on screen. He's wearing a faded band t-shirt stretched across his belly, loose cargo shorts, and socks with holes in the heels. His hair is messy. His face is flushed from laughing. He looks happy. He looks like Dan.

Your thumb taps the photo.

The printer hums. The sound is wetter this time, softer, like a breath being drawn through water. The lights dim—not in the room, but in the machine, a pulsing gold that spreads across the casing like veins. The output tray begins to glow.

You step back.

The sheet emerges slowly, inch by inch. It's thicker than Janice's was. Denser. The color is Dan's color—pale but warm, with the faint pinkness of someone who burns instead of tans. The hair on the suit's arms is coarser, darker. The hands are broad, the fingers thick and calloused. The torso has heft, the belly a soft swell that spreads over the edge of the tray as more of it feeds through.

The face is last. Dan's face. Round-cheeked, stubble-dusted, thick eyebrows, the tiny scar on his chin from a childhood bike fall. It stares up at you, hollow, waiting.

You strip.

Your clothes pool at your feet in a heap. Your own body feels small and cold in the open air, ribs visible, hipbones jutting. You pick up the suit, and it's heavy in a way Janice's wasn't—not just the material, but the mass of it. The seams are warm, the inside slick with something that isn't sweat. You find the slit down the back and pull it open.

You step into the legs first.

The suit closes around your calves and thighs, and the pressure builds slowly. Your legs thicken. The muscles swell, but then the fat layers over them, soft and substantial. Your knees lose their sharpness. Your thighs press together at the top, and you have to adjust your stance, the width of Dan's body changing the way you balance. The hair on your legs—his hair—is thick and dark, covering your shins and the tops of your feet.

You pull the suit up over your hips, and the belly settles over your waist like a weight. It's not firm. It moves with you, a soft mound that pushes against your hands when you press them flat. Your ass grows too, filling out, heavy and rounded. You turn and catch a glimpse in the mirror across the room, and the silhouette is unmistakably Dan.

The arms come next. Your shoulders broaden, your biceps thicken, but it's the softness again that strikes you—the lack of definition, the way everything is covered in a gentle layer of fat that makes him look approachable. Trustworthy. Your hands become his hands, broad and warm, the nails short and uneven from chewing.

The chest and back settle into place. Your posture changes. Dan's body has a slight slouch, a way of carrying its weight forward, and the suit pulls you into that shape without you thinking about it. The face slides over yours with a soft wet sound, and for a second you can't breathe.

Then you blink.

The world looks different. Not because the suit changed your eyes, but because the weight of your head is different. Your jaw is wider. Your neck is thicker. Your lips are fuller, your brows heavier. You turn your head slowly, feeling the double chin, the way the skin folds.

You walk to the mirror.

Dan stares back at you.

He's sweaty, breathing hard, his hair sticking to his forehead. The t-shirt from the photo clings to his chest, the fabric stretched over his belly. The shorts sit low on his hips. His cock is already half-hard beneath the waistband, and the outline of it is substantial, pressing against the cotton.

You reach down and palm it through the fabric.

The sensation is electric. It's not like your own cock, not thin and quick. It's thick, heavy, already filling as you squeeze. You groan, and Dan's voice comes out of your mouth—deeper than yours, fuller, a little hoarse.

You pull off the shirt.

The air hits your bare chest, and you shiver. Dan's breasts—moobs, really—are soft and wide, the nipples small and pale. You run your hands over them, down the curve of his belly, feeling the weight of him. Your fingers trace the line of hair that starts below his navel and disappears into his shorts.

You push the shorts down.

His cock springs free, thick and veined, already bobbing against his stomach. It's longer than yours—maybe six and a half inches, but girthy, with a fat head that's already glistening. You wrap your hand around it, and your fingers don't meet your thumb. You never had that problem before.

Fuck.

You stroke once, slowly. The pleasure is deeper than your own body's, radiating up into your belly and down into your thighs. It's not Janice's full-body waves, but it's better than what you were born with. So much better. A hot coil of envy twists in your chest even as you start stroking faster. Dan had this the whole time. Dan, who never worked out, who ate pizza at 2 AM and fell asleep in his desk chair, got to walk around with this cock between his legs.

You squeeze harder, and a bead of precum wells at the tip. You smear it with your thumb, then bring your hand back down the shaft. The glide is smooth, wet, perfect. Your hips rock into your fist.

The memories come, not as sharp as Janice's, but present. A low river of association, unbidden. Dan is a virgin, just like you, but damn he has some hot sisters.

Mara. The name surfaces like a sunflare. Dan's twin-sister, always running, always in motion. The suit offers up a hundred images: Mara in the kitchen, swinging her legs off the counter, tan and lean from track practice. Mara in a towel, walking from the bathroom to her room, leaving wet footprints in the hall. Mara in a sports bra, bent over to tie her shoes, the curve of her ass outlined in tight shorts.

Dan never looked at her with anything but brotherly affection. He saw these things and catalogued them as normal. When she sprawled on the couch in short pyjama shorts, he threw a blanket over her and told her to stop hogging the remote. When she came home drunk from a party and fell asleep on his floor with her dress bunched up around her waist, he folded the dress over her legs and let her sleep it off. He never touched her. Never lingered. Never even thought about it.

You do.

You lean into the memories, into the images, pulling them up one after another. Your hand moves faster, your grip tightening around his cock. Dan's cock. The cock you're currently borrowing.

Taylor too. The older sister, the spitting image of Mara but a few years further along. The suit gives you her too: Taylor sunbathing in the backyard, her bikini strings undone, her pregnant belly just beginning to show in that first year. Taylor bending to pick up her toddler, her tits spilling from her tank top. Taylor laughing at a family dinner, leaning forward across the table, and Dan thinking, distantly, that she looked like their mother.

You stroke harder.

The memories deepen. A summer afternoon, Dan walking into the bathroom without knocking. The door opens, and Mara is there, stepping out of the shower, her body wet and glistening. She shrieks, throws a loofah at his head, slams the door. Dan laughs and walks away. The image lasts two seconds, but you can see her in it—breasts high and tight, the water beading on her collarbones, the flat stretch of her stomach, the dark patch between her legs. Dan almost forgot it immediately. You won't.

Another memory. Taylor, years ago, before she was married. She and Dan were watching a movie, and she fell asleep on the couch. Her skirt had risen up her thighs. She wasn't wearing underwear. Dan pulled a throw blanket over her and went to bed. You feel the shape of her in that moment, the pale skin of her inner thigh, the shadow between her legs. He never even glanced.

Pathetic, honestly.

But then the memories shift. Not his sisters. Yours.

Kimberly.

The pressure in your chest tightens. Dan's memories of Kimberly are different, charged, stained with the kind of wanting he never aimed at his own family. He met her once at your parents' place, during a winter break visit. She was wearing a knitted sweater that hugged the high curve of her chest and a short skirt over tights. Her glasses slipped down her nose. She'd laughed at a joke he made and pushed her hair back, and Dan—your best friend—went home with the image burned into his brain.

He masturbated to her later that week. And the week after. And on and off for the whole time you've known him, from the chubby nerd you did freshman orientation with to the man whose dick you're squeezing now.

His memories of her are explicit, careful, detailed. Kimberly in that sweater, yes, but also Kimberly in a bikini he'd seen on her Instagram once. Kimberly in her pajamas at a sleepover he had seen on a instagram story from one of her friends. Kimberly bent over the hood of your dad's car when she'd helped with the oil change. Your sister. His secret.

The images surge through your skull, mixing with your own interest in Mara and Taylor, blending and crossfading until you can't tell where Dan's attraction ends and yours begins. That's the point, though. The suit is letting you see through him, but you're still the one choosing. You can think about Mara's wet skin with a lover's eyes. You can think about Taylor's pale thighs with a stranger's hunger. And you can borrow Dan's guilt-laden fascination with your own sister, taking it and bending it to your will.

Your breath is ragged now. The room smells like sweat and the faint, neutral scent of the suit.

You stroke yourself with both hands, twisting at the head, grinding the base into your palm. Dan's balls are heavy and full, swaying with the rhythm. His voice is muttering, broken syllables that aren't words. His cock is leaking steadily, coating your knuckles, slicking the sound of your strokes.

The pressure is building. That same coiling tension, but male, concentrated. Your own body would have already finished. Dan's body can last. It wants to last. You're the one driving it toward the edge, pumping faster, feeding yourself images of Mara's breasts, Taylor's ass, Kimberly's smile, the forbidden warmth of sisters —all of them rolling through you as your hips jerk forward.

The orgasm hits like a piston.

The first shot arcs up and lands across the sheets, thick and white. The second follows immediately, splashing across Dan's belly where it hangs over his waistband. The third is weaker, dripping over your knuckles as you keep stroking, coaxing out every pulse until the waves subside.

You sit heavy on the bed, shoulders slumped, chest heaving. The body beneath you is spent, sticky, trembling with aftershocks. You glance down. The mess you've made is considerable—streaks of semen across the sheets, a wet spot on your own hip, a smear on the comforter that's already gone cool.

Sheets are ruined. Again.

You let go of his cock and flop backward, one arm over your eyes. Your breathing slows. The ceiling is still there, still cracked in the shape of lightning. The smell of sex is thick, but it's yours now—or his, which might as well be yours.

You should clean up. The suit needs to come off. Dan can't just lie here, covered in his own jizz. But it's just you. You and a magic printer and the body of your best friend, naked in your bed.

Your mind drifts to what that could mean. You could walk out the door as Dan. Go to campus. Sit in his chair. Talk to Mara with the easy shorthand of siblings. And no one would ever know.

But right now, all you can think about is the weight of his legs, the softness of his chest rising and falling, the smell of his hair on your pillow.

You need a shower. Again. But first, you need to decide what happens next.